Lament for the Fallen (5 page)

Gideon observes this, shaking his head.

Joshua and Daniel do not eat, not because they are not hungry – they are both famished – but because they will not honour Pazzo by joining him. The men from Ewuru have nothing in common with these interlopers and say nothing. The soldiers appear to have little in common aside from their guns and say even less.

Eventually, the plates are scraped clean. The clinking of spoons on crockery slows and stops. Pazzo has no more interest in this journey or in this village.

‘We will sleep now.’

‘I will show you the way,’ says Daniel.

The soldiers collect their rifles and satchels and follow him through the market and to the small block of storerooms at the eastern side. A cellulosic door of a room facing into the market is open and the room is lit, casting its glow on to the cobbled street. There are no windows.

Inside, straw has been fashioned into fifteen makeshift beds with tropical-weight blankets folded neatly at the bottom. String has been fastened in a grid to the walls near the ceiling, and mosquito nets hang down over each bed.

‘There is no lock on this door and we can leave it open for you,’ says Daniel.

Pazzo waits at the door as his men file in. ‘This will do. We will leave at first light.’

Daniel nods, ‘I will have someone point out the main route to Calabar for you.’ He glances towards where a scout stands, watching the door, then he walks back to the market where Joshua is waiting for him.

Gideon has packed his dishwasher and is preparing to close up. He fills two bowls with egusi and takes another of cocoyam, covering them with cloths. He smiles, handing the bowls to Daniel and Joshua. ‘No need to trouble yourselves later,’ he says.

They thank him and fall into step as they leave, heading up a street, hidden in darkness, to the north-east, first along Ikot Road and then turning right before the north gate.

The kitchen light is still on in Joshua’s house. Esther leaps to her feet as the door opens, taking his hands in hers. ‘My husband, you are safe,’ her face glowing. He squeezes her hands, looking into her eyes, relaxing into their warmth.

‘My wife,’ pleasure and gratitude.

‘Daniel, Gideon, welcome, my brothers,’ she says as they slip in behind Joshua. They each take her hands then sit at the large wooden kitchen table where an older woman greets them with a smile.

‘Miriam, my sister, it is late for you to be up,’ says Gideon, affection filling his voice.

‘Ah, Gideon, for small boys like you, maybe,’ she teases.

Abishai steps into the light from across the living room beyond the kitchen. She too takes each of the arrival’s hands in turn.

‘Isaiah is asleep,’ she says to Joshua. ‘He tried waiting up, and we have just carried him to bed.’

Daniel washes his hands in the sink. He sits down, opening one of the bowls, and begins to eat. The others discuss inconsequential matters as Joshua quietly enters his son’s room. The boy is stretched out across the small bed, one arm bent under his belly and the other flung out and trailing on to the floor. Joshua carefully raises the mosquito net and crouches down. He lays a hand on Isaiah’s head, smiles to himself.

When he returns, the others are waiting. Joshua, Daniel, Gideon and Miriam are the village amama: those who manage village affairs.

Joshua sits, opens the remaining bowl of egusi and sighs with pleasure as he spoons the thick soup.

Abishai stands against the back door. Daniel has squeezed himself in next to the stove to make space for the others.

‘My brothers. My sisters,’ Joshua begins, pushing aside his empty bowl. ‘There is only one thing strange about these soldiers.’

‘They smell terrible,’ says Daniel, to laughter.

Gideon steeples his hands up to his chin. His fingers are long, the nails white against his skin, their edges neatly trimmed. ‘Why do they carry a radio without any batteries?’

Joshua nods.

Miriam coughs. She is older still than Gideon, almost eighty-five, an age few in the village reach. She was once fat, but now her skin is wrinkled and sagging. She looks tired.

‘The last river traders mentioned there was not much suitable metal available in Calabar. Perhaps there are no batteries to be had, even for men with guns?’ she says.

Esther stands and fills a kettle at the sink. It is white and pot-like. She places it on the stove and then gathers mugs, teaspoons and sugar. Daniel hands her milk from the fridge.

‘But to carry it anyway? Do they think to scare us?’ says Joshua.

