Lament for the Fallen (32 page)

Ahead of them the cameras have finally found the red team. The three are running through narrow streets. Tiny shops selling vegetables and cooking oil give way to a wider thoroughfare.

Now people are gathering. A cry goes out. Our team, they’re here!

The blues are in pursuit. They can see the cameras hovering in the air above the reds. They ignore the people and homes around them. They go direct. And they are gaining.

Suddenly the blues are in a clearing. It is an open, muddy square. Benches have been set up around it. Thousands of people are standing behind those benches. As the blues emerge, the crowd screams and whistles and blows trumpets.

Waiting at the far end are the three remaining reds. They are standing at their goal.

The blue captain offers a final run with every last moment of his being.

The young red player grins. Sweat and mud are smeared across his face. He drops the ball into the goal.

The blue captain collapses, sliding in the mud. His team stutters to a halt.

They have lost.

Behind them, the four remaining reds arrive. They nod, giving the honour to the young man.

He says the words.

‘Ice on fire and flame forever unbound.’

The wall of noise subsides. And, in the distance, the first hesitant cries as great gates to the outside open.

40

‘It will be a bit dark for the competition, don’t you think?’ The man in the shade drains the last of his mug and sets it carefully on its tray.

‘It is still an early draft,’ says the colour.

‘I appreciate that. I’m not sure about the narrative voice. Perhaps a first-person account? It is certainly very striking. Fire before the flame? Or are we the ice that binds?’

‘There are many games and not all take place at the same time. Neither is every opposing side so clear in their position. We should be aware of our potential for both.’

The man swivels his feet on to the deck and sits up with his elbows against his knees. He nods. ‘That is true. No matter how unintentionally, sometimes one is both.’

‘I believe we will win our game and the gates to the universe will open for us,’ says the colour. ‘But I am mindful of those we will leave behind when Achenia sheds the dust of this planet. They also deserve to win, and we should honour the memory of those who fall so that others may rise.’

‘Who would your samara describe now, then?’

‘I believe that one of our new guests may have ideas of his own.’

The man looks into the connect and nods.

‘Now, my dear Shango,’ says the colour. ‘Knight to F6. Checkmate.’

The man sighs, stands and stretches. ‘Remind me again why I ever made you?’

The Three, resonating in a colour that could be described as laughter, floats at his side as the platform rises and heads back towards the shore.

41

Joshua is on a sandy path, the white grains fine and soft beneath his feet.

The city rises up out of the forest all around him. The great sweep, blending organically, rising in cliffs and swaddled in trees and flowers. A waterfall pours down from hundreds of metres above him, sheeting to a gentle mist and into a great lake extending across the valley. The city continues, rising again out of the forest, over the water and into a sky of a brilliant blue above.

He can see what must be apartments, recessed in the undergrowth above him. Shapes flying in the sky, stopping or leaving points on the cliffs.

Clouds drift, wisps in the air. The only sound is the roar of the water and a soft breeze blowing cool through the valley.

Joshua feels Fodiar’s hand on his elbow, steering him towards the end of the path where it opens into a shady grove. A small group of people waits.

As he nears, he sees her. She is beautiful. Dark hair, pale skin; her body is slender, fine. Her green-cobalt eyes are reddened. She could only be Shakiso. Joshua looks away, down. She is barefoot, her toes dusty. She runs to him, embraces him, and he feels her tears wet against his shoulder. He can smell wild flowers in her hair, and the warmth and the strength of her are all around him.

She releases him, steps back. Raises her hands to his face, rests her eyes in his. He feels as if she knows all of him, that he has nowhere to hide.

‘Thank you. Thank you for returning my love,’ and then she is gone, Samara floating alongside her as she disappears into the woods. Fodiar, too, has vanished.

A man steps forward. He looks the same age as Samara, and there is a family resemblance, but he is dark skinned and his face is jarring in its familiarity.

The man takes his arm, holds his hand. ‘I am Nizena Isoken, Samara’s grandfather. Forgive Shakiso, she is quite overcome.’

‘You are his grandfather?’ asks Joshua. ‘You are African?’

‘More than that,’ says Nizena, with a grin. ‘This is Airmid, his mother, and my wife Kosai.’

