“Hannah,” says Jack Jacques.
She holds up her hand, one finger extended, still reading.
“Hannah, I’m going to be late.”
“I’m not finished,” she says. She adjusts her glasses.
Jack rolls to the bar, takes a shot of whiskey, then pours a half-pint of beer.
“Take out all the statutes. This is not for your cabinet or for a courtroom, this is for lay people. And it makes you seem like you’re bloviating.”
“I’m not—”
“I know that, but your audience won’t.” She frowns. “Cut out all the ‘I’s and change them to ‘we’s, otherwise it looks like you’re trying to profit from it. Your message is that this is not political capital. This is a necessary righting of wrongs.”
“All right. Anything else?” asks Jack.
“No. It’s ready. Don’t perform it, don’t sell it. The news is momentous enough on its own. Don’t wait for applause or do any kind of victory lap.”
Jack drains his tankard and drops it on the counter. “Got it. Kiss for luck?”
Hannah comes over and kisses him on the lips, then rubs off the lipstick.
“Are you going in the chair?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“You still don’t want a new leg?”
Jack shrugs. “Maybe a prosthesis?”
“Your choice. Koriko can grow you one just as quickly.”
“Pass.”
“As long as you know what you’re doing. You’re sure you don’t want me by your side?”
“No, we said we wouldn’t do that shit, right?”
There is a lot they agreed they would not do, and it hangs heavy in the room, unsaid for now.
Outside the living quarters, Jack is joined by his bodyguards and Lora. It is a short walk to the courtyard, where the press corps awaits. He goes down to them, even though in the past he has spoken from the first-floor walkway. The reconstructed mayor’s mansion is less ornate than the original, which was partially destroyed in the insurrection. The administration lived and worked largely underground.
The press do not need to be at the mansion in person, but they come out of some sense of respect or fealty to the history of state press conferences. The approved camera drones hover around each reporter. Some are still chewing the snacks provided by catering, as though they were taken by surprise.
“Thank you for being here today. This will be brief, and we will not take questions. After months of negotiations, debates and hearing from affected individuals and groups, the administration has come to a decision. It shall be the policy of this administration to support the rights of every individual, regardless of declared or undeclared sexuality or gender. Specifically, this will abolish any previous prohibitions of same-sex marriage and adoption, homosexual acts, transvestism, fertility treatment and others not mentioned. An information pack on the new legislation will be sent to your approved phone implants within the next sixty seconds. Let me say here today that homophobia is un-African. We have pantheons of gods of ambiguous gender, and this was not a problem. Let us return to the tolerance that is our tradition.”
He closes the folder and removes it from the podium as the courtyard erupts into a hail of simultaneous barked questions. One in particular pierces the din: “Sir, do you have a plan for those who will seek refuge here?”
Jack stops, turns, returns to the podium. “This changes nothing. Rosewater will continue to accept anyone who crosses our borders in good faith. In other words, if you’re not a spy, you’re welcome here.”
Lora tugs at his arm, and they leave.
On the way to his office, Lora keeps up a stream of information about how the announcement tracks on Nimbus. It is an explosion, radiating along fibre optics and wireless pathways around the connected world in minutes. A series of notifications arrive at Jack’s phone, which he both anticipated and ignores.
“Sir, the president of Nigeria is trying to reach you,” says Lora.
“Is he trying to send me another dick pic?”
“His people say they want a summit.”
Of course they do. “Set it up.”
One of the bodyguards pushes him to the wall. “Sir, stay behind me.”
Mottled, frantic shadows and gasps from the gathered press. The sky is full of movement, but it is not random. Jack tries to look, but one of the bodyguards encircles him in a bear hug.
“Leave me alone,” says Jack.
“Sir—”
“Move or lose a foot.” Jack rolls close to the balcony and raises himself up so he can see the sky. Up there, massed, flying in a clockwise circle, is the largest number of floaters he has ever seen. There must be over a hundred of them, swirling, diving, then rejoining the group. The circle sometimes becomes a lemniscate, then an ever-widening spiral, before returning to clockwise motion. It’s like a murmuration, like the swallows do.
There are objects hitting the ground, sounding like hail. Floaters are known to shit while in flight, or drop prey they have no further use for, but these are… machines. These are damaged drones. The skies of Rosewater can be a fierce battleground for ownership. The raptors have already lost and either died or moved to the periphery of the city. The drones usually avoid capture, although there is an acceptable loss rate in single digits every month. Each hits the ground bleeding cash from government coffers, and Jack winces. He settles back into his chair.
“Lora, set up a meeting between me and Koriko,” he says.
“Yes, sir,” says Lora.
“Have you ever seen anything like this before?” he asks.
“No, sir.”
Jack turns to his bodyguard, who shakes his head.
The first meeting of the day is with a solicitor called Emeka Owa. Everything about him screams proper, with his three-piece grey suit, his Malcolm X glasses, his short, tight haircut, his shiny court shoes and his simple wedding band. Jack is seated behind his desk when Owa comes in. Lora stands to the left, still, silent as usual.
“What can I do for you, Mr Owa?” asks Jack.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr Mayor, I think there has been some mistake. You see, it is Ms Asiko who I’m primarily here to see. I asked you to be present as you are registered as her next of kin.”
Jack turns to Lora, who seems surprised.
“I don’t understand. Why would you need to see me?”
Owa turns to her. “You were affiliated with a Mr Walter Oluwole Tanmola. The writer. Is that correct?”
“Yes, we were lovers. What of it?”
“Well, Mr Tanmola is deceased.”
“I know this.” Lora looks to Jack for guidance, but he shrugs.
“I’ll get to the point. You, Ms Lora Asiko, are the sole benefactor of Mr Tanmola’s estate,” says Owa.
“He left all his money to her?” says Jack. “He left all his money to you. Huh. That’s… interesting.”
“Why would he do this? Does he not have family?” asks Lora.
“No.” Owa produces a single sheet of paper from his briefcase and slides it on the table towards Lora. “I will need your bank account details.”
“How much will she get?” asks Jack.
Owa hands him a copy of the letter. “This is a preliminary figure. Mr Tanmola’s royalties arrive twice a year, so that will be ongoing.”
“Sir?” says Lora.
“Lora, you’re rich,” says Jack. “That scribe bastard. Who would have known that he had this much in him? This calls for bubbly wine.”
There is a lot of paperwork to do, and Owa scans Lora’s ID chip and checks credentials, but finally he transfers funds and makes an appointment to contact her later. Lora is silent through all of this. When Owa is gone, she stares at Jack.
“What does this mean?” she asks.
Jack laughs. “For one thing, it means I can no longer afford you.”
“You’re firing me?”
“Lord, no. I just… You no longer have to work for me.”
“Did you think I was working for you because of the money?”
“Of course not. But you have more options now.”
“So you thought I was working for you because I had no options?”
“Lora, can we just be happy that you have financial independence? You will probably live for centuries. This means that long after I’m dead, you’ll be able to afford whatever life you want.”
“I don’t want you to be dead.”
“Me neither, but it is going to happen, and on that day, you’re going to look like this. Go. Visit space. Do something wild.”
“But not today.”
“But not today. Who’s next?”