ID error. ID error.
Aminat still has the ghost ID activated. She switches her palm implant back on.
ID confirmed.
Welcome, Aminat. Plug into Rosewater Drive?
“Yes, thanks.”
Where would you like to go today?
“I’ve queued the address on the phone. Take it from there.”
Thank you.
While the car pulls out of the drive, Aminat ties her hair into a bun, holds it together with one hand, then takes the clip from her lips and secures it. She has a brief sense of déjà vu: herself as a child watching her mother perform the same manoeuvre from the back seat of the family car, Father driving, Layi chained at home. She ruffles her collar, and stares in the mirror, raising her eyebrows and hating her lashes. She has always wanted longer lashes. The car is in the stream of traffic now, turning, modulating its own speed at just under the limit. Aminat keeps an eye out for Kaaro; stupid man went jogging. Not a good idea in Rosewater with the level of street crime. Why does he think she had treadmills installed? Still, maybe a good thing that she doesn’t see him. Kaaro should know better, know that keeping things from her–like his meeting with Femi–will remind her of his indiscretions with Molara in the xenosphere a few years ago.
Would you like commentary on locations?
“Deactivate feature.”
Thank you.
The weeders are out, meaning traffic is slow. Ever since the war, the ground has a tendency to be covered with a layer of moss, more like felt, or baize, only alive and quick-growing. Weeders have to scrape the layer off the roads twice a day. They went on strike for two days one time. Rosewater looked like a lost city in an old film.
While the car cuts through traffic–the police, fire and ambulance vehicles are tagged and given preferential treatment by the software–Aminat rehearses what she will say between getting updates by text from her subordinates. She cannot concentrate so she shuts down notifications. A quick sweep of radio yields nothing she would rather listen to. Laps. That’s what she should be doing–always makes her head clearer. The car slows into a narrow street.
We have arrived, Aminat. Would you like me to idle or park?
“Idle.”
Thank you.
The address is some kind of split-level house. Intelligence that Aminat has seen suggests that this is a step down for the occupant. The door swings ajar just as she is about to knock. Dahun stands three feet into the house, hands in both pockets, barefoot. A wiry, short man, he wears a white shirt, open at the top two buttons, and white casual trousers. Fleshier than when Aminat knew him. His teeth are almost as white as his apparel. Last year, Kaaro told Aminat that Dahun dreamt every night that his teeth became liquid, like mercury, and flowed out of his mouth, pooling on his bed. For this reason, he scrupulously attended dentists and oral hygienists, paying generously, avoiding sugar, cleaning his teeth with great care before bed.
“You just open your door for anyone?” says Aminat.
“I knew it was you. Kaaro’s woman.”
“You have it wrong. He is my man.”
Dahun nods several times, but in a way that suggests he does not believe her.
Aminat says, “I remember you from the bunker. You left when it got hot.”
“The mayor released me.” Dahun doesn’t bat an eyelid.
“And now you’re back because the president won’t let you live in Nigeria.”
“I’m back because you people kept that witch, Femi. I do not wish to be here, Aminat.”
Behind Dahun Aminat spots art on the walls. New, and newly commissioned, from the faint smell of oil. Even before the insurrection, one of the problems of Rosewater has been a lack of history. It has no age. It is new. There are no tales of plucky escaped slaves or invading Arabs. No old art, or monasteries, or Portuguese missions. One of the walls displays a 2D animated children’s programme, an action cartoon with lots of laser blasts and shouting heroes.
He sees her watching and smiles. “I like them. They always announce what they’re doing. Listen: Action Hero Activate! Splendid. Splendid, no?”
“What now? The mayor wants us to get along. I’m to put you to work.”
“You can’t afford me,” says Dahun.
“Then I’ll have to take you to the border and drop you off in Nigeria. Is that what you want?” She cannot do this, but Dahun’s body language suggests he would rather not be left to the tender mercies of the Nigerian secret police.
“What do you want me to do?” he asks.
“What do you want to do? Because I don’t even want you here. On the other hand, the people causing me the most trouble were trained by you.”
