I don’t want to be alone.
He looks at her, as though he heard her thought, and for the first time, indecision makes him frown.
“Forget your sister for a second,” Ify says. “What do you want?”
Agu looks at his gun. “I want not to become a quarter-man like the boys in the forest. Their brains are cut in half by not being a full human. Then cut in half again by war.”
Then come with me.
It seems to take forever, but eventually Agu lowers his gaze, then looks to the walls of the receiving center. Already, the majority of the refugees have gone through. What lies on the other side is a mystery. Ify does not know if this will be a place where she can shower, where she can wear proper clothes with no holes in them, or if this will be a place like the detention center in Nasarawa State where boys blew themselves up and called the blood on the wall roses.
Agu turns around to look behind him.
Ify follows his gaze and sees him staring straight at Xifeng. She frowns, but something invisible and meaningful passes between Xifeng and Agu. They look at each other as though they have spent so much time together that they don’t need to open their mouths to speak whole paragraphs to each other. In the end, Xifeng nods, and Agu smiles.
Slowly, just like how he fitted the scope back to his rifle, he unslings it over his shoulder and places it on the top of the cab, between him and Ify. He undoes his shoulder holster and places that next to the rifle. Then come the ammunition clips that he had taped together and held in pouches hanging from his sleeveless jacket. Finally, he unstraps the knife scabbard from his waist and sets it down, then slides another blade out of his boot, then takes a moment to stare at the assemblage of guns and knives. When he finishes, he looks like a different boy, lighter, more childlike. Like he has taken off much more than the weight of those weapons.
Agu turns one last time to Xifeng, but the Chinese woman is gone. Then he turns back around and nods to Ify. “Let’s go.”
They slide off the warming top of the truck cab, land with a soft thud on the ground, and walk together.
“Wait!” Ify starts, then dashes back toward the caravan. She skids to a stop right by the flatbed and vaults over and rifles through all the trash left behind, not caring how dirty her hands get. Smelly clothes, packs from military protein meal supplements, tampons and other hygiene products. Then she finds it.
She jumps back onto the ground and returns to Agu. Grinning, she hands him his touchboard. “You almost forgot,” she tells him.
He takes it from her with a smile. Water pools in his eyes.
“Come now,” Ify says, smiling. “Before they close the gate-oh!”
CHAPTER
51
Traveling to the Colonies in outer space, Onyii found herself in a state of near-constant marvel. The way fire had swallowed them up as they’d cut through the atmosphere, the almost overpowering quiet of outer space, the way the Colony, when it finally came into view, seemed to loom as large as the moon. But Chinelo, so sure of herself, so practiced in how to self-present, has grounded her, has given her a piece of the familiar amid all this newness. However, the rush fades quickly.
From meeting to meeting, from conference-hall speech to restaurant luncheon, Chinelo has been made to stand behind whatever man has been chosen to negotiate matters on Biafra’s behalf. With each slight, Onyii bristles even more. When it was a matter of fighting and bleeding to make Biafra a reality, Chinelo stood on the front lines. Chinelo gave the orders. Chinelo held the rifle. But now that it is time for people to get rich, the men have pushed her out of the way.
It was like this when the deputy minister of education spoke with his Japanese counterpart about university exchange programs for Japanese and Biafran students. It was like this when the minister of health met with the head of a leading Japanese pharmaceutical company to negotiate a discounted rate for vaccines and cures for the diseases that had spread throughout Biafra during the war. It was like this when the Biafran minister for mineral development had practically given away mining concessions to the Japanese in exchange for a sum of money Onyii knows will go straight to him and not to his office or the people who live on that land. Finally, during a meeting between the Biafran minister of foreign affairs and his Japanese counterpart, Chinelo had had to interject to bring up the matter of refugee resettlement. Up until then, in that cavernous meeting room with chandeliers glowing overhead and food left untouched on large glass tables, the issue had not come up once. Instead, they had spoken of baseball and their children and money. It was then that the Biafran minister had introduced Chinelo as a general governmental aide, basically an intern capable of carrying luggage and little else.
