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.
Lora stops squatting and turns to him, raises eyebrows. “Because you told me to.”
“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?”
“I don’t follow, sir.”
“I want to know when I’m in danger. I want to know when I’m in a trap. I want to know, I want to know, I want to know. Mo fe mo gbo-gbo e. Tell me every fucking thing from now on. No more surprises.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”
His phone buzzes. Priority text from the president.
YOU LITTLE SHIT. DO YOU REALLY THINK YOU’LL GET ANYWHERE?
He has kept up a steady stream of malicious texts for hours now. Jack knows the guy to be petty, but this is a whole new level.
“Can I block the president?” he asks Lora. “I mean, what if he wants a truce?”
“He won’t come through you direct for that, sir.”
“He’s not saying anything useful. I should block him.”
“You don’t have time. You have to meet the councillors.”
Shit. “Really looking forward to that.”
A lot of pampered politicians complaining about not being consulted. We did not sign up for this. Upstarts taking the opportunity to grandstand. Crypto-loyalists making trouble. Ten per cent of them leaving the city, but most of the rest supportive. Jack can read a room easily, but he has no time to soothe them. He does apologise, but he cuts the meeting short.
Next he meets with the seventeen major building contractors in Rosewater. The representatives seem nervous, like they expect him to have them all shot. He tells them to relax and he smiles at quarter wattage. He tells them he expects them to create an accurate map of all the bunkers in Rosewater. He dismisses their protestations, makes vague allusive threats and gives them a twenty-four-hour deadline. They start filing out of the room, but he stops them, looks at the clock and tells them the hours will be spent in this very room. They start pooling resources.
He retreats to his office. He looks at his hands. They are dry from washing them after glad-handing the ward councillors. He uses a cream with eucalyptus and closes his eyes to soothe his fading headache. “West wall,” he says to the room, and the brick becomes transparent, or seems so. Minute cameras on the outside project images on the inside. He can see a large part of Rosewater from here, and the centre of the panorama is the dome in its recent spiky incarnation, with patchy discoloration. Is it prescient? Preparing for war in some fucked-up alien way? Many had speculated at the reason for or meaning of the sharp projections, but it is all conjecture as far as Jack can tell. The Yemaja flows freely and powerfully on its way to the Niger River. The presence of Wormwood has an unexpected positive effect on the river. The verdant growth halted the gully erosion that had plagued the Yemaja, a trophic cascade that led to increased tree height, which brought more diverse birds, small mammals, pools and shallows, an explosion of biodiversity. The alien species mixed in, yes, but also the Earth creatures. Rosewater is arguably the greenest city in the world and keeping weeds controlled requires a significant budget. Cracks to asphalt from under-growing vegetation is a serious problem, but Jack recognises that this is a good problem to have. The jury is out on whether eating alien animals and plants is harmless, but the woods in and around the city teem with game. The Rosewater Botanical Garden has pretty much every known species and some unknown ones. To think the land was aberrant savannah before this, before Wormwood. As much as it is a blessing, Jack can’t help seeing the vegetation as cover for enemy troops. They are out there already, but will we see them? The dome can survive anything, even a direct hit from a particle weapon, but maybe the government has more advanced ones? We just have to hold Rosewater long enough for the Nigerian government to bankrupt itself. Jack wishes the dome covered the whole city. Eight million souls would be safer.
“Music, ‘Bilongo,’ Ismael Rivera.”
The song starts and Jack dances. If Nero fiddled while Rome burned, he will dance before any fires start in Rosewater. He sings along to the call-and-response—he does not speak Spanish, but salsa calms him. By the time the song finishes he feels buzzed. He is in a good mood when a phone call cuts through all screens and protocols, glowing on his forearm.
Calling: The Tired Ones.
Oh, shit.