Building the new body is taking a lot longer than Anthony anticipated. Until completion he is stuck in the bowels of Wormwood. In itself, this is odd because the brain is usually the last thing, not the first. Now he has a functioning mind in a body tethered to the factory. The creature is silent, has not communed with Anthony, and the silence unnerves him. He is embedded without skin or useful musculature. He can feel his internal organs growing, but not as briskly as usual. Around him are abandoned versions of himself, some dead homunculi and a dead cellulose monster, all killed decades ago after an attack by the British while Wormwood was in larval stage, before he burrowed to Nigeria. The monster is made of gouged-out pieces of Wormwood, and stands frozen in spot. Nothing rots in this cavern, although they might dry out. The very first Anthony, the human, stands in the centre, his skull open at the top, strings of neural tissue spreading out of his brain like an above-ground telephone pole. Anthony thinks this body, the original Anthony, might still be alive in some marginal definition of the term, but not in a meaningful way. He has no thoughts to share, no protests to make, no will but Wormwood’s. Anthony is surprised to feel a surge of anger that the human is enslaved to complete the alien life cycle. He feels a thrill from his lower extremities and believes he has grown skin in what will become his soles. A human woman killed him, and the host is in the wild again. Why did the Homian not recognise Anthony? The whole business has gone awry. The xenosphere has odd gaps, Molara is missing in action and the Homian is not a Homian? Or not Homian enough. At least, she did not understand any of the Homian languages Anthony hailed her in. They would not have made her with an obscure dialect, would they? But then, who knows with engineers.
Anthony has about enough control to agitate the xenoforms into sending a message to Home, a progress report. Yes, I found the host but lost her. As soon as I’m able, I’ll get after her again. I think the footholder is sick.
The answer comes swift and sure. Anthony imagines himself on the Homian moon, in the control room.
Did you say “her”? Because the entity sent is congenitally male.
Vessel is definitely female.
We will have to look into repatriation or relocation. How soon will she be in our hands?
I have to find her again. I haven’t started because the body isn’t ready.
What’s wrong with your footholder?
There’s a plant. [image passed automatically by entanglement]
Ahh.
You knew about it.
Yes. It’s Homian. Our first experiments with footholders showed they can take over entire planets when unchecked, with no room for us. Strain-516 is a controlling species, limiting the footholder spread. Seeds are in every single footholder, but I’m curious that they have crossed the dome.
There’s one of this strain growing under the host’s house. It’s a xenoform dead zone. What’s the antidote?
I don’t know. Get the Earthers to kill it. They can kill anything.
That’s not how humans work.
Maybe not, but we still want the host back and unharmed. She is [important person]. Strain-516 will not harm the footholder, it will just restrict its growth.
Send [Strain-516 specifications/technical].
[Lie] not available/too difficult/irrelevant/do as you’re told. [hierarchy].
Assertion! [Don’t ask questions/get on with assigned task]
Do not endanger the grand plan/fulfil your purpose.
Transmission ends.
He cannot even maintain the integrity of the conversation. He’s sicker than he has ever been, because even his neurological template seems corrupted.
Anthony has an overwhelming urge to spit, but he has no mouth yet. His lover/friend would tell him this is a uniquely human reaction, that he is trying to remove physical residue as a way to expel the psychological distaste from his interaction. Footholders don’t have opinions, they act for Home at all times. Anthony is not Wormwood. Does he feel this because Wormwood is sick? Their bond is not as good, integrity compromised by Strain-516? Is that why the human was able to kill him? Anthony knows that burning hot can use up the body, but he still did it. Why? Does he truly believe in the mission? He thinks he does, but he is not nearly as disappointed at the setback as he thinks he should be. He sends pulses of queries through the xenosphere, trying to stimulate Wormwood.
“What’s going on here?” Molara appears as a naked woman with blue butterfly wings. Anthony finds her muscular and cold.
“Nothing,” says Anthony. “Planning my next move.”
“Is the host hiding from you? Others are curious.”
“The others can suck my balls. Fanculo! They were never interested in me before.”
Molara touches him mentally, in a sexual way. “Do you want me to suck your balls? Would that motivate you?”
To his horror he responds to her, but he knows what that would mean, her control over him, which is not something Anthony wants because their aims do not always align. “Go away, Molara. Everything is fine.”
His legs are free and he slushes out of the pit, struggling against suction like he is escaping from a swamp. He feels the body taking shape as he begins to walk. Eyes better, mouth open though jaw not as wide yet. He pushes a shot of anandamide through his system. Wormwood is still silent. He needs clothes, but cannot grow them just yet. He makes his way through tunnels, in complete darkness, towards a progressively windy chute until he is carried along by powerful air currents. He travels in these for an hour, then is flung free through a venting system near Kinshasa, but outside the city. There are hundreds of holes in the ground, used by the footholder for heat regulation. The vents are like mouths, opening and closing like that of a fish out of water. There are dried corpses of small animals everywhere, unfortunates who fall into the tunnels only to be shot back out as if fired from a cannon.
Anthony begins to walk. He comes across a pair of discarded marl leggings hooked on a branch, flapping like a flag. He puts them on, even though they are not his size. Walking becomes awkward and he rips the leggings at the crotch to compensate. He tastes the xenosphere—fresh and strong after the rains—but Anthony senses more of the black spots. There are tiny footprints in the mud and run-off—at first he thinks they are from children, but he tastes the toxins in the air: homunculi. He looks around, but none is in sight. He follows the footprints for a while, on a whim. He has not seen them for months and he finds homunculi amusing. Then he comes across a human religious cult having a scarification ceremony. He does not join them, but he takes the clothes he needs. He inhales, smiles, photosynthesises in the sun, then heads for the city. He has no shoes—none were his size—but he does have a layer of callus. He passes people, solitary, in groups, on foot, driving cars, on buses, donkeys, horses. There are soldiers in groups of ten, moving with purpose and expressions saying they hold secret orders.
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.