Lament for the Fallen (29 page)

‘We will have you,’ he says to her. ‘All of us. And your men will watch.’

David flinches. Sarah, imperceptibly, shifts in his direction.

‘You will be first,’ says Uberti, grabbing Sarah’s face, throttling her about the cheeks. ‘We will tie your men to the trees, break their knees and elbows. Rip off their jaws. I will cut off their eyelids so that they cannot shut out what we will do to you. Their screams will sound as nothing. When we are finished with you and the other one, we will break you too. We will leave you all to the trees.’

Many of the militia snigger.

‘You have embarrassed me before Egbo. That is not acceptable.’

Uberti walks up to Joshua. Looks at him, eye to eye. He turns.

‘Pazzo. Take them.’

Pazzo grins. He knows he will be second.

‘Wait,’ says Joshua. His voice is a command.

‘What?’ says Uberti, his face outraged.

‘You have only one chance to surrender,’ says Joshua. His voice is firm, steady.

The militia laugh. Many can barely contain themselves.

Uberti, his mouth open in a slack-jawed grin, asks, ‘And who will save you? The ndem of the trees?’

Joshua shakes his head. ‘There is no ndem, but you have forgotten. Our party consists of seven.’

Again, the militia laugh.

‘We killed him first on purpose. He will not save you,’ says Uberti. ‘There is space here for him –’ indicating the seventh post ‘– if he should choose.’

‘You cannot kill him,’ says Joshua, and something about his voice causes a few of the militia to hesitate. They look about them, pointing their rifles at the spaces between the trees.

‘You cannot kill him,’ repeats Joshua. ‘But you might have awoken the other. The one inside him who kills without mercy. All he wants – all he has ever wanted – is to go home to his people, and you are keeping him from them.’

Some of the militia are panting, their eyes wide. Their heads swing left, right. Their rifles tremble.

‘You are the only ones standing between him and those he loves. You will not stop him.’

A kingfisher, with dagger-sharp beak, impales itself into the eye of a man standing near the fringe of the clearing. He howls as more birds erupt from the bushes around him and fling themselves at the militia.

A man to Uberti’s left is wrenched in half. His guts spill on to the ground. His shrieks are cut off as quickly as they begin.

Another, to the right, behind Daniel, explodes. His heart is flung, hitting Pazzo in the chest. Pazzo begins to scream hysterically, his voice high and shrill.

A head flicks into the trees, the body, behind Pazzo, falling to the ground, spasming in the sand.

Now the militia are howling. They start shooting at anything and everything around them. A bullet grazes the outer edge of Joshua’s left hand, leaving a bloody groove.

David grabs Sarah and hurls them both to the hardened sand. Joshua, Abishai, Jason and Daniel landing alongside them. Joshua is staring intently at Uberti. He knows he has to be a target soon. He is looking for something, anything, that indicates where Samara is.

He thinks he might see a flicker, a patch in the air. Then it is gone.

Bullets splinter through the fibre of the trees. More men’s bodies lie twitching. Some have been shot by the others in their terror.

Pazzo lifts up off the ground and is catapulted, his back snapping against the tree where he lands. His agonized howling adding to the horror. Uberti cowers in the chaos. He is sobbing, terrified of the demon he has unleashed. He looks around him frantically, Joshua staring at him, unblinking.

‘Not me,’ Uberti wails and then gasps, once. A blade protrudes through his chest and he falls forward.

There are only fourteen of Uberti’s men left, herded into a bundle, back to back. Their screaming stops as they watch Uberti fall. Then they fling their weapons down and throw themselves to the earth, moaning their surrender.

Symon is invisible. His body mirroring his surroundings. He has no pity. He has only instinct. He lunges at one of the prostrate men.

‘No,’ says Joshua. He is holding a rifle directly against Symon’s head. His left hand supporting the forestock, blood trickling out and on to the ground. ‘They have surrendered.’

Symon is still. His skin returns to matt titanium. He is naked, crouched over the stricken militiaman.

‘How did you see me?’ he asks, his voice metallic. He does not move his gaze from his prey.

