The Rosewater Insurrection

by Tade Thompson

  Before she gets any response the ground starts to shake and undulate, cracking the concrete and asphalt. People all around are flung to the ground and those still standing start to run in all directions. There is a rolling rumble that gathers momentum. Earthquake?

  Alyssa seems calm, and the homunculus takes its cue from her. The cracks run around, forking like lightning, and Aminat jumps from one island to another, shouting at Alyssa, trying to get her into a building.

  The ground yawns wide, and a roll-up emerges, scattering rocks and debris in all directions. Aminat shields herself. It is half out of the ground and it waves its many legs about, like a giant centipede. With elongated, segmented, armoured bodies that sometimes reach twenty-five feet in length, roll-ups are so named because despite their fearsome looks, compared to other xenofauna, they are gentle and startle easily. When afraid they curl up into a spiral and become immobile until they think the threat has passed. Unfortunately, they often cause damage by their habits and by virtue of being massive. This is the first one Aminat has seen outside the S45 teaching videos and nature documentaries on Nimbus, which did not prepare her for the feeling of mixed attraction to the attitude of the animal and fear of being crushed. The street clears quickly, and some COB hawks hover, documenting. Aminat does not wish to be seen by them. This roll-up’s directional organ points at Alyssa, and it stops moving when it locates her. It lays down on the broken tarmac, its limbs unmoving.

  Slowly, Aminat moves along the length of the roll-up, towards Alyssa. The creature does not react.

  “Okay, it seems you’re some kind of Alien Jesus to these things, but this drama is drawing attention. We have to leave, now. Is Godzilla here going to keep following you around like that poison bag?”

  Alyssa talks to the roll-up in a language Aminat does not recognise, then she walks away. Aminat cannot decide whether this is a good or bad development, and if perhaps killing the alien should still be on the table. It does disturb her how easily she thinks of murder, but on the other hand, she does not think of killing aliens as murder. Does that mean aliens feel the same way about humans? She remembers Femi showing her the security footage of the people who blew up her office the year before, masked men splashing fuel and planting charges around the office. Aminat remembers wondering how anyone human could do that. At times she has nightmares where she is caught in the explosion and not lifted free by her angelic brother.

  The roll-up reverses back into the ground, accompanied by thunder and shifting rubble and dust. Burst mains fountain water and create rainbows in the sun. Puzzled about her role, Aminat catches up and overtakes Alyssa, taking the lead, trying to get ahead of the problem, and failing to come up with any solutions.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Anthony

  Anthony sits under the Ibeji statue. There are scattered statues of twins all over Rosewater, although this bronze is the major one. Commissioned by the twin gangsters who operated organised crime from the foundations of the city, the statue reflects the quasi-divine status of twins to the Yoruba, or so the old man tells Anthony as they share burukutu.

  “Twins come from abiku,” says the old man. Anthony cannot remember his name, but finds him pleasant enough. “The monkey gods punished a farmer with twin abiku because he wouldn’t let monkeys eat his crops.”

  “What are abiku?”

  “You’ve never heard of abiku? Where are you from, Anthony?”

  “Not around here.”

  “Abiku are children who die young and keep coming back as different children in an endless cycle. You have to perform rituals to get them to stay. That, or you disfigure them so that the unborn spirits reject them and they are not queued up to live again. Either way, a pair of abiku were the first twins in Yoruba legend, and the farmer went to the diviners for guidance. The diviners said you had to appease twins, and do whatever they want, so as to avoid the wrath of their patron orisa, Ibeji. If a twin dies, a wooden carving of it is made, and the mother has to treat the carving like a live twin, with birthday parties and milk. The carving is seen as a repository of the spirit of the twin.”

  Anthony looks at the eight-foot bronze twins above him. “So, the spirits of the gangsters are in these two?”

  “They aren’t dead yet, my friend.”

  They drink some more and the alcohol has such a kick that Anthony finds himself in the xenosphere. There is more black, which is less fragmented than the last time he was there.

