The Rosewater Insurrection

by Tade Thompson

  Breathe.

  Breathe.

  Now, go.

  “Seat belt,” she tells Alyssa again. She opens the glove compartment and grabs an extra magazine and handcuffs which she stuffs in her waistband. She is still wearing the fucking running clothes. She eases the car out, then orients herself with the dome towards the lab. Charge is at fifty-nine per cent, but that is more than enough to get her there.

  There are people on the streets and traffic on the roads. The dome is dark and grey, and a slight drizzle does not deter any of the activities. People are shouting, confused, and civil disobedience cannot be far off. One or two people slam palms on the bonnet. Street lights flicker—Aminat has never seen that, as if Wormwood itself is upset. She is barely able to do five miles per hour. Even on a day without too many cars, Rosewater is difficult to navigate without the constant route calculations of self-drive. The roads are too tortuous and snarl-ups are the norm. Only taxi drivers are immune to this with whatever juju they have in their brains. Tonight, though, the city itself seems to be in ferment. Aminat glances at Alyssa, who appears calm, but curious. Her eyes dart from person to person. She catches Aminat watching her.

  “Alyssa likes arm-warmers.”

  “What? Are you talking in the third-person now?”

  “Alyssa likes to wear these things, pulse warmers, elbow warmers. I saw her order history on her terminal.”

  “You’re talking to me about arm-warmers. Alyssa, are you crazy?”

  “No. I thought we discussed this already.”

  “You’re talking like a crazy person,” says Aminat. “And I hate arm-warmers.”

  “So do I.” Alyssa faces forwards again. “But Alyssa doesn’t.”

  This woman is going to either kill me or get me killed. Or I’ll kill her.

  Two blocks ahead of them a pedestrian climbs on to a car. The people around shout, but it is indistinct. Aminat is trying to see what’s going on when the window on Alyssa’s side shatters inwards. Arms reach in to pull at her arms and upper torso. They drag her out of the car. No.

  “Idle,” Aminat says to the car. She gets out. “HEY!”

  Four men have Alyssa and nobody even stops to help. Aminat fires in the air, then points the gun at the attackers. They scatter, leaving Alyssa on the pavement, bruised, but calm. The gunshot and its reverberation cause a panic and the noise rises. The mob is confused and confusing. Directionless. Aminat and Alyssa are separated from the car by the press of people. It cannot be stolen, the engine will stall without proximity to Aminat’s implant, but bits can be scavenged off it. She holsters her gun. You can’t shoot a mob. Aminat orients herself, then says, “We’ll go to the cathedral and hole up for the night. Tomorrow, I’m sure order will be restored.”

  She handcuffs Alyssa to herself. This is not a thing she wants, but she can’t afford to lose her charge again.

  There are people shouting Jack knows jack, one of the mayor’s ridiculous slogans, a play on I don’t know jackshit. Is he dead? Aminat hates the saying, but the mayor always was and is a populist. Guy knows how to win public opinion. The mob attacks cars now, and the roads become vast parks for abandoned vehicles. A few are on fire. Nobody can say what the violence is about. Aminat tries to flow with the crowd movement until she finds a vector to the sanctuary of the cathedral. She can see the spire. Alyssa trips a few times, but on the whole, does not slow things down. Aminat only has to assault four people before the pair reach the façade and find the cathedral closed, people banging on the doors, trying to get in.

  “Okay, plan B.”

  Alyssa is staring at the building. “This is beautiful. Humans are amazing.”

  “Yes, remind me to tell you about flying buttresses over beers one day.” Aminat checks her subdermal phone, no Nimbus. She checks maps saved locally to the memory, looking for sanctuary. She phones Olalekan.

  “Boss?”

  “We’re on foot.”

  “Repeat please. Louder.”

  “We’re on foot.”

  “Why? I’m reading unrest, mobs and riots—”

  “I know. We’re in one. Can you get me out of here? And send a signal to the car. Use radio, trigger the implosive auto-destruct.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Can you send a team to get me?”