‘They hope others will not notice. It may offer some security,’ says Daniel.

‘It is possible. If such metal is more valuable, I am worried this will mean more militia searching for debris,’ says Joshua, smiling his thanks as he takes a mug.

Daniel bites his lower lip as if he means to speak, but remains still. The scouts and sentinels are in place, and it would take a sizeable force to overwhelm the village.

Joshua smiles at him, taps the table. ‘Never mind, they were convinced. Daniel has performed tremendous work,’ he says.

Daniel grins happily. ‘We need to remain wary, though. I am increasing the number of maintenance crews on the sentinels from tomorrow,’ he says.

‘It is a relief they know nothing of the sky person,’ says Gideon.

‘Sky people’ – their name for those in the orbital cities. They know very little of them, for they are even more remote and foreign to their lives than those living in Europe or the Americas.

The others wrinkle their noses and look uncomfortable.

‘We moved him from the clinic this morning,’ says Miriam. ‘He is in one of Gideon’s storerooms near the market,’ nodding her thanks. He smiles back.

‘We have a rota of nurses who will visit every day and ensure he has what he needs. My granddaughter was with him today,’ says Miriam. Abishai’s eyes brighten at this unexpected mention of young Edith.

‘He is still in a coma. Today he asked for fish broth.’ She shakes her head. ‘I still do not know how to speak of this. “He” is in a coma, but “he” speaks.’

‘What did he say? Exactly?’ asks Daniel.

‘He says, “Feed him fish broth. He will need about four litres. Feed it to him over eight hours.” I was there. Edith put a funnel in his mouth and poured it carefully. He swallowed the lot. Very lively for a person in a coma.’ She sounds vaguely affronted.

‘We do not know how advanced their technology is. He could host a computer, like the sphere, and it is telling us what to do through him,’ says Joshua.

‘It is possible,’ says Gideon.

Esther scoops loose leaves of tea from a tightly lidded container and into the boiling pot. The tannic fragrance fills the kitchen. She places it in the centre of the table for the others to help themselves. The scorching bottom adds another dark ring to the pattern of shared moments burned into the wood.

‘What does the sphere say about him?’ asks Abishai, pouring herself a mug.

Ewuru is fortunate, for few villages can afford their own sphere. Its power is limited outside the connect, but it is a vital source of knowledge: a library of designs and methods that inform the printers, and its gene bank makes seed production possible. It is integral to village life.

‘There is little. Perhaps they do not share all their secrets,’ answers Gideon. He drums his fingers on the table, then stops as Esther raises an eyebrow. He smiles an apology.

There is a lull as tea is tasted, savoured and given the contemplation it deserves.

‘I have never seen healing like this,’ says Miriam. ‘This morning Edith permitted me to examine him,’ she continues. ‘His limbs are straight and unmarked. He is breathing normally. The bruising is gone. His chest is shaped correctly. He has lost a great deal of weight, but he looks as if he could wake up at any moment.’

‘And he still weighs three times as much as any of us,’ says Daniel.

‘If he knew he was going to be this injured, perhaps he put on the weight in advance?’ suggests Joshua.

‘Where, though? He is about your size,’ says Daniel.

‘That silver fluid? It is not just in his blood,’ says Miriam, shivering as she remembers the extent of the injuries.

‘I think he will be awake soon; then he can answer our questions. The most important of which is, what do we do with him?’ says Gideon.

Esther is yawning, covering it with one hand, her other holding an empty mug. Miriam’s eyes crinkle as she looks fondly on the young woman. She motions that the meeting should withdraw. There is a quiet scraping of chairs. Each takes Joshua’s hands and smiles to Esther as they leave, Daniel and Abishai going in different directions, Gideon and Miriam holding hands and looking as if they will be having another long night of tea-filled conversation ahead of them.

Eventually, it is only Joshua and Esther standing in the kitchen. He closes the door and switches off the light.

‘My husband,’ she says, her voice low.

‘My wife,’ he answers.

He takes her hands, pulling her gently towards him, surrounding her with his arms. Her body is slim and strong as she folds herself into him. He rests his jaw against her cheek, her head moulded into his shoulder. He holds her head in one hand. Their breathing slows, harmonizes.

