Lament for the Fallen

by Gavin Chait

  [Perfect. They’re integrated. We can build a controller, and I can manage our descent easily. Let’s take twelve, to be safe. We may not use them all.]

  ‘You have a strange definition of ‘safe’. How stable are these?’

  [They’re cheap, but there’s a reason we never used these. I wouldn’t recommend dropping them.]

  Samara carefully carries boxes to the blast door and piles them gingerly in the interspace between. It takes an hour before they are all carefully stowed there.

  He returns to the storage bunker intending to close the last containment vessel door.

  [Hazard!]

  A man, wiry, his hair grey, long and wild about his head, his beard across his chest, attacks him with a sharpened metal spear.

  Samara ducks, twists past him, the spear clanging against the containment vessel.

  ‘Stop! I have no wish to hurt you,’ he shouts, as calmly as he can.

  The man’s eyes are manic, his teeth grinding frenetically inside his open mouth. He is naked, his body emaciated, his fingernails bitten, his toenails long and curved.

  He screams incoherently and swings again.

  [His mind is gone.]

  ‘Please,’ says Samara. Edging backwards towards the blast door.

  The man grabs the remaining box from inside the open containment vessel. He is shaking it furiously.

  [Oh. That isn’t good.]

  ‘Stop!’ shouts Samara, but the man flings his spear at him.

  Samara catches it, then sees that the man has opened the box and is preparing to attack him with the heavy rocket engine.

  [Disable him.] The words urgent in his head.

  Too late: the man smashes it against a wall as he runs at Samara. The end starts to spark. He stops, looks at it in puzzlement, then at Samara.

  [Run.]

  Samara hits the red button on the outside of the blast door, pummelling the green button on the other side before it has scarce opened. The door slides shut.

  There is a dull retort, as of something smashing into the solid wall on the other side. The banging continues, around the containment vessels, against the outer walls. A rapid series of thuds. Uncontrolled, it will burn until there is no more fuel.

  [I don’t believe we need to go back in there.]

  ‘No. Poor man,’ says Samara. ‘What a terrible life.’

  He must have been sleeping while Samara was busy. Perhaps there are food stores here too for the technicians who must sometimes visit to reload the attitude adjustment systems. Living alone in that cold room for years on end.

  He stands for a few moments, then secretes a small silver bead from his finger on to the green button. The droplet slides behind it, into the mechanism, disabling it on both sides.

  No alarms have sounded. Either the station sensors are broken in the storage room, or there were none to start with.

  He returns to invisibility and begins, slowly, carrying the boxes through the tunnels. He keeps careful pace with a faint shimmering aura along the walls; silver beads temporarily blinding the sensors, masking the movement of the still visible boxes.

  [Do you notice something strange here?]

  They are at an intersection where Samara is preparing to turn right.

  [Feel the wall to our left. Yes. Ripples in the metal. Coming from along the tunnel.]

  Samara stares into the darkness, considering. He heads up the left passage. The ripples are no longer subtle, growing in amplitude as he goes.

  [Samar, I’m not sure about this.]

  ‘If there was an explosion, I want to know how much damage there was. Maybe that explains the torturers run?’

  [Samara, we can’t be sure that whatever caused the explosion is stable. We –] He stops.

  Faint radiance ahead, and an obstruction.

  The metal walls have buckled inwards. Tears in the skin glow red, illuminating the tunnel. Samara grips the edges of the gap and holds himself so that he can look through.

  It is madness there.

  [Samar, no.]

  A larger rip in the wall allows Samara to squeeze through.

  Tongues of torn metal curl out from every cell along about twenty metres of the corridor. Somehow the cells must have become over-pressurized until, eventually, they burst.

  That is not all. The empty space has been put to use.

  [It’s the bodies. They pile the bodies here.]

  Rammed on to metal spikes, or jammed into ragged tears, are corpses. Their bodies are ripped open. They are of all states of degradation. Some still bleeding. Men and women. Hair, long, grey and matted, or shaven, depending on how long they have been in space.