  “Stand by… stand by… that’s a qualified yes, Boss.”

  “Clarify.”

  “No teams for at least six hours. You’ll have to find a foxhole to stay safe in.”

  Aminat pauses, thinks of Efe, who lives in the area. “I can do that. Track my phone through the cellular network.”

  “Taking your current coordinates—will refresh on the a.m.”

  “Have you been home?”

  “No, Boss.”

  “Go home after you’ve made the arrangements. You can’t do anything until I have Sutcliffe back.”

  “Negative. Mother is busy and I’m not leaving until I know you’re secure.”

  “At least get the bunk and sleep.”

  “That I can do, but call if you need me.”

  “I will.” She thinks of Kaaro. “Olalekan, call my house. You know what to say.”

  “Roger that.”

  He has said it to Kaaro before while Aminat has been on missions. After signing off she takes Alyssa’s attention away from the features of the cathedral.

  “Keep time with me. Tap my hand twice if I’m going too fast. Do not speak. Do you have memories of Alyssa’s attitude towards the city at night?”

  “No,” says Alyssa.

  “Rosewater can be dangerous at night, and I’m not just talking about the humans. Keep quiet, only speak if it’s absolutely necessary.”

  Alyssa nods and they set off. Overhead, the minor buzz of drones. No law enforcement personnel or military, but the drones would film in infrared if need be. Footage would be scoured later and people would be brought to justice and punished.

  “Hey, ladies, how much?”

  “Hey, baby. Hey, legs!”

  “Show me your yansh.”

  “Wey ya particulars?”

  Some men follow, keeping up a monologue. Once, Aminat has to subdue an insistent man. Someone shines a light in her face so she can’t see, and Aminat pulls her gun and aims for the light. It goes away.

  Alyssa is compliant, says nothing. The crowd thins as they negotiate the streets. The normal familiarity is lost, but Aminat is pretty sure she is on the right track. After a pattern of thinning-out mobs they come to a line of men and women standing across a street. They are all armed with hockey sticks, cricket bats, planks and rakes.

  “Turn back,” says the middle male. “You do not belong here.”

  “My friend and I just need to go through to the next street,” says Aminat.

  “You are looters.” He looks at their cuffed hands. “Perhaps you are prisoners. We should call the police.”

  Aminat shows her ID. “Step aside, sir.”

  The line remains intact.

  “Look, I know you’re trying to protect your families and homes, and I respect that, but I have business beyond this row of houses. I don’t have time for this.”

  The people look at each other, but don’t move.

  “Legally, I can arrest you for obstructing me. I can shoot you all. I can beat you within an inch of your pampered lives, in spite of being tired. Which do you—”

  “May I suggest something?” says Alyssa. “We’ve had enough violence. How about giving us an escort?”

  As they arrive at Efe’s house, Aminat concedes that Alyssa’s suggestion was wise. Efe doesn’t answer the door and Aminat has to call her to gain access. Efe drags them both in, side-eying the vigilante. She squeezes Aminat tight.

  “What are you doing wandering about at this time, on this night?” asks Efe.

  “I work for the government.”

  “Yes, tackling fake pharmaceuticals, I know.”

  “No. I can’t tell you what I do, but it’s not fake drugs.”
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  “If you say so. Who’s the white girl? Prisoner?”

  “Not exactly. I’ve got to ask a favour.” Aminat takes off the handcuffs. “We need a place to stay for tonight. We’ll be out of your hair first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Efe smacks her on the shoulder. “As if you have to ask.”

  Later, Aminat takes a shower, then puts on the clothes Efe lays out. Alyssa goes next, but Aminat stops her when she sees the back of her neck.

  “Alyssa, you have two windworms on your neck.”

  Aeolian larvae are more common closer to the dome in marshy areas, and they tend to burrow under the skin. They are painful and have been known to kill children. These ones seem to be lying stable on the surface of Alyssa’s skin, something Aminat has never seen or heard of.

