The Medical Committee sits before Ify like judges at a tribunal. The vaulted ceilings are painted with depictions from the Bible of moments of healing. Lazarus raised from the dead, someone’s hand reaching out to touch the hem of the Christ’s garment, even the beginnings of the universe. The floor’s tiles glisten as though, every second, nanobots are hard at work giving them their extra sheen. The benches behind Ify are largely unoccupied, which seems odd to her, given what is at stake. If there were any sense of justice or concern beyond the very clinical, the committee members would have allowed the families of those affected by the widespread coma epidemic to this hearing. They would have publicized it. They would have distributed the reports—report after report—written by scientists, medical professionals, and political thinkers on why, all of a sudden, thousands of children have suddenly become unresponsive to treatment and seem to have cast themselves to death’s edge.
But no. In the benches behind her sit Grace and a few other medical professionals, most of them Ify’s contemporaries and subordinates. Many of them are native Alabastrines, scattered fallen snowflakes amid the steel pews with wood overlay. And some of them, Ify knows, have resented her rise, how she has surpassed them in rank, how she already has assistant director in her title. How people are already calling her Doctor even though she has yet to take her licensing exam.
The man at the center of the five committee members has the face of a stately middle-aged white man. He could pass for a legislator. Remove a few of the wrinkles from around his mouth and he could be any billionaire whose name is stamped on the side of a small Colony. This is the hospital director, Dr. Jacob Towne. Perhaps the only administrator who has ever looked favorably on Ify’s career. Ify replays her interactions with him in her head, him noticing her high marks early on, as well as her aptitude for science and technology, noting the fact that she spent her extracurricular time away from those kids who played around or got in trouble neglecting their studies and instead worked on ways to make computers smaller and smaller while maintaining their processing power and then integrating them into larger systems of computing, something that could revolutionize the medical industry. Then, armed with Towne’s letters of recommendation, there were the internships, the formal mentorship, then her choosing the medical track in school with his guidance.
But, looking at him now, he has the demeanor of neither a mentor nor a father figure. He has the look of a judge willing to hand down a life sentence for what one would call a crime but others would call a mistake.
One of the judges to the left of Towne, a man the lower half of whose face is swallowed by a gray beard, leans forward. His information pops up on Ify’s retinal display. Dr. Mar, head of neurology. “So. Internist Diallo. I’m sure you have read through the reports.” He makes a face like he is scrolling through them himself. And scrolling. And scrolling. “All of them.”
“Yes, Dr. Mar.”
“Any initial conclusions you’d like to share with the rest of the class?” The slight joking in his voice grates on Ify.
She pulls up the report she prepared for this hearing. “We began our treatment by tracking down the earliest case of a patient displaying these symptoms.” She transmits a video file to the committee members, all of whom are cyberized. “Six years ago, a patient with these symptoms was deported to the island nation of Vanuatu.” At the raised eyebrows of several members in the committee, Ify continues. “At the time of that patient’s deportation, there was no island to go back to.”
“So, what then? What happened?” Dr. Mar asks. “Did we just drop the patient in the ocean?”
“There is no record of the patient after they left Alabastrine jurisdiction. Their whereabouts are unknown.”
“Hmm.” Dr. Mar strokes his chin.
A committee member to Director Towne’s right, whose face is fashioned to look unreasonably young, taps a stylus against the wooden bench in front of him. Dr. Langrishe, head of genetics. “I assume you have studied the country-of-origin data with regard to the affected patients? Is there any correlation between falling into a coma and your country no longer existing?”
Ify does her best to maintain an even temper. What a basic question. Of course, this was one of the first questions she researched. “The initial outbreak of the disease seemed indiscriminate with regard to country of origin. One commonality regarding country of origin is that all of the affected seem to have come from countries that have experienced political turmoil within the past five years. War, violent change in leadership, government-sponsored repression, or some other sort of violent upheaval. Many of those countries of origin are still, in fact, experiencing these upheavals.”
The one man not wearing a medical doctor’s uniform and instead wearing a boxy suit jacket leans back in his plush chair. With the fingernail of his pinky, he scratches the side of his nose. “Well, that’s rather the point of their being refugees, isn’t it.”
Ify can’t tell if the comment is addressed to her or to Dr. Langrishe.
“People tend not to swim for shore if their boat isn’t sinking.” He leans on his elbows. “Tell me, Internist.” An accent. French? “Do you believe that political turmoil in the countries of origin is the cause of this medical epidemic?”
“I believe it is a proximate cause, yes. But not the trigger.”
The man—he must be some sort of academic—raises his eyebrows. “Oh? Do continue.”
“While there have been sporadic cases over the past five years, the epidemic started in earnest a month ago with the announcement of the government’s changed stance on migrants. Immediately following announcement of the policy, a number of families—many of whom had long been residents of Alabast—received notices of deportation. It is at this time that the disease became more widespread.”
“Is this a hunger strike, then?”
There are too many missing pieces for Ify to call it that or even something akin to that. How to tell this group of old white men that many among the population—an unknown number, in fact—might be synths and not human beings at all? How to tell them that many of the children in her care are not even subject to a single human rights protection under Alabastrine law? And where does the virus affecting Peter and the girl he connected to come into play?
