The Rosewater Insurrection

by Tade Thompson

  “Don’t,” says Molara.

  “What is it?”

  “That’s all that remains of the footholder’s life force. That’s Wormwood.”

  Kaaro feels uneasy for the first time. He’s here to communicate with Wormwood, after all. Anthony was a stepping stone to that. “Is it dying?”

  “Yes. It cannot truly live without an avatar. We need a new one, and we need to suppress the weed, Kaaro. This has gone on long enough.”

  She looks at him with meaning.

  “Forget it. I do not want to be a Wormwood avatar.”

  “It isn’t so bad, Kaaro.”

  “What is it with you and things like this? You were better when all you wanted was to fuck me.”

  “I recall that you wanted it too.”

  “I’m not being an avatar.”

  “Well, we need a human to be a… Wait, I sense something. You know where the host is.”

  Kaaro knows, intuits that she means Alyssa, and because of the nature of the xenosphere she knows that he knows.

  “Give us the host, Kaaro.”

  “I don’t have her.”

  “It’s a female, then.”

  Shit.

  “Kaaro, as the only living Homian on Earth, she is the only one with the authority to be the avatar to Wormwood, more so than Anthony.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “It’s Homian technology. All of this—me, the xenosphere, even Wormwood itself—the Homians made possible, and she has overriding importance and authority.”

  “You’re asking me to help the extinction of my race.”

  “You humans are doing a good enough job of extinctioning each other already. Rosewater is being bombed right now, and that’s only one of thirty-three conflicts currently happening around the world. Shall I talk about hydrocarbon waste products? Shall I talk about surface water contamination? Nuclear waste? Stop me when we get to a world-ending scenario that impresses you enough.”

  “What happens if there is no avatar?”

  “It delays things, but we have other footholders in different continents in hibernation. One has to die before the next activates, but rest assured, we will take this planet. Either we get an avatar and Wormwood lives or we don’t and Wormwood dies, but our mission will continue.”

  “I don’t speak for humanity. I can’t make this decision by myself.”

  Molara invades his space such that he can smell her musk. “Can you make the decision to fight the plant by yourself?”

  “We’ve already tried to kill that thing.”

  “I didn’t say we were going to kill it. The footholders have a tendency to take over entire planets, so you have to balance them out with one of these weeds. This got out of control and we need to slow it down, not exterminate it.”

  “And you know how?”

  “Oh, no, I’ve never done this before. It’s never been needed, but I’ve studied this one from a distance. It works along similar designs to Wormwood, meaning it has a human at its heart. I’m sure if we kill its avatar that will slow it.”

  Kaaro reasons. Without the alien, Rosewater will collapse and be exterminated by federal troops. That indestructible plant has to go either way. The Alyssa issue is separate. How is she disposed towards humans? Aminat didn’t say much about it, just that the woman had a husband and daughter somewhere.

  “All right, I’ll help with the plant, but you have to guarantee that at least the people of Rosewater and their families will be safe when the time comes.”

  Those monkeys. Staring.

  “We have an agreement.”

  At that moment Kaaro feels a sting which increases to red heat and he is dragged out of the xenosphere without warning. Aminat is crouched, facing him, staring in his face, her own helmet off, knife in her hand.

  His hand is bleeding at the heel where she poked him to make him aware. “What the fuck, Aminat.”

  “Shhh. Look.” She points.

  Two, three hundred yards away, emerging from a tunnel, armed and cautious, Nigerian troops, four and counting.

  Huh.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Jacques

  Before Jack can invite the person in, the door is flung open and Dahun stands there, chest heaving.

  “What is it?”

  “We need privacy.”

  Jack talks to the room. “Go secure.”

  The door shuts itself, locks, seals, the windows go opaque and start gently humming, the room fills with electromagnetic chaff, which Jack knows about but neither of them can see.

  “Done. What?”

  “The map of the bunkers that we made? An operative of mine just pulled it off a Ministry of Defence Nimbus portal.”

  “So they know where our bunkers are…”

  “Mr. Mayor, they can target each one with bunker busters. That we have a leak does not surprise me because so many in Rosewater are ideologically opposed to breaking away, but that does not minimise the danger of targeted missile use.”

  “Then you don’t know.”

  “Know what, sir?”

  “I was about to call you.” Jack points to the livefeed coming from within the dome. He clicks his fingers and it rises to 3D: Nigerian commandos some yards away from Kaaro and Aminat.