  The air here is fetid, plague-ridden.

  Samara starts to pant, his breath short.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  A figure clambers from one of the cells. It is dextrous, comfortable in the weightlessness. Man or woman, impossible to tell. Its skin coated in blood and ordure. Its hair is a few clotted fronds.

  ‘We hear you. Come out, come out,’ giggling, the voice shrill and unpleasant. It stops to wretch and spit against one of the walls.

  It looks around.

  Samara has frozen, his breathing and pulse imperceptible.

  ‘Nothing? Well, we mustn’t stay hungry. Children must be fed.’

  It flings itself at a pile of corpses choking the entrance to a cell, grabs at an arm to stay itself and scrabbles at the top body.

  ‘Fresh. Fresh. Yes, fresh,’ tearing off the head and smashing the skull open against the sharp metal spike holding the bodies in place.

  The skull cracks open, and the creature flings itself back towards the cell from where it came.

  ‘Children, food for you,’ and a skin-searing howling erupts.

  [No, Samara, please. Don’t go there.]

  ‘What children?’

  A headless torso floats in the cavity near the cells. It is hollow: ribs jagged, guts trailing out in the air leading towards it. Globs of blood and matter drifting around it. It has congealed into a sticky, ruddy mass in the air.

  Samara pushes himself towards the entrance.

  A man, obviously a man, is wedged just inside the entrance, tearing at a desiccated leg, stripping off the meat and sucking it down. The other figure – in the light Samara can now see it is a woman, her breasts flat and dry – scrambles over him, the skull in one hand, leaking putrescent globules.

  The walls inside the cell are scarred where they were torn apart by the explosion and scratched by prisoners.

  And there are the children.

  Mewling and howling. They are tied to the far wall. Their bodies stunted, twisted, horribly disfigured. Scarcely recognizable as human. Their eyes, where they have them, blind. Their bodies covered in filth. The woman – their mother – feeds them with lumps of brain from the skull she cracked open.

  Samara flees back behind the barrier.

  He closes his eyes, weeping. He can feel Symon clinging to him for comfort.

  After he has composed himself, he moves on.

  There are no further incidents, no more side journeys, but it is a day before he is back in the works warehouse.

  He piles up the boxes at the distant end, surrounding them with metal sheets as a form of shielding.

  He does not discuss with the others what he has seen. He gets back to work.

  27

  Symon is lost in the wonders of Henshaw Market.

  A crowd of people are watching a public performance. A man has climbed up a tall pole and is seated on a small plank resting on a fork at the top. He perches, as if brooding. On his head is a feathered headdress. The mask is white, with black lines across the forehead and a bird-like beak painted below the cut-out eyes.

  A slack line is tied between this pole and another, a few metres away. A wooden fence blocks the view of the base of the space between the two poles. The man slides forwards on to the rope and balances there, his arms outstretched beneath his cloak.

  Rising up from behind t
he fence, pulled up towards the slack line, is a woman. She also wears a bird-like headdress and mask. Once on the slack line they perform a mating dance, baring their throats, raising their wings.

  It is oddly beautiful and graceful.

  Joshua allows the group to watch for a while before leading them towards the fabricators. The market is crowded with traders and shoppers, sounds and smells. There is shouting, laughter, and an underlying tension.

  Men in military fatigues push through the crowds. Symon watches as one saunters up to a fruit stand. He picks up an apple, takes a bite out of it, spits it on the ground and throws the apple back on to the pile. The owner apologizes profusely and carefully removes the offending fruit.

  The militiaman pushes the vendor away and wanders off.

  Joshua calls, ‘Symon, we cannot help you here; you will have to choose. These are the multi-material printers.’

  An awning is hoisted along a set of blocky warehouses. Each has its doors thrown open and pictures displayed of the sorts of things they can produce. Touts stand outside the entrances, shouting their wares.

  ‘Motors, motors! All sizes!’

  ‘Generators and stoves! Get your generators here!’

  ‘Refrigerators and washing machines!’

