COBs mass at the city limits too, crows, cats, dogs and vultures. Anthony notes this as abnormal, but does not bother trying to figure out why. A driver gives him a lift and unleashes a monologue about solar flares and plasma ejections and the effect on communication being enhanced and the inefficiency of carbon scrubbers and the odd prevalence of exotic disease. The loss of the permafrost is a particular bone of contention.
“You have no shoes,” he says, finally.
He stops the car, walks to the trunk, stirs objects around and returns with a pair of loafers. They fit. He brushes aside Anthony’s thanks. He probably would have still given the shoes even if Anthony hadn’t been manipulating his dopamine.
Chapter Twenty
Alyssa
Alyssa is the first to wake.
Aminat and her friend—what’s her name? Efe? They mentioned it once—talked into the night, nothing of consequence, just phatic communication between girlfriends. They fell quiet—no, they stopped talking but Aminat snored loudly.
Alyssa wanders around the house. In the lounge there are framed photos and Aminat features prominently. In one or two pictures they both have male partners, slightly older in Aminat’s case, but they seem to be in love. She thinks of the Sutcliffes, the husband and child, Mark and Pat, for whom she experiences no sense of loss, no frisson of love or guilt for not contacting them. She stands at the window, stares at the sky, at the pre-dawn light. She knows she is not human. It is the only explanation—not human, not mad, and she does not feel insane, although would she feel crazy if she were? The next question is difficult. If not human, then what? Aliens exist, people of Rosewater know that better than anyone else alive, but are there humanoid ones? Ones who look like Alyssa? No, that’s the wrong idea. The alien would just need a compatible mind. That mind would be inserted into Alyssa’s body. It is a human body—the cuts and the bleeding prove that. How did Alyssa get transported? From where? And why? How is she to view humans? She has flashes of memory still. A planet denuded of vegetation, with air like soup, carbon burned, products thrown in the air, the sky cluttered with the debris of a hyper-successful space programme. All around, the detritus and bare bones of depleted industry and overuse. Factories that create nothing, roads without cars, houses without people, winds beating an unbroken path around the globe. Alyssa’s job is to take readings. By this time the entire population, the survivors, are in space. She cannot remember a name, but there are always more memories coming in. Alyssa is not so worried that she cannot take care of herself.
By mid-morning the house stirs, and various breakfast motions and smells make themselves felt. There is laughter from Aminat and Efe. There is a truck that comes down the road. She hears it before she sees it, an army-green compact thing with six armed troops seated behind, weapons pointed skyward. Aminat’s escort. The truck stops in front of the house, then two of the soldiers jump off, after which the vehicles keeps going. Hm. She has to keep track of the others.
“Aminat, they’re here!”
From the window she sees the soldiers point the weapons forward. This could be normal, but she feels disquiet. The doorbell goes off and Alyssa puts on her shoes. Efe floats out, swiftly, like an angel, barefoot, cherubic smile aimed at Alyssa like one of those synchronised dancers, before focusing on the security remote in her hands. The soldiers seem to be readying their—
“Efe, get away from the door.”
Alyssa watches as one of the soldiers steadies his SMG and fires a burst at the door. In what seems like slow motion the second soldier spots her and his weapon rises towards her position. Alyssa is flung to the ground just before multiple shots hit the window. Aminat has her arms around Alyssa’s legs.
“Stay the fuck away from the window.” She has hardened, face like a mask.
“I thought this was our escort,” says Alyssa.
“So did I. Obviously, something has changed.” She crouches, crablike, holding a handgun. She glances at the window, now rendered opaque by spider-web patterns. Efe still stands at the door.
“Two at the back,” she says. “Oh.”
“What?” asks Aminat.
“Laying charges. Damn. That door cost a fortune. Ofor is going to be upset.”
“Will it hold?” asks Aminat.
“The security package is for casual intruders, stalkers, not special forces. They will get in. An alarm has gone out to the police but…” She does not look confident.
“Guns in the house?”
“No. There’s some—”
A loud bang startles them all and Efe leads them crouching to a small room, like a linen cupboard, one entrance, one exit. Alyssa is above it all. No fear. Not her body, not her concern. She is a spectator. Aminat arranges what shelves exist into cover and waits, gun at the ready. On Efe’s security remote they all watch two intruders in the back. They check each room, and as they make their way down the hallway Efe pushes a button.
“Fuck you, get out of my house.”
Strips of plaster detach from the wall and hurl themselves at the intruders. Hundreds of similar strips adhere to them, then contract like muscles. The intruders writhe and jerk convulsively. Every few seconds a new strip detaches and ultimately the soldiers’ heads and torsos are covered by a tight band. They stop moving.
“Will they die?” asks Alyssa.
“I don’t know. I didn’t install it,” says Efe.
The screen swaps around to the other cameras.