“I warned the sahib that this would happen,” says Dahun. “I hold no responsibility.”
Aminat’s phone vibrates. “Excuse me,” she says, and turns her back on the contractor. It’s the car.
Aminat, your police channel reports a gun battle between street thugs and the Rastafarians less than a mile away. I thought you should know.
“Thank you.” She looks over her shoulder. “Go put some shoes on. You’re coming with me.”
The car comes to rest under the gaze of Ras Kimono, patron saint of Nigerian Rastas, staring from twenty feet up, painted on the south wall of the community centre. The chorus of automatic weapons has begun, the conversation oddly courteous, with call and response, the phut-phut-phut of the Rastas’ preferred suppressed weapons alternating with the clanging, boastful firepower of the street gang.
The two factions fire at each other across Majek Fashek Road, which has been the Rastas’ quarter since the insurrection. There is a police cordon to keep civilians out of harm’s way, but as far as Aminat can see, there is no actual incursion planned. Two cars and one van are on fire and pumping black smoke into the sky, one on its side. Incongruously, it is a nice day, clear, cloudless, with a breeze that takes the edge off the midday sun. The buildings on each side are pockmarked with bullet holes, and have windows missing glass. Old-style quadcopter drones hum about, only to be shot down by both sides. Aminat wonders how far down the road the firefight rages; Majek Fashek is a mile, end to end.
Aminat, would you like me to idle or park?
“Park, out of harm’s way.” Aminat leaves the car, but returns when she notices Dahun hasn’t moved. “Come on.”
“Why? What do you—”
“I want you to see the mess you created, and to help if possible. If I’m stuck with you, then you’re stuck with me. Come on.”
“I’m wearing white. Any one of these bloodclaarts will shoot me just for the fun of it, because I’m like a beacon. And I have no armour.”
Amina mimics crying. “‘I have no armour, I have no armour.’ Now you know what it feels like to be a non-combatant with bullets flying around you. Get out of the car and come with me, or I’ll shoot you and say it was a ricochet.”
There is music blasting from the Rastas’ side, percussion- and guitar-heavy unpolished raga from their dance halls.
The officer in charge has no plan yet. He assures Aminat that everything is under control because nobody is dead yet and no RPGs have been fired.
Aminat activates her armour, and the skin-tight fabric changes configuration. One of the constables has gone to search out something for Dahun. “What are they fighting about?”
The Rastas have their own supply of cannabis, pure herb, no adulterants allowed. Skunk is strictly forbidden. Nobody in law enforcement cares about this because they never supply outside their community and it’s for religious purposes and therefore protected. According to eyewitnesses, a group of men arrived and talked to a group of Rastas about alternative sources of weed. Altercation ensued. Guns were drawn.
“The word is the visitors are Taiwo’s men,” says the constable. “So we didn’t bother.”
“Didn’t bother what?”
The constable shrugs. “They… You can’t prosecute Taiwo’s men.”
“You will apprehend and arrest as your duty requires, Officer.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You have a PA system up?”
“Just about.” He hands Aminat an ear-clip mic.
She walks slowly down the middle of the road just outside the line of fire, within quick-sprint distance of the trees. The chorus slows and stops. The drones have picked her up and they can see her badge.
“This ends now,” she says. She can hear the reverb, an odd way to hear her own voice. “You drop your weapons now, both sides.”
A voice rings out from the Rasta side. “What you want, Babylon?”
Amina recognises the person. She is sad that life has come to this for the Rastas. They are peaceful, although always ready to defend themselves. We brought violence to them, we brought war and bullets and explosives. And now there are shootouts a few feet from their children’s bedrooms.
“I wan speak to Ras Fanta,” says Aminat. “Say im lickle pikiny from las year wan chat to am.”
After the insurrection, when Aminat first took the job, she had to come to the Rastas’ quarter to either convince them to disarm, or come to an understanding about what would and would not be tolerated. Ras Fanta gave assurances as one who could speak for the community. An elderly greybeard with a youthful glitter in his eye, he was easy to negotiate with and reasonable. He invited Aminat to have a spliff with him. She did.