  “I don’t feel them,” says Alyssa.

  Aminat thinks perhaps she has misidentified the worm and lifts one off Alyssa’s neck. It immediately curves back on itself and latches on to Aminat’s finger. It hurts like having a nail pulled out with pliers. Alyssa helps remove it and stamps them both out.

  “Aminat! Come hear this,” says Efe.

  Jack Jacques is on all networks, all feeds, all media, speechmaking.

  … know that you are tired and afraid, and my thoughts are with you tonight, wherever you may be. Today, some cowardly people tried to test our resolve, to test my resolve to bring modernity and prosperity to every citizen of Rosewater. Thirty-five citizens died, among them, seven children. I was at the epicentre, but remain unharmed. Rest assured we will get to the bottom of this heinous act and root out the culprits. In order to process the crime scene, law enforcement has had to close down Nimbus temporarily, but it will return, I am assured, by tomorrow morning. I myself plan to curl up with a good book tonight.

  “That’s a lie. With a wife as fine as his?” Efe snorts.

  Go to bed knowing that you are safe and that I’m thinking of you. Go to bed knowing that I will avenge those who kill our children. Long live Rosewater. Long live the Federal Republic of Nigeria.

  As the image fades, Aminat wonders what Jacques is hiding this time.

  Sleep comes with difficulty, but a blanket of darkness eventually falls on her.

  Interlude: 2066, Lagos, Unknown Location

  Eric

  I get an urgent message from Femi Alaagomeji. I’m to pack a bag and prepare to leave Lagos. An escort will come for me within the hour.

  No explanation is offered and I’m due at a friend’s birthday party, with aso ebi of expensive fabric, blocked street and everything. I’m not allowed to know where I’m going, so the agents who come to get me put a distortion helmet on me. My phone no longer works, and all I see in my palm is a dull orange indicator light glowing on and off every six minutes. I am in a blacked-out jeep with two others in a blue kaftan and the fucking helmet playing “Fukushima Romance” on repeat. Four hours and two comfort breaks later, they lead me into some kind of facility. They seat me, then take off the helmet. The first thing I see in real time is the bum of the last escort leaving the room.

  I’m in a sterile room, white walls, no decorations, redistributed air, soundproof, faint chemical whiff of disinfectant. The door has a seal that is so good I can’t even see its outline. At least the seat I’m on is cushioned, with armrests. I wish they’d brought my luggage so I could read something.

  There’s no clock, so I don’t know how long I wait, though it seems like hours. The door swishes open and a man comes in.

  “Eric, I have been instructed to carry out some tests. I apologise in advance. They are tedious and repetitive, but necessary. You’ve done them before.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I can’t tell you, and it’s not important.”

  “Am I being detained?” I ask.

  “No. You work for us, remember?”

  “Can I leave?”

  “No.”

  No explanation, but endless tests. Routine medical laboratory tests. Psychological tests. Ganzfeld Tests, put me in a sensory deprivation tank and have someone look at pictures in an adjacent room, then get me to guess which pictures. I get forty per cent correct, just a little under chance. That doesn’t measure my abilities anyway. Once we are air-contiguous I read a hundred per cent of the images. The man holds playing cards and I pick them all out of his mind. He sits across from me and draws two hundred and fifty doodles, and I draw the same approximate images. Then I’m tired and refuse to continue.

  My living quarters aren’t so bad. I have a bedroom, living room and water closet, all in blinding white, though, even the bed frame. There’s no Nimbus access, but all I have to do is ask, and the entertainment of my choice is either piped as music or appears on a plasma holo in the living room. Meals are delivered three times a day and snacks when I want. Every other day, I’m led to a gym and I work out for an hour. A personal trainer takes me through my boxing drills and spars with me.

  This continues for weeks, then after a month, Femi visits me.

  “I’m sorry, I’d have been here earlier if I could,” she says. She hasn’t changed much since I last saw her. No bodyguard this time.