“They are giving away our country,” Chinelo had growled to Onyii during a quiet moment between meetings. The two of them had found what, in this Colony station, was called the Viewer, an indoor park made entirely of glass where residents could stare at the stars outside.
Now Onyii and Chinelo amble behind Solomon Kachikwu, the Biafran finance minister, and the Japanese ambassador. Not even the splendor of the ambassador’s residence can alleviate Onyii’s anger. The two women follow the two men through the cobblestone lanes, past sunken koi ponds and down paths framed by sculpted hedges.
“Does it surprise you how much the inside of a Colony resembles Earth?” Hideki Kikuta wears a slim-fitting suit em-broidered with what Onyii sees are kanji. The silvery lettering sways and glows in the artificial light shining down on the villa courtyard. Hideki Kikuta, Japanese ambassador to Biafra. Even though Chinese migrants and corporations have been the first to launch a presence in the new nation, Japan is the first Colonial power to establish official relations, the first voice Biafran leadership could hear from space.
Ambassador Kikuta walks a dozen paces ahead of Onyii and Chinelo with Finance Minister Kachikwu at his side.
“Well,” says Minister Kachikwu in response, “it does not resemble any part of Earth that I have ever been to.”
The Japanese ambassador raises an eyebrow at the Biafran man and smirks, and Onyii sees Chinelo seething.
He makes us all seem so provincial! Chinelo hisses into Onyii’s comms. Like we’ve never left our huts!
Onyii understands, then she catches herself. This is the farthest away from home she has ever been. She is practically an adult, and all she has known is Biafra and, briefly, Nigeria before that.
This is why the rest of the world is always looking down on Africans. Because of stupid, greedy men like him.
Around them, androids tend to the sand in the rock gardens surrounding the official residence.
“Well,” the Japanese ambassador continues, “it is only human habit to carry home with us. But that is the benefit of space. The troubles that plagued us—earthquakes, nuclear disasters, climate change—they cannot follow us here.”
They return to the front entrance of the compound: a large Myōjin-style torii garden gate. It opens out onto a well-manicured walkway with water bubbling quietly around the stepping stones.
“We appreciate you making the trip to see us.” The ambassador sticks out his hand, and Finance Minister Kachikwu shakes it.
“One day soon, Biafra will have its own presence here. And the journey to your front gate will not take nearly as long.”
The obsequious tone from the finance minister sets Chinelo’s teeth on edge. The irritation bleeds into Onyii’s mind and sticks with them long after they’ve left the ambassador’s residence.
* * *
The three of them arrive at the platform of a transit station. A stop for one of those four-passenger, rice-pellet-shaped train cars ferrying Colony dwellers to wherever they wish.
The platform is quiet. Even though people mill about, there is enough space for those speaking quietly to talk without being overheard.
Without warning, Minister Kachikwu whirls on Chinelo and bac
khands her hard across the face. “You’re an embarrassment,” he hisses at Chinelo. “How dare you bad-mouth me in front of the Japanese ambassador!”
In the next instant, Onyii has her metal fingers around the minister’s throat. She raises him so high his feet dangle off the ground. The rest of the world vanishes around Onyii. All she sees is red. Heat fuels every vein and every piece of wiring, and she squeezes and squeezes and squeezes and . . .
Chinelo’s voice, soft but urgent, breaks through. “Onyii, stop. People are watching.”
It feels so good, so necessary, to hurt this man that hurt Chinelo, but Onyii hears her voice and lets go. The man crumples to the ground, then gets up and brushes off his Western-style suit.
Onyii steps between the minister and Chinelo. “She didn’t say a word to either of you.”
“Your comms were open!”
Onyii glances back at Chinelo, who says nothing in reply. How could she have made that mistake? Onyii had assumed they were on a closed circuit. Then Onyii sees the glint of mischief in Chinelo’s eyes. She’d done it on purpose. Still the jokester.