‘You are not at full strength. Your injuries have not healed. I was looking for your wounds.’

Symon looks down at the holes in his chest. One through his left shoulder, one below his heart. They are not bleeding, but neither have they closed up.

‘They are bad men,’ he says. ‘They will not change.’

‘But we are not bad people,’ says Joshua, ‘and they have surrendered.’

Symon is holding the man around the arm and around the neck. The skin is stretched tight, bruised and bleeding under Symon’s fingers. The joint will tear with only a fraction more effort. The arm and head will separate. Symon has not moved. The man whimpers in terror. The others are silent, their eyes wide and fearful.

‘Symon, I have no wish to shoot you, but you must let these men go. They have surrendered.’

Symon does not move. ‘They must answer for their crimes.’

‘Yes,’ says Joshua. ‘They should, but we have not the ability to try them. They will return to their people. They will carry a message. Not all villagers are so helpless. That is enough.’

‘We must purge these men. End the reign of the warlords.’

‘Symon,’ Joshua is patient. ‘Killing will not remove the warlords. Where there is no expectation of justice, there will always be those who prey on the weak.’

His voice is firm. ‘For the sake of our own honour, do not kill these men.’

Behind Joshua, the others have risen. They have retrieved their weapons. Everyone is red drenched. The clearing is a murky, slippery mass of blood and shredded body parts.

‘Symon,’ says Daniel. ‘We are armed, they are not. They are no threat to us.’ His voice is a balm, soothing.

Symon does not move.

‘Please, Symon,’ says Abishai. ‘This is not our way.’ She is weeping.

‘Symon, you are an upholder of laws. Not an executioner,’ says Jason.

‘I?’ says Symon, ‘I –’ and wrenches, the man screams, and Joshua pulls the trigger.

Symon does not move.

His hands loosen. The militiaman slumps; he has fainted.

Symon closes his eyes very, very slowly. He releases a breath, like a sigh. Then he topples, ever so gently, to the sand.

Sarah places a hand over her mouth, stifling a sob. David places his arm over her shoulder, pulling her towards him, holding her tightly.

Joshua crouches down, but he has no way of knowing how to tell if Samara is still alive. Oh, please, he begs, would that you are still alive.

The militiamen start to whimper. The others gather round them.

Joshua’s face is haggard. He looks drained, exhausted. He drops the rifle. Daniel hands him his pistol. He holsters it, leaving his hands free.

‘Get up,’ he says to the militiamen.

‘I have had to shoot one of the bravest men I have ever known to protect you,’ he says. ‘Do not think me weak.’

They rise, their hands above their heads, remaining in a half-crouch. They shake their heads. They are still traumatized, relieved that they have survived the carnage.

‘You will live, but you will remember. You will never know if there is something invisible coming for you even in the brightest places. You are broken.’

Joshua is speaking calmly. He can see their eyes. He is describing what he can read there. There is no need for threats.

‘Take this warning to all the Awbong. You are not welcome. You will not survive. We will take back our place. Even if it takes one hundred years.’

He motions towards the river. ‘Go. Do not take your boats. You will walk. You will swim. You will crawl. You are not men.’

They stumble, trip over themselves in their haste to leave this slaughter. One giggles and is dragged by the others; his mind has shattered. They do not look back.

Daniel is seated, cradling Samara’s head. ‘He is not breathing. I can find no pulse. How do we know if he is still alive?’ he asks, grief on his face.

‘We do not. But we will take him home.’

Daniel and Jason carefully lift Samara, so much lighter than when he first crashed near their village, so much of Symon’s essence lost. They carry him and compassionately settle him into his boat. They cover him with a sheet from one of the bed-rolls and fasten him to the stanchions so that he cannot move.

Abishai ties a strip cut from a shirt and wraps it around Joshua’s hand. He looks carefully into her eyes as she does so, then embraces her. She stiffens, relaxes and sobs into his shoulder. The others gather round her. Each embracing her in turn.

Joshua ties a rope from his boat to Samara’s so that it can be towed.

They wash themselves clean and change clothes, abandoning their old ones on the beach.