  “Ma’am, what’s going on?”

  “Eric, most of the people with your particular ability are either dead or dying. We’ve sequestered you to see if we can keep you alive.”

  “Someone’s trying to kill us?”

  “Someone or something. All I can tell you is that there’s a statistical anomaly that’s sending alarm bells ringing. We’ve sealed you away from the atmosphere, so you should have no access to the wider xenosphere.”

  “Then my abilities shouldn’t work in here,” I say. “But they do.”

  “Yes, as far as we can tell from testing, the xenoforms on your skin have grown nano-filaments, looking to connect with free-floating xenoforms or any neurological tissue they can find. You’ve formed a local xenosphere, a local network of neuro-fibres.”

  “And whatever is after me can’t get me here?”

  She hesitates. “I don’t know. I won’t lie to you, Eric, I’ve tried to keep others alive, but it hasn’t worked. I also don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep you here, because I’m being taken off this project soon.”

  “Is anyone… I mean, will you catch whoever is trying to…?”

  “Okay, I know what you’re asking, but I don’t have that information. Other sensitives are dying of natural causes, mostly. I just need you to sit tight and stay alive.”

  “For how long? I have a life in Lagos, my family, my friends. I have to go to South Africa for my sister’s wedding soon.”

  “I’m sure your family and friends would like to have you alive. Sit tight.”

  I wonder if Kaaro is dead, but I don’t ask.

  Months later I get a message.

  THERE ARE ONLY TWO OF YOU LEFT, AND ONE IS DYING. STAY HEALTHY. KARA O LE. FEMI.

  New Year’s Day, I’m still isolated and being tested daily, including throughout Christmastide, but at least I’m drunk.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jacques

  Just before he wakes up, Jack becomes aware that he is dreaming. He is peeling off his skin for cleaning when he discovers machinery underneath his adipose fat. Not a lot, just some circuitry on the muscle and bones. When he opens his eyes, he first worries that he may have forgotten to put his skin back on. He sits up, allows the dream to fade, then rolls over to his left, between the legs of his sleeping wife. He continues to lick and kiss until her hands first stroke, then grip the back of his head. When they swap positions he does not take long to climax. He showers with a hemp-based gel, and this time he uses a body lotion with placenta products. He does not shave. A hint of stubble will create the effect of the hard-working mayor. He has a plan. It will start with the planting of media stories to hint at the president’s complicity in the deaths at the Atewo library. Jack will devote time to finding out the vulnerabilities of his opponent and he will go and talk to his constituents face to face. He is slightly m
iffed that instead of moving forward with the business of governing Rosewater he is trapped having to once more sell himself and, if necessary, resort to the dark arts. Lora had told him the people would remember all he had done, but Jack knows what she would not say: that people are fickle and easily misled. Democracy has its good points, but the fairness of elections is not one of them. No, Jack will have to enter full politics mode, as he has done before. When he emerges there is only one bodyguard, Lora and Dahun waiting.

  “Mr. Mayor, good morning.” Lora is ready with a mental clipboard.

  “We will need to clear the calendar for a hospital visit to the victims—”

  “Already done,” says Lora.

  “And I want a rally this evening. The north wards only—the south can come tomorrow.”

  “Sir, is that wise?”

  “We need to get ahead. The president is driving this train so far. I need time in the engine room.”

  “Yes, I understand. I’ll set it up.”

  “Let’s just finish the security briefing, and we can throw ideas around.”

  Lora looks uncomfortable.

  “What?”

  “The security briefing has been cancelled.”

  “We don’t have to do that. We can still coordinate things regardless of the bomb.”

  “We didn’t cancel the briefing, sir. The president’s team said there’ll be no national security information until after the election. They said something about unfair advantage.”

  “But I still have to run the fucking city!”

  “I’m sorry, sir. Nothing I said made any difference.”

  Jack nods, composes himself, continues walking down the corridor. “Tell me what we know about Ranti, this man who hopes to replace me.”