And they share each other there in the stillness and gentleness of the night.

6

[Samar.]

The word is not so much spoken as simply present, as if time has been arranged so that it has been heard without it being necessary for it to be said.

A headless torso floats in the darkness. It is hollow, ribs jagged, guts trailing out in the air leading towards it. Globs of blood and matter drifting around it. It is not fresh and has congealed into a sticky, ruddy mass in the sterile air.

Howls of madness. Scrabbling scars on the metal walls where they were torn apart by the explosion and scratched by prisoners.

Chill fear as he watches the survivor tearing at a desiccated leg, stripping off the meat and gobbling it down.

Shadows against the wall advancing on them.

[Samara.]

It is not insistent, neither patient nor expectant. It is like a cursor on a computer screen. It tells you it is there, ready, and then it waits.

Screaming and smashing his hands against the walls of the cell. Naked as he tumbles in space. His agony joined by shrieking and yowling from along the tunnels. Clutching at the torn holes where his ears used to be.

Sobbing and slashing at the walls in outrage.

[Samara.]

Breathing, regular and deep. Falters. There is a lurch. A gasp. Only a moment, and then it continues, slow and regular.

Her body dewed with bubbles, rising naked from the tawny depths. The green of her eyes, the warmth of her skin against his. His heart slows as he kisses her and his body relaxes, folding into hers.

Calmer now, he drifts gently into consciousness.

‘I am awake.’ His mind is fogged, his immediate past unclear.

‘Shakiso. We were swimming in the summer lake. How long was I dreaming?’

[I have maintained your coma for eighteen days. It will take another eight days of active healing for you to return to normal function.]

‘I can’t move yet?’

[No, but the paralysis is part of the induced coma. It will wear off in the next few seconds. How do you feel? What do you remember?]

The room is gloomy, a trickle of light filtering through the open window. Soon the day will brighten.

The fibre mattress lies directly on the floor. The standard bed frame used in the village was not strong enough to support the man who lies there, and it was removed. A mosquito net is drawn tightly under the mattress, and a thin cellulosic sheet covers him.

The man is on his back, his legs straight before him and his arms at his sides. He is tall, almost two metres, and his body – although slender and not overly bulky – is peculiar almost for its perfection. This is how a textbook would describe anatomy or the way a sculptor would carve a man in stone. His face long and angular, thin mouth, long thin nose, arched brows. His head is perfectly smooth.

Even in the crepuscular light of the room he is alien. His skin gleams like matt metal: a titanium sheen that feels cool and unyielding.

‘I remember you bolting me in. It was dark. Cramped. Then you blanked me out for the journey.’

[Yes. Your memory is fine, then?]

For a moment he is back there. Hammering on the walls. Confinement. His ears. Shrieks and blood. A madman, human flesh between his teeth. The planet suspended.

A sharp exhale and he brings himself back.

‘I remember. I don’t want to think about it until we’re home.’

[I understand.]

It waits until the man is ready.

‘Eight days to fitness? Why so long?’

[The village does not have all the nutrients you will require to heal any faster.]

‘I understand. Very well, what has happened since I blanked?’

[The first part of the journey was perfect. I fired the rockets in sequence to bring us into the atmosphere. We disconnected from the umbilical at 95,000 metres. The gyroscope shell remained stationary, and you were locked in place. I controlled our angle of descent with only light touches.

[I then angled us across towards Africa.

[At 50,000 metres, I repositioned the craft to induce spin. This gave us sufficient time to cross from the Pacific. We remained over the oceans, outside the connect.

[At 14,000 metres, the wing started to develop a slight asymmetry.]

‘We expected this, though.’

[Yes, just as we calculated your injuries. For the next 6,000 metres of vertical fall, the effect on the gyroscope was minimal.

[At 8,000 metres, we depleted the energy required to maintain your external shell. That sloughed away. We were at sufficient altitude and you resumed breathing. Again, as expected.

[A minor rotation developed. At 6,000 metres, I triggered the airbags as the rotation was becoming severe.]