  I should be concerned about this. I should be worried.

  Wormwood is still silent, and Home just wants Anthony to find the host, which is proving impossible. There are spectators, people watching the black cloud as it spreads over the psychoscape, humans. They do nothing, just stay a healthy distance away and observe. It is not uniform black, this cloud. If Anthony strains he can see variation and movement other than the billowing. There are people in there, just like in the xenosphere. Would he die if he dived in?

  Fuck it.

  He thinks it, then he is in the blackness. He cannot see anything at first, and he feels pain as if he is swimming in acid. Since his corporal self is not really present, he adjusts his mind and the pain stops. Anthony cycles through several styles of seeing and experiments with his perception until he can see the heart of the blackness. There is a man there, so Anthony aims for him. The man’s movements are slow, and his facial expression is concentration verging on frustration.

  “Hello,” says Anthony.

  As soon as the man becomes aware of the intruder the substance of the blackness changes and dozens of hands reach out and fix Anthony in place. They are impossibly strong, but Anthony does not try to break the grip. He is more curious than looking for conflict.

  “Get out,” says the man.

  Anthony finds himself not just expelled from the blackness, he is flung out of the xenosphere as well. He falls off the lip of the concrete skirting and is on the ground looking up at the stylised genitalia of the twin statue.

  The old man shakes his head at Anthony. “You have been drinking too much, I see. This burukutu is not for the weak, and you look kind of scrawny.”

  “Help me up,” says Anthony. He metabolises the alcohol until he burps pure fishy aldehyde breath, then he finishes his drink. Who is the man in the centre of the blackness? He feels both repulsed and attracted, the feelings associated with highly specific prey for particular predators, which is concerning because the universe only sponsors such relationships for the doomed. Whether Anthony is truly alive or not is open for debate, but he does not wish to answer that question.

  It is not a wasted exercise, though. He is able to map the approximate physical location of the anomaly, well, the edge of the anomaly. He found the host by finding the anomaly the last time. This time he will walk, not run, and he will be careful. He will not be surprised.

  He thanks the old man for an entertaining afternoon, bowing, and he starts on his way.

  The anomaly leads him here, to this bland block, residential, crowded, unremarkable, in a street full of similar dwellings.

  The entire building is not just dead in terms of the xenosphere, it is a void. No mentation escapes, no feelings, no vague intuitions. This must be what it is like to be human, not quasi-human like the bodies Wormwood makes for Anthony, but really human. He stands across the road and watches. Caution. That’s new, but he does not know how well Wormwood is doing, and who knows how long it will take to reconstruct the body if it gets destroyed? Best to be careful, to watch, and then to approach. He will be going in as a human, because that emptiness negates any chemical controls Anthony has.

  The wait does bear some fruit. He sees two men giggling, holding hands and lugging art portfolios. Talking.

  “He bristled at the fillip from Dade, and to prove he was a true artist he worked on a canvas for five years without letting anyone see the progress. When it was done, he invited thirteen people to a single viewing, with the proviso that they could take no pictures, and could not, in his lifetime,
describe what they saw. After one hour he had the viewers escorted out, doused the painting with kerosene, and set it alight from the cigarette that hung constant at the left corner of his mouth.”

  “Then what did Dade think of him?”

  Artists. This means something, something before this body. What is it? The memory is there, just needs sifting… the studio. The studio where he saw the first plant, Earth artists work from studios, the plant is in the studio, maybe the artists took seeds home without knowing? Time to find out. He cuts down the adrenaline and takes hits of anandamide and low doses of endorphins. This may be the last time he can control it before he faces whatever is in there.

  He walks around the building. There it is, the plant, the weed, growing out of a dustbin, tendrils in search of soil or water or both, using the fence as a trellis. He notes the flat number painted on the bin, and makes his way to the front.