Then they begin to row, quietly and steadily, towards Ewuru.

III
A SONG
FOR THE
LEAVING

We do not choose to leave because we are unmoved by suffering; nor do we go because we flee responsibility. We depart this Earth as a child departs home, with the bittersweet tears of the new adult. We set out in the same spirit as of the first explorers of our own planet: because out there is the great unknown and not to go would be as impossible as ignoring our own souls.

Dr Ullianne Vijayarao, technician on Allegro quantum navigation team, 2053, formal comment responding to UN Secretary General on Security Council Resolution 2731

When the first great migrations took place to the new world colonies, nations couldn
’
t wait to purge themselves of their citizens. Getting rid of their tired and poor had never seemed so easy. Centuries later, when the best and brightest started to go into orbit, nations realized they had a problem. Instead of recognizing the source of that departure, our leaders have acted as if it is a personal betrayal: self-interest gone wrong. I fear that, in the coming decades, our politicians will realize how badly they have miscalculated, how badly they have managed, the noble quest for exploration – our highest ideal – expressed by our brothers and sisters in the orbital cities.

Doug Shetland, US political analyst, 2108,
In Other Worlds
, posthumously published autobiography

When we, with humility, requested the freedom to represent ourselves, they answered with hatred and torture. When we were unafraid and we once more, with humility, requested what should be ours, they butchered our children. I dread that when at last they change their hearts and are done with hating, we will have no compassion left to give.

Liao Zhi, pro-independence activist on Yuèliàng, 2113, memorial for the deaths of 845 student protestors following a massacre in Tiangong Square

38

‘My husband,’ says Esther, her voice a caress.

Joshua is sitting at the far end of the Ekpe House, his feet over the edge of the cliff, looking across the river and into the forest beyond. He has been there since early morning, watching the sun rise through the trees.

‘My husband,’ her voice intimate and knowing.

He takes her hand resting on his shoulder, raises it to his face, feeling the life and hope in it. He kisses her palm and holds it to his lips, his breath warm through her fingers.

She crouches behind him, holding him in her arms, feeling the intensity of his emotions through the silence.

‘It is well, my husband.’

He looks up and into her eyes; their noses caress in a gentle embrace.

‘My wife. I am worried he is not with us,’ he says.

She hugs him tightly, rises slowly, ‘Come, there is something you should see.’

He follows and she leads him out of the Ekpe House, around the amphitheatre and through the village. They go out the east gate and down the slope towards the jetty.

Samara’s boat is tied up there. Daniel, Abishai and Dala, one of the printers, gathered alongside. It has been completed, the turbine submerged on a U-shaped bracket at the rear transom and two curved wings extending from the deck gunwales on each side. Ropes are tied to cleats at the bow and stern, looping around posts on the jetty.

The deck of the boat is of a piece with the hull, curving in a sweep over the transom arch between double, chiselled bows. It flows up in a crest to the pilot’s controls, over the cabin, around two entrance ways, and sealing again with the stern. The cellulose is transparent over the cockpit, giving a clear view of the deck and horizon.

‘We have just connected the battery for the first time,’ says Daniel. He looks stunned. ‘Touch the console.’

Joshua looks at them, but they shake their heads: see for yourself.

He ducks his head and enters the cabin. It is more spacious than he had expected. The seat at the controls is comfortable.

He looks again at the others, their heads peeking into the cabin. They are mute, expectant.

Slowly, hesitantly, he touches the console face. It lights up. On the screen is Samara.

‘Joshua,’ he says. ‘I am deeply sorry to impose on your kindness once more. I need a ride.’

Joshua is smiling, shaking his head. From the timbre of his speech he can tell this was Symon. He must have recorded it on the night before they left for Calabar.

‘My home is a two-and-a-half day journey from Ewuru. I will, unfortunately, not be very much company but, please, know that we are with you and appreciate everything that you do for us.

‘The controls are simple to use. The steering wheel you know. The two levers to your right serve different functions. The left-most one is for thrust. The right-most one is for lift. Don’t worry, we will not fly much beyond the surface, but we need to clear the oil zone, and we need to do so at speed.