  The first two printers are too small. The third does not print batteries. The fourth has not the right resolution.

  The fifth is at the end of this block. The machine is four metres wide, the printing cavity about three. Symon studies the machine. It is grimy and covered in layers of printing fluids, but the cavity is pristine. A stout man in a faded blue djellaba emerges from an office at the back of the printworks.

  ‘May I help you?’ he asks.

  ‘I believe you may,’ says Symon. ‘I wish to print a high-density closed aluminium-air battery. About 250 kilograms. There appears to be plenty of aluminium in the market right now.’

  ‘That there is,’ says the man, ‘coming in from all over.’ He squints at them, appraising his customers. He nods, points Symon to the console on the machine.

  Symon sits at the stool before the device and scrolls through schematics, analyzing, searching.

  ‘I am Ghanim,’ the man says. ‘This is my brother, Faysal,’ indicating another touting outside. ‘The big fellows,’ gesturing at the four heavily armed men looming in the shadows, ‘are Ishaq, Kashif, Nuri and Aiman. Don’t worry, they are cousins, here to protect us.’

  Joshua introduces his people, remaining wary in the entrance. Symon fixes on a particular schematic. He brings up the editor, makes a few adjustments, refining the template pattern and the constituent fluids. He saves it and says, ‘This one.’

  Ghanim extracts a case from deep within the folds of his djellaba, withdraws his spectacles and prods the console. He studies the manifest, making the sorts of sounds learned by artisans the world over: the rising throat-clearing and head-shaking that indicates tremendous costs are being accrued.

  ‘One hundred, twenty-two thousand dollars,’ he says, as if producing a rabbit out of a hat.

  Symon stands, looms over him, oblivious to the guards. ‘Fifty-nine. I know what your inputs will cost and we both know that forty per cent is an acceptable margin for each of us.’ His voice is flat, final.

  Ghanim sucks in his lips over his teeth, then purses them, pushing out his beard. He raises his eyebrows, staring into Symon’s eyes. ‘Very well, that is acceptable. It is a good deal. Pray that I don’t do too many such good deals,’ he laughs. ‘You pay me up front?’

  ‘Escrow.’

  ‘Very well, you should have the honour of choosing.’

  Symon looks to Joshua, who joins them. ‘We normally use Lloyds,’ he says.

  Ghanim shakes his head. ‘You must not have heard. They collapsed after a tsunami in Japan almost a decade ago. Could I suggest BlockWorks? They are new, and their fees are very low.’

  Joshua looks pained and shakes his head. ‘How about Doretheum?’

  Ghanim nods assent and sighs, ‘It is traditional that I say this, so forgive me.’ He shakes his head sadly, ‘You’re taking food out of my children’s mouths, but I accept.’ Then he grins broadly and grabs Symon’s hand, ‘Shake.’

  Symon nods at Joshua. He reaches into an inner pocket in his shirt and produces a thin transparent card. He walks over to the machine and places the card on to a narrow silver panel alongside the console.

  The card lights up, going through red, then blue, then green. It is ready.

  Ghanim accepts the transaction on the console then steps aside as a cone of green light extends up from the card.

  Joshua pauses, takes a deep breath, places his hand flat and palm down within the cone. He closes his hand, turns it over, pushes out two fingers, opens, closes, turns his hand over, waggles his thumb, then opens his hand so that it returns to its starting point. The light flashes briefly white.

  The first signature is accepted.

  Joshua turns to make way for Abishai, who places her hand in the cone and makes a similarly complex set of gestures. The cone flashes white once more.

  Daniel’s turn. He grins at Joshua, then begins.

  ‘Please, take a seat,’ says Joshua. ‘This will be some time. Perhaps you have tea?’

  Daniel’s hand gestures are utterly elaborate. He makes shadow puppets, does little dances with his fingers, noises.

  Ghanim looks horrified. ‘Perhaps coffee?’ He motions to Faysal, who disappears into the back of the workshop.

  Eventually, Daniel finishes. The cone flashes white one last time, and the funds are transferred to Doretheum’s escrow account.

