There are three S45 men in my enclosure, one in military garb, none of whom introduce themselves. I’m reading Kudi by Walter Tanmola when they come in. I splay it open on the coffee table and give the visitors my full attention.
“There’s a situation in Rosewater,” says the military man.
“We want you to go in,” says another. “Because of your experience.”
“We want you to liquidate Jack Jacques,” says the third. “A chance to redeem your earlier failure and save some lives at the same time.”
“Where’s Mrs. Alaagomeji?” I ask.
“In Rosewater. Gone dark.”
“What about Kaaro?”
“He’s not in play,” says the military man.
“Won’t I die if I go out there?”
“We don’t think so. We think the problem with the extinction of your kind has stopped since last year.”
“You think? That’s reassuring.”
“If you need more time…”
“No, I don’t. Let’s go,” I say.
The first step is surgery. They remove my ID chip and replace it with a generic population model, something that won’t trigger any alarms. The deniability aspect goes without saying, but it is understood.
They make me sign and thumbprint a few documents, letters to the government, deranged rantings of a madman ultra-patriot who sees the secession of Rosewater as an insult to the country. I hope they have no intention of sending a missile to my ID chip location this time around.
I have a whole lot of material to get familiar with over the few days while my wound heals. I’ve been out of touch and where I’m going the wrong statement can kill me. It seems Jack Jacques has fulfilled his potential to be a fuckwit. If I had killed him back then would all of this be happening at all?
The déjà vu is startling. They say I have to go in without weapons, but they already have embedded people stirring up shit within the city. They feel sure I’ll get weapons from the underground.
There’s a hologram of Rosewater in front of me. I cannot believe how much it has grown. The dome is larger than ten years ago. It’s thirty miles across, one-eighty feet high, and where it was smooth it now sports spikes, like a war mace or the ball of a morning star. There’s a cathedral, mosques, stadium, cinemas, and high-rises. They have class distinctions and suburbs and school runs. They also have universal health and uninterrupted power from the alien, although intelligence shows that the extraterrestrial itself might not be faring so well.
I’m to go in through the south-west, by the Yemaja, come in through the marshes and slums of Ona-oko and meet my contact. I’m to report any instance of ill health to my handler, Eurohen, who happens to be in charge of S45. He has orders from the president to deal with this matter personally.
“Sir, what about Mrs. Alaagomeji?”
“She’s still in the field and out of contact. Don’t worry about her.” Eurohen’s left eye twitches. Perhaps he hates being in her shadow. Perhaps he’s lying.
“And if I encounter her?”
“Pretend not to know her.”
“Sir…” I hesitate.
“Speak freely, agent.”
“What if she doesn’t want me to kill Jacques?” Anyone who has been in the field will tell you the reality on the ground can change. What if Alaagomeji sees a different reality?
“Your service is at the pleasure of the office of the president. Your instructions are to liquidate Jacques. Anyone gets in your way, you liquidate them too. Is that clear?”
“Sir.”
I wade through the marshland in the dark. My palm lights up with the compass phone app, directing me to Ona-oko. Mosquitoes alight on me, but I’m not worried because I have a dermal patch to prevent malaria. It’s government issue, so probably unreliable, but I’m counting on the fact that they need me alive. Some asshole tried to cure malaria by gene-editing the plasmodium parasite that causes it. Worked for most strains, but a hardy, drug-resistant plasmodium emerged that just kills the few people who get it. So, prevalence is down but mortality is up. Way up.
There are ghost lights, and I can smell the methane as I slog along, and the gurgle of the Yemaja is distinct. There are droppers every few yards, faux-human bodies swaying in the night breeze, unblinking eyes watching me, imploring me to join their corrosive embrace.
I can hear a drum in the distance calling me in as the ground gets drier. I could swear to some seismic activity, but that might just be due to the difference between marsh and red sand.
I am inside the city limits and this is the key moment, the reason they had to find me, and not use another agent. The alien will kill anyone seen as an outsider with evil intent. S45’s hope and mine is that Wormwood will recognise me and count me as a part of Rosewater. I realise I have slowed my pace and await, with ragged breath, a lightning strike from the south ganglion.
It does not come and I approach the first settlements. The drummer is a ten-year-old and I touch the back of his palm to transfer some money.
Welcome to Rosewater. It stinks less than it used to.