  From the surface thoughts of the artists he knows it is a four-storey building with several flats on each level. He walks in unchallenged, and makes his way to the back of the first floor where he knows the staircase that leads upstairs is. He feels unalive, with no connection even to Wormwood. Maybe he knows fear, or maybe he is too stoned to know the difference. He knocks on the flat door, then presses the doorbell, but nothing happens, as if the electricity is out. He tries the handle, but it is locked. He tries to boost his strength, but there is no corporeal manipulation in this field. He takes steps back and smashes into the door. It hurts his shoulder and down his arm. Huh. Pain that he can’t banish. That’s new.

  He tries again. The impact takes the door off its hinges, but it does not fall. It just leans inwards, like a ship listing, weight borne by something on the other side. Anthony pushes against it, finds it springy, pushes harder and checks the gaps at the sides. Vegetation. Green and purple leaves, vines and wafts of pollen. As he puts pressure on the door, each tendril seems to actively make its way into the hallway. It can’t be that fast, can it?

  Slight dizziness, but otherwise Anthony feels able to continue. He puts all his weight against the door and leans in, and it falls sufficiently for him to step on it. It flattens the stems behind it, and Anthony gets a view of the rest of the apartment. Floor to ceiling, covered with the infernal plant. He tries to part stems, and registers sharp pain. Thorns on every stem, waxy spines on the leaves, his hands dripping blood and stinging from cuts. He stares bemused as rootlets grow around objects to get to the drops. As an experiment he spits, and they go for that glob as well. Used up all the moisture in the apartment?

  The vines twist without warning, corralling the stems, parting the green sea until the body at the centre is exposed. It is emaciated, cadaverous, mottled light and dark green, punctured by roots and vines on most of its surface area. The milky eyes are open and it frowns.

  “You.” Its voice sounds like a crow speaking words.

  “Me.”

  “Didn’t I tell you to get out?”

  “Not really. That was a different place.”

  “Go away.”

  “Not yet. What do you want? Why are you here?”

  The man looks to his left a fraction, distracted for a moment. “I see. You’re the footholder. Your blood just reached me. I am not impressed. Go away.”

  “I’m not the footholder any more than you are the plant. We’re avatars, you and I, human shells. We reflect aspects of the humans we model.”

  “You asked what I want. I want to live. I want life, abundant life, everywhere. And the human, Bewon, is bitter at everything. We can both win.”

  “By harming me you are harming your own brother. We’re on a mission to—”

  “Go away.”

  There is movement in the woody portions, and the vines twist around each other, concentrating into a tightly coiled mass which takes on human proportions in less than a minute.

  “I did warn you to leave, avatar.”

  The creature, the construct, is humanoid with six leafy wings, two covering its face, and two covering its legs. What passes for skin is covered in thorns. The middle two wings flick forward and strike Anthony.

  The force flings him back, his arm hitting the lintel of the doorway making his body spin so that he hits the wall opposite face-first. He feels nothing, but his nose and forehead seem wet. There are small lights dancing across his vision.

  Before he can recover, he feels strong wooden hands grab hold of him, pinpricks of thorns puncturing his skin, and multiple wings enfold him. Anthony struggles, pushes, to no avail, and he feels them both leave the ground and fly forward along the corridor. The flight is haphazard, as if the creature has never used its wings before now, and they slam into the wall twice, zigzagging towards a window at the end of the corridor.

  Now they crash through the window, jagged glass cutting them both, tinkling to the ground, laying open Anthony’s skin. Outside, the creature corrects its pattern, and flies high, high, into the sky, powering through a kettle of idling COBs, who, after a brief appearance of disorientation, give chase. Anthony observes it all as if from a trance, bleeding, trying to determine which way is up.

  The plant construct soars over the dome, with some COBs flying ahead, some behind like outriders, then folds its wings in, holding Anthony with arms and legs alone. This close it smells of wet earth and fermented food. It is stationary for a second, maybe two, and then it dives. They hit a COB that bursts apart in a flurry of feathers.