  ‘I never know why you insist on making it so complicated. There is no need for it,’ says Joshua.

  Sarah laughs and Ghanim shrugs. ‘It pays to be safe,’ he says, doubtfully.

  Daniel grins and hands the card back to Joshua. Faysal returns with a tray filled with small shot glasses of coffee. He hands one to each of them, including the guards, who remain silent and watchful.

  ‘We are outside the connect?’ asks Symon.

  ‘Yes,’ says Ghanim. ‘Why?’

  ‘I was wondering how the transactions are synchronized.’

  Ghanim stares at him thoughtfully. ‘There are sphere all through Calabar, and out on to the floating markets across the river. They reach to the connect in Ikonitu. It is not too far.’

  The machine starts to warm up, the cavity undergoing its vacuum stage.

  ‘How long before we can pick it up?’ asks Symon.

  Ghanim shrugs again, ‘The printing should be complete by morning. Another day and a half to charge. You come pick it up then, it will be ready.’

  ‘What shall we do until then?’ asks Jason.

  ‘There is a lovely place at the other end of the market, owned by a cousin. You stay there, tell Behzad I sent you. You will see. It has two oil palms outside the doors. Behzad’s Place,’ says Ghanim, enthusiastically pointing them in the appropriate direction.

  Joshua shakes his head and shrugs, why not?

  They head across the market once more before spotting the oil palms. As Ghanim says, you cannot miss it. The restaurant area is large, consoles mounted to the walls with some warbling music playing. There are cellulosic chairs and tables scattered throughout and a bar area at the back. A few people are already sitting and drinking, and a few others are enjoying a late lunch.

  Behzad himself is at the reception counter. His djellaba is purple, with green and white vertical stripes. They are not slimming.

  ‘You are doing business with my cousin? How wonderful. We will find you quiet rooms at the back of the house,’ leading them through corridors to the rear. They will share two rooms, the men in one and the women in a smaller room alongside.

  Daniel inspects each. They are serviceable, for two nights anyway. The men’s room has an open shower, a sink, three single beds and one double. Symon will not be sleeping, so one of them will get the double. No cupboards, no shelves, no chairs.

  ‘You wi
ll eat downstairs in the restaurant? We make good soups,’ says Behzad.

  Joshua nods. It is only for two nights.

  Symon returns to the restaurant while the others wash and change clothes. As he walks into the bar area, he sees a familiar figure sitting on the stage.

  ‘Ismael, it’s been years,’ he says.

  ‘Symon,’ says the dark-skinned man. He is wearing the same delicately embroidered ochre-brown boubou and matching kufi skullcap as when he was in Ewuru two weeks ago. It looks no less immaculate. ‘You are inside out.’

  Nothing ever surprises the griots, and every conversation proceeds as if you had merely returned from a short walk.

  ‘We had to make a rapid decision,’ says Symon.

  Ismael studies the Achenian. He sees what is hidden – what others cannot notice. He pats the stage next to him, and Symon sits.

  ‘I can restore the balance,’ he inclines his head, ‘if only for a short while. Maybe enough to return home, and then only if you are careful.’

  ‘Why would you do this? Your people never intervene,’ says Symon.

  ‘This is not intervening,’ says Ismael, his eyes filled with compassion. ‘This is restoring order in a situation where you are an unacceptable danger to yourself and others.’

  Symon considers. ‘I am grateful for your kindness.’

  ‘Not at all. I have gratitude for Samara’s father. The son of Etai and Airmid should not suffer so. Neither should you.’

  Ismael raises his hands and places them on either side of Symon’s head, over his ears. He begins to sing, softly, rising through chords. He transmits the resonance through his quivering fingers and into Symon.

  Joshua and the others are struck by the scene as they arrive back in the restaurant. The two men, bowed as if in prayer, sitting at the edge of the stage. They approach slowly, hesitant to know if they are intruding.

  Ismael completes his song. Symon opens his eyes, looks at him. ‘I don’t feel any different?’