That man is the joke, Chinelo says back, letting the ends of her lips twist in a smirk.
“And you,” he says, now that it’s Onyii’s turn for a tongue-lashing. “Do you even realize that everyone here looks at you as if you are some sort of monster? With your machine eye and your machine hands. They look and they think to themselves that it is a wonder you do not smell bad.”
Onyii knows she stands out. She had suspected why, but she knew that not everyone was hostile. What mattered was that she could defend herself and Chinelo if it came down to it. What others think of how she looks is the least of her concerns. Let this little man worry about what others think.
“Anyway,” he says more calmly. “You’ve spent enough time making me look like I’ve come straight from the bush. You will go back to Earth immediately. I will have you in Enugu before the day’s end. Your services are no longer needed. That goes for both of you.”
Chinelo tries to put on a brave, defiant face, but Onyii sees it waver. She wants to spit a retort at this man, make him feel small, or smack him like he smacked Chinelo, but Chinelo puts her hand to Onyii’s shoulder.
“Let’s go, Onyii,” she says, not taking her eyes off of the minister. “Our country needs us.”
Chinelo’s diplomatic pass secures them a private room on the shuttle home.
The first thing she does when the door closes is soundproof the room with a button on the console. Then she lets out the loudest scream Onyii has ever heard come from her throat. When she’s done, her shoulders heave. Then she stands upright and breathes a heavy sigh.
“Better,” she says.
The floating Colony is far enough away that it looks now like just another star in the inky blackness of space. In their room, it feels as if they have the whole shuttle to themselves.
“When is the last time you got some rest?” Onyii asks.
Chinelo, now sitting on the bed, looks up. “Excuse me?”
Onyii takes a seat beside her. “Ever since the war ended, you’ve been running around. Setting up meetings with this person, drawing up plans for that initiative. You are not the prime minister-oh!”
Chinelo gestures to the Colony. “You see what happens when we let the men do it?”
Maybe Chinelo won’t be Biafra’s first peacetime prime minister. Maybe not even its second. But Onyii has a vision of Chinelo walking with ambassadors and sitting at tables, negotiating treaties. She hears the way Chinelo speaks on these matters, so alien to Onyii. How she does so with such confidence and knowledge, like she was factory-built to lead a nation. She is perfect for this, Onyii thinks to herself. She’s perfect, period.
Chinelo frowns at Onyii. “What are you smiling about?”
But Onyii has an idea. And she walks over to the console and types. When she finds what she’s looking for, her grin broadens. She inputs a sequence. Suddenly, her feet lift off the floor.
Chinelo, now floating in the air, flails. “Onyii, what are you doing? Eh-eh! Stop this now!”
But Onyii can’t stop smiling. She swims to Chinelo in the zero gravity and hugs her tight. Spinning, they bring their lips together.
CHAPTER
52
The journey from the receiving station to Enugu passes in a blur.
Ify barely remembers making her way through the temporary shelter after being scanned and issued a fingerprint card and rations and new clothes at the receiving station. She barely remembers passing through the body scanners. She does remember the first warm shower she took in entirely too long.
Then there was the announcement for buses to Enugu, and making her way to the transpo station, where neat rows of maglev buses sat in the parking lot with drivers at each door and a case containing packets of food and water that they handed to each person boarding.
Agu is beside her in line, and they sit next to each other on the bus, Agu by the window, asleep. Ify wonders if synths truly sleep or if they just pretend to do it to act more like humans. She resists the urge to poke him or plug his nose like the girls in the camp used to do to her when they wanted to play a prank.
She wakes him when they pass through the main gate to the city, and she watches as he stares at all the gleaming structures.
Their bus arrives at the depot, and all the refugees and other workers from the receiving station step off and murmur their thanks to the driver, who greets each one enthusiastically and wishes them a good stay in the Biafran capital.