Now, after a couple of minutes, his voice rings out. “Aminat, is that you?”
“It is, sir,” says Aminat.
“Come up, little girl.”
“I have an assistant with me,” she says.
“Im Babylon?”
“Yes. Like me.”
“Nobody like you, lickle girl.” He laughs to himself. “No. Just you, Miss Policewoman.”
She is in Fanta’s front room, without backup. There are two youngsters with twentieth-century shotguns on either side of him, male and female. Aminat spots a resemblance and wonders if they are twins. Fanta is in a commodious robe made of Ankara print, but his protruding hands and forearms are skeletal.
“Grandchildren,” he says, waving at the guards. “You want some herb, girl?”
“No thank you, sir. Can we stop the shooting?”
Fanta cups his hand over his left ear. “You hear any shooting? Me no hear no shooting.”
“Your people returned fire after being provoked. That’s fair. What I am here to ask is that you let me and my officers take them into custody without any… incidents.”
Fanta nods slowly. “You want to arrest Taiwo’s men, go right ahead. They’ll be out in less than a day, of course. But you tell them this from us: if they come back around here, they will leave in coffins.”
“Leave Taiwo to me.” Aminat gets up to leave.
“Wait.”
“What?”
He nods to his grandson, who leaves the room. He returns with two bound and gagged Rastas.
“Take these with you. They wandered in yesterday, must be lost from the Honeycomb.”
Passers. Homians trying to pass for human. Finding themselves in new bodies is a strange experience for the alien mind, and each reacts individually. Some try to act like humans and even convince themselves that they are now human. Strangely, the passers are the worst at mimicking human semiotics, and these two are caricatures of Rastas. Since everyone in the community pretty much knows everyone else, having grown up together, passers who decide to come here are particularly daft.
“I’ll make sure they get home,” says Aminat.
Downstairs, with the uniforms carting Taiwo’s men to holding, Dahun leans against the car, which continually warns him not to, and stares at Aminat throughout the bureaucracy of arrest.
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing,” says Dahun. “Is this your job then?”
“This is the job. What? You’re too good for it?”
“I work for pay. I’ve killed people for pay. Believe me when I say there’s nothing I’m too good for.”
“Fine. Get in the car.”
“Where are we—”
“We’re going to see Taiwo.”
Taiwo Sanni lives in a castle of his own devising, which is to say it looks expensive, but terrible. It’s about thirty feet tall, sprawling in that Nigerian I-have-money way, but with no symmetry, and designed by an architect constantly changing their mind. It is an odd assortment of spires, ramparts, cupolas, loopholes and truncated crenellations. Some gables have relief renderings of Taiwo’s profile, others are blank. A ten-foot wall encloses the entire abomination, with drones criss-crossing the airspace night and day.
What did he tell Aminat about himself at the end of the war? It’s going to be interesting living in Rosewater from now. I mean, look at me, a free man, all sins forgiven, and a war hero.
“What is this thing?” asks Dahun. His mouth is open and Aminat has to suppress laughter.
“This is Taiwo’s house.”
Aminat, would you like me to idle or park?
“Idle, yellow alert, counter-measures on standby.” Aminat unclips the seat belt.
“I am coming with you,” says Dahun. “I know Taiwo well.”
“You mean you used to know him. Before all this.” She points in the general direction of the castle. “Don’t say anything you don’t want him to know. Assume he is listening and recording at all times. Do not start a fight. This is not the time.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I mean it, Dahun.”
Drones descend to inspect them and the car, insect-like designs that swarm and buzz like real arthropods. The larger drones stay up high, fifteen feet, and Aminat figures they bear weapons. Dahun tries to wave them away or clap, but they easily avoid his hand.
At the gate, a three-foot-high quadruped construct reads their ID tags. After a minute, a voice comes from its speakers. “Miss Arigbede! The chief of police! It’s so nice to see you again.”