“I’m not sure, sir.”
The academic glances at the others, as though to finally include them in the dialogue. “Do we know if this is a virus? It seems contagious, does it not?”
“Well,” says Dr. Langrishe. “We’ve all been in Alabast for how long now? I see no reason to suspect we haven’t been inoculated against whatever disease has taken these people.”
Ify nearly sneers at the racism she hears in his words. Her fists clench at her side. “Among the patients are several from the icelands of the Caucasus on Old Earth. They are white as well.”
Langrishe turns in his chair to look at Ify, one eyebrow raised, like he has just witnessed a dog trying to assemble a watch. “I was referring, Internist Diallo, to the palliative powers of citizenship.”
Of course you were, Ify says to herself. “With your permission, sirs, I would like to continue treatment of the patients while investigating a potential solution to the epidemic. Before it spreads even further.”
“I have some ideas on that front.” Towne’s voice doesn’t boom, but it reverberates throughout the entire room. Everyone hears it. Ify senses Grace startle behind her. “From my own research, I have noticed a preponderance of cases among recent African migrants. Specifically Nigerians.” His gaze grows sharp, as though he knows Ify is holding within her a secret to mysteries he wishes he could unlock. “There was war in your home country, yes?”
Ify struggles not to show any emotion, any indication that the invocation of where she came from has as much effect on her as it does. “The war has ended, Director Towne.”
“Indeed. But you know as well as I that wounds persist.”
“Psychological trauma does necessitate treatment following the advent of the initial traumatic incident. And untreated, it can result in grave psychological and physiological harm to the patient. Yes, Director. I know this.”
“And I am sure you can imagine the trauma of growing up during war, coming of age during a ceasefire, then having your life adversely impacted when that ceasefire ends.”
Adversely impacted. Director Towne would go for such understatement. Ify knows, however, that there’s no malice in it. Still, resentment builds in her that the director has so directly confronted her about her past. But it takes her a moment to realize his point. When she does, her breath catches. The ceasefire. The ceasefire that Ify played a direct role in ending. The ceasefire she broke by—
“Internist!” This from Langrishe.
Ify snaps out of her trance. “Yes. Yes, sorry. Um.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. Get it together, get it together. Think about what’s in front of you. She raises her head, her eyes cleared, her heart rate slowed. “Yes, Director. I . . . it’s still rather fresh for me. My homeland.” Play into his stereotypes and the racism he thinks is so subtle, she tells herself. “Please. Continue.”
“Well,” continues Langrishe. “What Director Towne was saying was that you would be the perfect candidate for such a mission.”
“Mission?”
Langrishe sighs loudly.
Director Towne silently rebukes him, then turns to Ify. “Many of the afflicted refugees have come from Nigeria or the area immediately surrounding it. What we’re suggesting is a fact-finding mission. If the disease is coming from Nigeria—”
“Director Towne,” she growls. Regret swims through her. The rest of the committee leans back in their chairs. Towne pauses. There isn’t the slightest hint of a smile on his face, no recognition of Ify’s moment of courage, no approval. But then he doesn’t look affronted either. Sheer expressionlessness.
“If information on the epidemic can be found, we are confident that it can be found there. As director of the Refugee Program, you have the deepest knowledge and first-hand experience of this crisis. And, as a Nigerian refugee yourself, you understand what has been happening in your country.”
She wants to tell him that she hasn’t been back in almost five years. That she has left that part of her behind. Completely. The way she talks, the way she carries herself. All of it an effort to put Nigeria squarely where it belongs: in the past. Everything she did, everything she loved, everything she was. It’s supposed to be gone now.
But she can’t tell him any of that. So, instead, she says, “I think that is a prudent course of action.”
Still that lack of expression from Director Towne. “Great. Details will be forwarded to you shortly. You can leave now. Oh, and your assistant will be accompanying you.”
Angry shock rips through Ify. She resists the impulse to look behind her to see Grace’s face. She has no idea why Towne would issue this order, nor does she have time to puzzle it out, because he nods at her—swift, perfunctory—to dismiss her.
Grace follows Ify out. It’s not until the doors to the committee chamber have closed behind Ify that she realizes her hands have been shaking.
While Grace packs, Ify keeps the lights off in her office. Her Bonder sits in a steel box on her desk. The blinds are drawn. Not a single device in the room blinks to indicate it’s been turned on. She still hasn’t been able to stop shaking. But the tremors running through her have lessened. The first few times she’d tried to hold a stylus, she’d dropped the thing and it had clattered on her table like an accusation.
Puzzle pieces swim inside her head. Clues. Hints. Theories. Hypotheses. But flickering in bright red like a broken neon sign are the words It’s your fault. She closes her eyes and sees it all in flashes. She’s standing at the threshold of a door with a bag at her side and a gun in her hand, and on the other side of that door is the woman she’s traveled across a country to kill. On the other side of that door is the woman who murdered her entire family. Onyii. Then she sees the city of Enugu, the city to which she’d tracked this woman. And she sees the people ambling through it, buying jewelry, cooking ogbono soup on the side of the street, selling their wares, flirting, joking, all in a burst of colors and light glinting off shining surfaces. She closes her eyes tighter, trying to force away the memory, but then, as though it were happening right around her, she hears the explosions, thunder that surrounds her, that takes the ground out from beneath her. Thunder going on for what seems like forever. Then screams and weeping and a city covered in blood. No.