“Stay here and turn that thing off. I don’t want to end up like them,” says Aminat. She is silent on her feet and disappears. On the screen they see her in the corridor. She picks up the rifle from one soldier along with what Alyssa thinks are extra ammunition magazines. Aminat pulls a knife and cuts into the soldier’s neck. Alyssa does not know why, but there is no frenzy, so it’s not from anger; it’s part of a plan. She goes out of the hole in the back wall. The camera flips and the soldiers in front have opened the door. It flips again and Aminat is working an obstacle course around the house, leaping over and ducking under. The soldiers one minute are checking corners and pointing muzzles, then they are flung forward by gunfire. Aminat stands there and checks each one, kicking their torsos for good measure. She raises her hand, giving a thumbs-up. Efe stands, turning to Alyssa, smiling.
“Wow, that was easier than I thought. Expensive, but easy.”
They join Aminat who is facing the wall, trying to communicate with someone by mobile. Alyssa says, “There were six soldiers and one driver.”
Efe nods, and picks up a rifle. “Where are the damn police?” She walks to the open door, to check the street.
Aminat swivels and notices her. “NO!”
The rifle gives a muted pop and splits Efe in the middle. Her face retains a look of surprise as Aminat screams her grief and rage. Alyssa is not sure of what happened with the rifle, but she observes without emotion.
Aminat recovers, arranges her friend’s body with care, covers it, cleans up as quickly as she can, stands looking at the bloody mess, shakes her head.
“Take the flak jacket,” Aminat says at length.
Aminat seems less bothered by killing the soldiers than the person she killed the day before. Alyssa thinks of her job on Home; the only thing she remembers is studying or gathering information. So she defaults to that mode.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” she says.
Aminat nods thanks.
“Can I ask you something? You picked up one of the rifles. You still have it slung over your shoulder, yet it didn’t blow up on you.”
Aminat digs into her pocket and shows her a tiny, flat object like a computer component. “Identity chip. The rifle is synchronised with it. This chip can only be so far from the weapon before it blows. Efe didn’t know that. I should have told her.”
Alyssa waits a minute, then says, “Your own comrades just tried to kill you.”
“I know.”
“Aren’t you concerned?”
“I am.”
; “Do you know why they turned on you?”
“Oh, yes, I do. Our dunderheaded mayor, Jack Jacques, declared Rosewater independent this morning. Those were soldiers, not agents. They were deployed before the announcement, but their orders changed afterwards. Jacques almost got us killed.”
“What does that mean for us? For me?”
Aminat stops. They are at the side of the road and can hear the army truck. “I thought of stealing the truck from them, but the validation for the driver for the army is central, so cutting out a chip won’t matter. We have to walk, at least for a while, until I can contact my people. My real people.”
“What side are your people going to be on?”
“I don’t know. We are an agency. We work for the federal government. This makes our position delicate, but your situation is the same. Smart people want to study you, regardless of what government is in charge.”
They both hide behind a hedge until the truck passes. “I want us to go back to the lab. We can plan from there. I will keep calling my boss.” Her shoulders sag for a second. “I want to call my boyfriend. This must be hard for him. He gets so scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of everything. I’m afraid Kaaro is not brave.” Her face softens and Alyssa finds herself wondering if the man in the photos beside her is this Kaaro person.
“You love him?”
“I do.”
“What’s he like?”
“I—I’m not allowed to talk to you about my personal life.” Aminat picks imaginary lint from her hair. “But he’s great.”
Alyssa realises she is supposed to smile conspiratorially here, and she does.
“I have to dump the rifle, or we’ll get spotted or arrested. The army will soon know to revoke the security certificate and remote detonate it.”
Aminat takes out the magazine and strips the rifle down, then drops the parts down different gratings, along with the dead soldier’s chip, but she slips the laser scope into her pocket. They go down to the street and find that the roads are flowing with traffic. Aminat’s car among others has been shunted to the side. The tyres are deflated and the rest of the windows smashed. It didn’t self-destruct, then.
A reanimate traffic cop stands at an intersection, immobile, bloodstained clothes, waiting for nothing. Alyssa thinks it would have been better if she had been projected into the mindless fleshghosts. The traffic seems slow, as if nobody looks forward to reaching their destinations. There will be war. Nigeria is not going to let its most advanced city go.
Chapter Twenty-One
Jacques
Jack has a headache. He is back in control of his office, but the deluge of incoming messages effectively blocks his phone lines. Dahun is talking at him, and Jack does not know for how long. He has blanked some stretches of words out. There is a holomap of Rosewater before them.
“I’m sorry, what did you just say?” asks Jack.
Dahun points to red dots. “The two cantonments adjacent to the north and south ganglia are both empty. We can assume they are Nigerian loyalists. No way of knowing if they all left, or if some changed to mufti and melted into the population as saboteurs and spies.”
“Unless they are clairvoyant, which, let’s face it, they might be, there’s a protocol for this. Retreat to the city limits and await further instructions.”
“Why would they retreat? You have no other army.”