The women are strikingly beautiful, dressed in simple unadorned dresses that shimmer and trail in the air, like cobwebs in a morning breeze. Joshua realizes that, even compared to these two, Shakiso is lovelier still.

‘This is our son, Joshua Emiola Ossai, of the people of Ewuru,’ says Nizena.

The women each embrace him. Holding him tightly, intimately. He is uncomfortable and, noticing, the women quietly withdraw, leaving him with Nizena, Kosai kissing him on the cheek as she goes.

‘You have our gratitude,’ he says. ‘Please,’ holding on to Joshua’s arm, leading him through the woods.

‘My child,’ says Nizena, for he can see that Joshua is struggling. ‘There is much to tell you. Much you must wish to know. You are welcome here. There is no need for your concern. You are not out of place.’

Nizena stands in front of Joshua. ‘Look at me. You knew when you saw me.’

Joshua shakes his head. It cannot be. Nizena stares calmly. Joshua feels a peculiar sense of comfort, as if being taken into the warmth of his parents’ house.

‘I was an old friend of your great-grandfather. More than a friend. We were cousins. We studied together in Abuja. You are welcome here. This, too, is your home.’

Then the man is holding Joshua, and Joshua, surprising himself, is weeping. Trembling sobs. He has not wept so since he was a boy. He is a child again in his grandfather’s arms.

‘Thank you for bringing my grandson home to us. And thank you for giving me the opportunity to meet the great-grandchild of a dear, dear friend.’

He holds him until Joshua is calm once more. Then Nizena takes Joshua’s hands, looks at the story told there, touches the still-healing groove left by the bullet, smiles and bows his head. He leads Joshua on to a black sheet, resting on the ground.

‘Don’t worry, you will not fall,’ and then the sheet is rising up above the trees. Joshua hangs on to Nizena’s hand.

The craft flies up, around the waterfall, its spray wetting them as they pass, and across the lake. The water is brown and tannic and clear, and he can see into its depths. Fish swimming, boulders and plants, rounded pebbles along the bottom. They skim across the top of the water, the city rising ahead. Then they are flying upwards. Joshua gasps at the speed, but he has no sensation of air rushing about him.

‘The craft,’ he asks, ‘what is its power source?’

Nizena grins again, ‘The air, and me.’

They stop outside a wide balcony. An entrance melts in the low wall, and Nizena steps off.

‘This is our home,’ he says, ‘and you will stay with us until you are ready to return. Samara will be healed in two days.’

There are no walls from the balcony into the apartments. The kitchen is in the centre, sofas, chairs and tables scattered over the balcony and inside. A bedroom is to the left and, on the far right, another. Stone walls extend from the back, dividing the three areas.

He leads Joshua to the sofas, indicating he should sit, and settles comfortably himself.

‘Do you wish to sleep, or do you have too many questions first?’ Nizena grins, broadly.

‘I –’ Joshua hesitates. ‘I have many questions. But first, Samara would want to warn you—’

Nizena shakes his head, raises his hands, ‘Many terrible things have happened, and there is much embarrassment. On both sides.’

He looks saddened, ‘You, your people, Samara, have suffered much, and there must be recompense.’

Joshua stays silent.

Nizena continues, ‘The Americans are not always wise. They can certainly be unkind, selfish, spiteful, deluded. But they are not evil. Violent, dangerous, short-sighted. But – what was the definition of evil again?’ He laughs, then looks downcast. ‘What happened is a story of weak men. Criminal men. But there is no danger to Achenia.’

‘But what of Samara? His capture?’

Nizena nods, pressing his hands flat between his knees. He looks up. ‘You understand that until Samara awakes we cannot know all that has happened. It has taken us time to establish even the facts we have.’

He draws breath. ‘You know why they were there, in America?’

Joshua nods. ‘Your people’s independence. All of Samara’s calculations were based on when Achenia would be leaving orbit.’

‘Yes,’ sighs Nizena, nodding. ‘Shakiso contacted me the morning after he disappeared. No matter where he travelled, or how long he was away, they always had their meals together, every day. He had missed breakfast. She was very upset. I spoke with Hollis Agado, one of our chief justices, and she protested to the Americans. They claimed that he was probably enjoying the nightlife. We dispatched three of the Nine.’