“What do we do now?” Agu asks.
Ify’s mind settles on what she has to do. With a start, she realizes that this may be the last time she ever sees him. If her mission is successful, then she will likely be dead before the day ends. He can’t be a part of this.
“We say goodbye.” She smiles at his surprise. “I’ve lived all my life alone,” she lies. “It is how I know to be. Besides, I can’t have you slowing me down as I learn this new city.”
“Is it safe for you?”
She arches an eyebrow at him, offended that he would ask.
He smiles, then giggles, and it sounds genuine. Like he no longer has to try in order to be a little boy. “Be well, Ify.”
Ify watches him vanish in a crowd of glittering jewelry and shimmering robes, swallowed by a cloud of music and chatter. “Just remember to stay away from your sister!” she shouts after him, then chuckles.
Ify tries to find a space where no one will bother her. She can’t go to a café because a waiter or some other patron might see her and start to ask questions about what it was like to be a refugee in her own country and where she’s originally from. Also, she doesn’t have any money.
So she stands at the mouth of an alley between a restaurant and a VR gaming center. Right above her, an orb hangs in the air. A surveillance camera.
It does not matter if it sees her face. She will be gone soon anyway.
She pulls her tablet out and, in seconds, finds her way past the very complicated security systems that make up Enugu’s citywide surveillance network. She uses facial recognition software to pair the holo she has of Onyii’s face with residents of the city. Maybe Onyii has changed her name. Maybe she has changed more than that since the end of the war. But no matter. Ify will do this in every city she has to go to until she finds her. But when the information appears the next instant on her tablet, she realizes she won’t have to. She’s almost surprised at how easy it is to get Onyii’s current residence—an apartment building not far away—her status as a bodyguard for diplomats, and the fact that she is an unmarried Augment. There’s nothing in her profile about her being a War Girl or being the most skilled mech pilot in the Republic of New Biafra.
For a moment, doubt creeps into Ify. Maybe this is the wrong person. Even though it is her face, everything else seems so different. But she pre
sses onward. This could be a mistake. There is only one way to find out.
The building she arrives at looks like the residential hall of a school dormitory with a courtyard and other gathering spaces for students to congregate. But there’s no university nearby. Maybe this is off-campus housing.
She doesn’t want to look too suspicious hacking her way into the keypad at the gate, so she waits and prepares a holo of Onyii in case anyone asks. “I am a refugee from the war, and I am looking for my sister, Onyii,” she is prepared to tell anyone who asks.
A group of chattering students pass through the main gate, and Ify slips in before it closes. She rides the elevator to a random level, then wanders and takes in the place. The wood-paneled hallways, the minimalist decor, the evenly spaced light orbs lining the ceiling. This place is low-tech compared to the school halls Ify remembers in Abuja. Those halls were lined with holoscreens of the news and of announcements from the government and broadcasts of Mecca for salat. Androids that walked the halls monitoring and sometimes even greeting students who would skip past them. Vaulted ceilings high overhead and libraries so tall they could poke the moon. She can’t help but think that the Biafrans have always been backward, even if war has reduced them.
She takes the elevator to another floor and steps off, just barely stifling a gasp when she spots Chinelo walking in her direction. Ify’s head swivels back and forth, looking for a way out before Chinelo notices her. Memories scramble through her mind, of the camp and the attack, of Chinelo and Onyii, always together. Ify darts off in the other direction, trying to keep her footsteps as quiet as possible.
She waits with her back pressed against a wall around the corner from the elevators. She sneaks her hand into her satchel and grips the pistol she has snuck in with her. Before going into the receiving center, she had asked Agu if he could disassemble it one last time, and he had not asked why. He had only done it. She knew that if she had asked him to put it back together after they reached Enugu, he would have grown suspicious, so she had spent her moments alone in the receiving center painstakingly figuring out how to reassemble the pistol. Her thumbs are still torn and red from the effort.
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