No.
She refuses to believe it. There is something else. There has to be. Something else has caused the influx of refugees from Nigeria. Something else brought Peter here. She tells herself this over and over again. There is something else. And after several minutes, she can bring herself to believe it. There is something more to the mystery of the comatose children. It’s not her fault.
She says this to herself—it’s not my fault—as she takes a few deep breaths, then rises from her chair to, with a thought, raise the blinds in her office.
She pulls up surveillance of the refugee ward so that it broadcasts over her floor-to-ceiling window. Like this, she can monitor the comings and goings without having to actually set foot among her patients. When the contact with them becomes too much—the antiseptic smell, the too-fine detail in their faces, the sounds of their machines’ monotonous beeping and humming and droning—she can watch them like this. It gives her an odd sense of peace, gazing down at them from above. Surveilling them. She dares not call it godlike. But it is like that—the part of God that’s supposed to be caring and loving and watchful—protective, even.
And that’s when she sees them. Two women sitting next to a bed. She sees their hair, their hands, and the way they fold over the patient’s hands like layers of soil. Or beach sand. She zooms in, and one of them looks up, her eyes closed, her mouth moving in prayer Ify can’t hear. Paige. And beside her, with head bowed, is Amy. They’re praying over Peter.
Ify gets to the ward floor and stands by the entrance. As much as she tries to will her body forward, it won’t move. So Paige and Amy are two shivering specks in the distance. A primal fear chills Ify. She feels as though her bones are vibrating inside her. She grits her teeth against it and closes her hands in fists and waits for tears, but they never come. She’s too scared even to cry.
In all the time she’s known Amy and Paige, she has never seen them so helpless. Even when they had no idea how to care for Ify or how to make her feel at home or how to help her build her future, they’d moved with confidence. They’d blundered out of love for her. And with every fumbling move, Ify had known that they did this or that thing, made this or that mistake, committed this or that error, all out of love for her. They knew, or felt they knew, that they were doing right by her. And whether or not things turned out the way they’d wanted, their love would carry them through. Ify stands now as living testament to their efforts. They had indeed made her the woman who stands today on the precipice of being a licensed Colony doctor, already assistant director of her own ward.
And now they cling, helpless, to a hospital bed. Helpless.
It’s not my fault, Ify tells herself.
She repeats the mantra as she returns to her apartment and packs for her trip. She repeats it during the rail ride to the shuttle transit station. Even as droids load her luggage and Grace’s and usher the two of them to the plush cabins afforded to Colony officials, she says it over and over again.
She repeats it as the shuttle hurtles through the ejection column and, once it settles into its flight pattern toward Earthland, she continues to say it. She’s forgotten the young Cantonese woman sitting across from her, dutifully organizing her notes and studying her materials and preparing her research plan. It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault.
By the time the shuttle touches down in Abuja and the doors open to Nnamdi Azikiwe International Shuttle Station and she has gathered her things and, blanketed by light, proceeded through the busy but efficiently run terminals to the exit where her and Grace’s minders wait for her to bring Ify and Grace to Ify’s apartment, she has said it a thousand times.
And each and every time, it has felt like a lie.
As the jeep flies through the well-ordered streets of Abuja, a message beeps through Ify’s Whistle. A lone envelope icon. Sender: Céline Hayatou.
Dear Ify,
I’ve only just now received news of your deployment. Do you remember when we used to attend chapel together? I was always running late, and I would ask you to save me a seat. And, without fail, by the time I arrived, you would have cleared a whole pew for me. I once thought you contained magic. If there were someone near and dear to you, you would move heaven and earth for them. You were younger than me, newer to Alabast, and yet you seemed so certain of yourself and your powers. Eventually, you told me why you were able to guard so much space for me. You told me it was because whenever you would sit in a pew where the whites sat, they would see you and move away. You always had a logical, scientific explanation for things. Even if they didn’t make sense, they contained logic. I still believed there was magic in you. I still do. I encourage you to let go of logic as you return home. Fear does not contain logic. Our sense of home does not contain logic. There is magic in both of these things. I am learning these things as a colonial administrator. You can pave streets and make them ordered. You can introduce ordinances for waste disposal and educational requirements. You can create a proper protocol for migrant resettlement. You can do all of these things, but at the center of our work is people. People and the hope they bring with them. People and the memories they bring with them. Please don’t walk away from your memories. There is magic in them. Be well, ma copine.
Take care of yourself.
Je t’aime.
Your chapel seatmate,
Céline
Ify closes the message to find Grace sitting across from her, hands folded in her lap, a concerned look on her face.
“Home,” Ify says to the question in Grace’s eyes. “I haven’t been back in a very long time.” She looks out the window at the once-familiar streets and whispers to herself, Home.