“I have Wormwood. The prevailing wisdom is that if Wormwood senses a threat it will attack within city limits. There was no time to change their plans since even I didn’t know I would secede.”
“Indulge my paranoia. I’m going to assume people slunk away in the night to plant bombs and cut power lines. It always happens.”
“If it pleases you, Dahun.”
“What do we do about troops?”
“Wormwood will—”
“Sir, Wormwood hasn’t had to do this since 2055. Maybe it no longer sees the Nigerian army as hostile. Maybe it found that Old Time Religion. Maybe it has abandoned violence. I repeat, indulge the fucking paranoiac who is paid to keep you alive. Troops?”
“We have about fifteen thousand prisoners. They’ll fight in exchange for commuted sentences.”
“Untrained.” Contempt drips from Dahun’s voice.
“I’d call them undisciplined. They are used to violence.”
“I have five hundred seasoned men and women. We will have to train your prisoners.”
“I’ll call the warden.”
“How many automatons?”
“Lora will know.”
“What about food supplies?”
“We have food.”
“If we’re blockaded how long can those supplies last?”
“You’ll have to ask Lora, but I’m guessing a year or two.”
“Do you know how long the Greeks laid siege to Troy?”
Jack shrugs. “Just tell me.”
“Ten years. You have to know that this is a war Nigeria cannot or will not let go. Be prepared for a generational war.”
“I’ll form a task force.” This is the first time Jack has said those words without irony. Task forces are what you form when you don’t want things done.
“Shall I get contractors to boost our numbers?”
“Yes.”
Dahun raises one eyebrow. “Not cheap.”
“I already said ‘yes.’ Move on.” Irritation creeps into Jack’s voice.
“What do we do about the black sites?”
“Speak in English. Failing that, try Yoruba. What are black sites?”
Dahun points to the map. Three areas. “Three government sites. I don’t know what they are or what they do, but they’re out there.”
“Follow me.” Jack does not know about them, but he knows someone who will.
Femi smiles. “Mr. Mayor, whatever you’re paying this guy is not enough. Show me a map projection.” Jack generates it from his own polymer phone. She points. “This is a laboratory, and is no threat to you. They are doing work to save all of mankind, so I’d consider protecting it. This, at Ubar, is a hardened S45 facility with more sublevels than you have fingers and toes. You cannot successfully storm it. Surround it and watch it, using COBs if you can. The third… I’d stay away from that one.”
“Why? What’s there?”
“Toxic waste.”
“What?”
“Calm down. Calm yourself. Think about it. Just think. First, Wormwood heals people from Rosewater. They don’t stay sick. What better place to dump such material? Second, they, the federal government, wanted to know if the alien could detoxify it. At least at first they did. The alien does have a filter function, and the pollution that plagues the rest of the world is minimal here. It’s a reasonable assumption.”
“How long has this—”
“From the start. The first was back in ’fifty-five.”
Jack thinks of the propaganda potential. He turns to leave.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“Aren’t you going to release me? I thought we were working together on this thing?”
“No, on account of you being a murdering witch.”
“You’re still mad at that? It’s been hours.”
“Bye.”
“Wait. Let me call my people and give them instructions. They’ll be lost.”
“No. Goodbye.”
“I can help you.”
Jack walks away.
He watches Lora work out using the gym equipment in her office, as he relays all the new information to her.
“Interesting, but we need to know more. And I think she is holding something back.”
“I’m sure she’s holding something back, but that’s normal. I would do the same if I were in her position.”
Lora does squats. “We do need a propaganda arm, though. I agree with you there. I’ll set up a shortlist of candidates for your approval. Give me an hour.”
“Why do you bother working out?” asks Jack.
“That was years ag—Never mind. Lora, are there things you know that you haven’t told me?”
“I don’t know, sir. Did you know that Caliph Ali, The Prophet’s cousin, was killed on 24 January 661, triggering the Sunni–Shia split?”
“I don’t mean that kind of thing. I mean stuff that you’re keeping from me to protect me from subpoenas. If I don’t know, I can’t testify, that kind of thing.”
“Why do you want to know this?”
“Both Dahun and Femi knew things about Rosewater that I did not. I don’t like that feeling. How can I make decisions not knowing what’s going on?”
“Sir, can I be frank?”
“Go ahead.”
“Good leaders have assistants who tell them enough to help them rule, but not enough for them to implicate themselves. I am your insulating layer, sir. Do not become curious.”
“If I order you to tell me every single thing you know about Rosewater, would you?”
“Yes.”
And yet Jack detected a slight pause just before she spoke. We both know I’m lying, the pause said.
Jack says, “A wise friend of mine asked me a question once. He asked at what point the animal caught in the trap realises it is doomed. Is it just before the trap springs when the jaws are closing around its leg? Is it the pain of metal crushing bone? Is it the sense of betrayal on discovering that leaves casually arranged to look natural were not safe, but covering fate? Is it when the animal tries to chew its own leg off?”
The Rosewater Insurrection Page 14