  Anthony knows what is coming, but is helpless to stop it. At first he is impaled on a seven-foot spike on the dome, but the creature keeps pushing and both of them slam into the barrier, which reacts like rotting vegetables and holds only for a few seconds. The pain hasn’t registered when Anthony and the plant creature breach the dome and fall inside.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Jacques

  Jack knows he is about to be interrupted before it happens.

  Lora comes in with a plasma image projected in front of her. “An object just punched a hole in the dome!”

  Oh, fuck. “Missile?”

  “Dahun says there was no detonation, no smoke trail. Unlikely.”

  “What then? That dome’s been impenetrable since it emerged.”

  “All the COB footage goes federal, but some Script Kiddies on Nimbus intercepted some photos from the feed and…”

  “Speak, Lora.”

  “They… er… they said it was an angel.”

  Jack massages his eyes. “Don’t tell me the newsfeeds—”

  “Yes.”

  “Great. Next they’ll be saying how the hand of God came down and ruptured the dome so that the righteous Nigerian troops can prevail.”

  “Yes. Yes, that’s exactly what they’re saying.”

  Jack sucks his teeth. “Is that the image?”

  The thing is multi-limbed and foliage green. If you squint, it does look like an angel, or several.

  “Lora, how many wings do—”

  “Cherubim can have six wings, sir.”

  “Right. Right.”

  He stares and stares until the image looks like green fuzz. But he sees something else now, a distinction between…

  “Those are two people,” says Jack.

  Lora squints. “Don’t tell me you believe in the angel theory.”

  “Get someone to clean up the image, and get visual confirmation of the hole. Not instruments, actual soft eyes,” says Jack. “And get that xenobiologist—what’s his name? Cruz? Get him here sharpish. We need… My whole strategy depends on that alien. I’ll not have it fail now.”

  “Yes, sir. It’s a she, and her name is Dr. Bodard.”

  “Right, Dr. Bodard, go. And leave me alone for an hour. I need to make a phone call.”

  “There’s an organisation called the Citizens for a Free Rosewater whose reps are outside wanting to see you.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Front for the president, sir. Thin disguise, rowdy, and here to berate you for your declaration.”

  “Are
we going to start shooting these people at some point?”

  Lora hesitates, opens her mouth to speak. Closes it.

  “I’m kidding. Go. Jesus.”

  Alone again, and twice as nervous now. What the fuck is wrong with the dome? He steels himself, takes a deep breath, and calls the Tired Ones.

  It rings once, and a brief silence before a man speaks. “I wondered how long it would take you to ring back, or if you would ring back at all.”

  Jack does not know what to say, and his heart bounds in his chest, so he does not speak. He would not trust his mouth or voice, at any rate.

  “Child, have you betrayed us?”

  “No.”

  “Are you still Tired?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then explain to me the situation in Rosewater, child.”

  The situation in Rosewater is that we’re fucked.

  “Sir…”

  Sir.

  Remember to say this every time. Prefix, suffix, mid-sentence. Sir.

  He comes to visit and Jack brings him Gulder beer with a clean glass pre-cooled in the fridge. He stands outside the room, but within earshot so he can be on hand to wait on the visitor, but not close enough to eavesdrop on the conversation of adults.

  You will never become remarkable by doing as you’re told all the time. That’s what the man told him on the last visit. Jack wrote it down.

  Jack lives with his aunt, has done for two years since the accident that killed his parents and siblings. He has no memory of the accident. He just remembers the pain of recovery, the physio, the surgery. He remembers being in the car, and that his younger brother had farted at some point. He remembers the sun was shining, and the window… something about the window.

  After the funeral, his aunt takes him home. She has no children of her own, and the clan agrees that Jack should go to her.

  This is fine the first year, but just after Christmas, she comes into his room at night, places a hand on his cock and strokes him, her other hand hard at work in the folds of her nightgown, her breathing wet and mouldy. When she is done, she says, Clean yourself up. She says the same thing each time. They do not talk about this in the daytime. Besides, Jack is too ashamed and does not have the words. He starts to plot how to get away, and he considers running.