“My actual title is head of security,” says Aminat.
“Of course. Of course. Come in. The construct will show you the way. For your own protection do not draw a weapon. You know how glitchy this old US technology can be.”
Aminat’s attempts to memorise aspects of the place are thwarted by the winding, descending and ascending corridors, the darkness of the hermetically sealed interior coupled with disorienting blinking from the construct. The central climate control is so cold that she shivers. She checks her phone implant and confirms what she suspected: no signal. The place is obviously shielded.
Taiwo Sanni has changed since Aminat last saw him. He is significantly larger, with a lot of the weight concentrated in his belly. He sits on a broad sofa, seeming to occupy all of it. He smiles like a satisfied god, which he kind of is.
He is also like a museum exhibit. The smart glass has blocked out all the light from the sun, and a single source illuminates him. He takes the paranoia seriously.
“How can I help the fine officers of this fair city?” he asks.
“You have enough business in Rosewater,” says Aminat. “Leave the Rastas be. Abo oro.” Half-word. Good people only need to be told half of good advice; it becomes whole inside them.
“I have no business with or close to the Rastas,” says Taiwo.
“That isn’t true,” says Dahun.
Taiwo slowly turns his head, leaden with meaning. “Yes, Sargy, I do notice you.”
“His name isn’t—”
“We used to call him Sargy, short for drill sergeant, during the war. He shot some of my soldiers.”
Dahun shakes his head. “Those weren’t soldiers.”
“Okay, I don’t care what grudges you both have. Don’t fuck with the Rastas, Taiwo. There are children there.”
“I don’t know anything, but rest assured, Madam Head of Security, if this were something done by my employees, there would be discipline. It’s not. But if it were…”
“Don’t make me come back here,” says Aminat.
“The construct will see you out, my dear. Give my love to Kaaro. Tell him I’ll see him soon.”
On the drive back, they are silent for a while, as if each is thinking of what Taiwo means to them.
“How is Kaaro?” asks Dahun.
“Retired,” says Aminat.
“Yeah, I haven’t heard that before.”
“Forget about Kaaro. What I need to know is if you think you can work with us to keep Rosewater safe.”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I have to assess the risks before taking an assignment. I can handle Taiwo’s men, but I don’t know anything about your aliens.”
“Go on Nimbus.”
“Too much information. Too much disinformation.”
Aminat sighs. “All right. Crash course. There are five basic types you need to know about. They’re all from a planet whose name means ‘home’ in their languages, so we call them Homians. I know, shut up. Homians. Squatters are your basic Homians in a human reanimate body. They tend to stay in the Honeycomb or live quiet if eccentric lives. Passers you’ve met already. They try to pass as human and integrate. They’re not harmful, just irritating. There are sleepers, who are Homians who just seem overwhelmed by it all and spend their time catatonic or asleep, also in the Honeycomb. Synners are the ones you need to be careful of. They love to transgress and they treat humans like they’re not real.”
“So you arrest them?”
“Sometimes, I guess. I generally have a shoot-first policy with them. They can and do cause harm.”
“How do you identify them?”
“You follow the carnage.”
“Understood.”
“One final bunch you have to know about. The norms. They’re actually human.”
“What!”
“They’re humans pretending to be Homians in human skin. Like Homian wannabes. You’ll find them outside the Honeycomb, protesting some motherfucking thing or the other.”
Dahun laughs in a way that rings false. “And this is your job? Chasing extraterrestrials and breaking the back of Taiwo’s gang?”
“The mayor wants me chasing subversives, seditionists and spies. I’m not allowed to touch Taiwo or his people.”
“But you do it anyway?”
“Make up your mind what you want to do, Dahun. I like to know what pieces I have on the board.”
She tells the self-drive to take them to headquarters.
Later that night, ID swapped, disguised physically, after she has visited retribution on Taiwo’s released men, she thinks she sees a shadow that looks like Dahun. It is nothing when she looks again, so she continues home to Kaaro.
She finds his side of the bed cold these days, and she spoons him.