Nizena becomes animated, gestures with his hands. ‘You understand, this was becoming a major diplomatic incident? Sending even one of the Nine –’ he is breathing deeply ‘– the consequences are dreadful. We have never sent any of the Nine into war, and here we were threatening one of the largest nations on Earth.

‘They were already over the Capitol when the president himself contacted Hollis. He was terrified, begged her to understand. He claimed they had no idea where he was or what was happening.

‘At this stage we started to wonder if our other representative there, Oktar Samboa, who was also missing, had been captured as well.

‘We demanded that, under the circumstances, the Five would have to lead any efforts to uncover the facts. The president agreed, and Fodiar and Shakiso went down to search.’

Joshua is feeling dizzy. His fatigue is catching up with him, and he struggles against it.

[Joshua may not have eaten, and he is exhausted.]

‘Forgive me, you must be hungry? Thirsty?’

Nizena looks vaguely at the kitchen. A dark, glossy panel dissolves, revealing it to be a refrigerator. Glasses, bottles and other containers emerge, fly on to a tray and float to the sofas. It hovers at Joshua’s knees. He is exhausted, overwhelmed by emotion and amazement, and can do no more than nod gently at such acrobatics.

Joshua gingerly takes a glass, pouring liquid from a transparent bottle. He drinks. It is ice-cold and refreshing: a mixture of fruits he cannot describe. Tangy, bitter, subtly sweet. In a container is a sliced cold shoulder of beef. He realizes he is starving. Another contains raw vegetables he does not recognize. The bread is warm and smells freshly baked.

As he eats, Nizena continues, ‘We could find no trace of either of them. Each of them left the hotel on separate occasions and disappeared.

‘Shakiso worked backwards from when we knew Samara was missing, looking for anyone who might have seen him. She found one image taken in a bar in Anacostia the night before.

‘There was a fight, and it looked as if someone was shot in the head. The image was indistinct, but she said she knew. It also explained why he had remained out of contact.

‘After that, we couldn’t find any trace of him. He didn’t turn up in a hospital, or a court record, or anything.

‘The Three –’ he sees that Joshua knows about her. ‘Samara told you? That is a relief. Getting into the details of how our society works can be complex.’

He pinches his forehead with his fingers. ‘Where were we?’

[The Three was looking for anomalies.]

‘Oh, yes, The Three offered to go through every court transaction in the area to look for any anomalies. That turned out to be a disaster. There are nothing but anomalies. Even in the few cases that took place around the same time, nothing seems to connect to actual events. It is a mark of just how –’ his voice bitter with frustration ‘– damaged their society has become that no one protests. Their courts are run by automated computational systems. But the dates don’t match; evidence is manufactured, lost; witnesses are contrivances. It seems that the police can accuse anyone of anything, and your only hope is that you can catch the attention of an actual human ombudsman before you are simply processed.

‘Finding Samara in that wreck was going to take time. We weren’t even sure if he had been processed through the courts.

‘Then, a breakthrough. In the court records, four weeks after Samara’s disappearance, The Three found a woman accused of murdering an unknown orbital resident.

‘We identified the body as Oktar Samboa.’

‘He died? How? I thought—’ begins Joshua.

‘No, we can certainly survive grievous injury, but the Nine alone have such regenerative powers. Oktar is dead. He was a fool. And our shame.’

Nizena shakes his head. ‘Poor Oktar. He was not a good man. He was so sure of his ability to manipulate others. We discovered that he had been seeing this woman every time he went to Washington. She was so certain he loved her and that he would bring her here. He lied. She took up a knife and stabbed him repeatedly.

‘She remained catatonic for days after. When she started going out it was only to buy food and return home. The neighbours complained about a strange smell. Eventually, the police arrived and arrested her, poor woman. She was uncommunicative. Locked in her mind. They couldn’t figure out who she was, or who she had killed. After we identified Oktar and discovered her situation, we sent one of our doctors, Dondé Hélène, to see her. She was able to bring the young woman back for a time and discover her story.’