  “Those are 82nd boys. How did they get through our lines?”

  “Good question, one that is yours to answer, but meanwhile, tell me how we are going to protect our two assets.”

  Jack notes astonishment on Dahun’s face but not panic, and he knows he picked the right soldier of fortune. Dahun makes a call. “Rose-6, this is Rose-1, hit back… Yes… Deploy five, six and twelve, concentrate fire on location eighteen-B, plasma fire only, nothing with shockwaves, there are friendlies in there… South-east quadrant… damn straight. Go. Do it now.”

  It takes a minute or two, but the fire begins and the commandos turn towards the part of the dome that disintegrates. They see Aminat raise her rifle and shoot two in the head, impressive shots rendered with less grandeur due to the miniaturisation. She runs towards the others before they can react. Kaaro stays where he is.

  The radio squawks and multiple alarms go off. Dahun listens and whispers into his phone.

  “Sir, multiple boundary breaches and incoming.”

  “Incoming from where?”

  “Everywhere, sir, it’s like a sky armada. This is it.”

  Jack spares one last glance for the fight in the dome. Good luck.

  He moves his wheelchair back to clear the desk, then he and Dahun leave.

  Nigeria is all in. The sky is full of bombers and they drop bombs like seagulls dropping shit. Most are conventional weapons, but Dahun recognises bunker busters and the unerring accuracy with which at least four bunkers have been destroyed.

  “This is some Second World War blitzkrieg shit, boss,” he says.

  Jack is quiet. He finds privacy and makes a phone call to the Tired Ones. It is time to negotiate, he thinks.

  “I knew you’d call,” says his erstwhile mentor.

  “You knew about this air attack, didn’t you?”

  “What do you think? Some of us are still committed to the well-being of African states, and cooperate with each other.”

  “Do you know how many people he has killed? How many he is killing as we speak on the phone?”

  “I taught you better than that, Jack. Never blame the other party for your woes. You and you alone are the architect of where you find yourself. That’s one of the first lessons. You cannot be a leader otherwise.”

  “I guess all I need to do is wait. I won’t have anybody left alive to lead.”

  “And self-pity is another thing I trained out of you. When did you become this pathetic?”

  Jack slows his breathing, and says, “I want to talk to him.”

  “Oti. He won’t do that any more. He has the upper hand, and he’s looking to end this within the week.”

  “Then be a go-between. I haven’t called you because I don’t know how b
ad my position is. I’ve called you to help me start a conversation.”

  “My son, there is only one conversation the president wants to have: conditions of surrender. The question right now is whether he will let you live. Rosewater is finished. The alien is dead, and your little experiment with independent statehood is over. The Tired Ones will make sure you have a soft landing. I suspect teaching younger acolytes would be good for you, since you have learned the hard way.”

  Jack cannot speak. Everything he wants is falling away. His wife will probably die in this shelling. The president probably wants him alive, humiliated. Maybe they will video the whole thing, like President Samuel Doe in Liberia, in 1990. They killed his guards, shot him in the leg, took him prisoner, tortured him, dragged him through the streets naked, dactylectomised him, finally decapitated him, and desecrated his bones a year later. Of course Doe himself took power by bloody coup, so—“Well?”

  “I’m sorry, the bombardment affects the signal here. What were you saying?”

  “Do you want me to make the call to the president? No Nigerian will follow a cripple.”

  The last sentence hurts more, it seems, than every other indignity.

  “Sir, I will call you back.”

  He hangs up, places his phone hand over his stump, and he weeps. He does not think he has ever wept as an adult. When there are no more tears, he breathes in a hitching fashion, then it quietens. He dries his face on his shirt sleeve.

  Back in the war room, Dahun, Femi and Lora wait for him.

  Dahun says, “Boss, they are taking and holding ground. Not robots, not turrets, human troops.”

  “We are going to surrender,” says Jack.

  “Why?” says Femi.

  “Look around you. We’re finished.”

  “If we can just get Wormwood on side—”

  “Wormwood is dead, Femi. The cherubs are eating what’s left of the dome as we speak and the ganglia are giving no power.”

  “I’m still waiting to hear—”

  “It’s over. It’s my decision.”

  Unperturbed, Dahun says, “Pay me what you owe, sir. I need to pull my people out.”

  Jack gestures to Lora. “Settle the accounts, please.”

  Dahun talks into the radio. “All points, this is Rose-1, stand down, stand down, stand down. Signal 73, signal 73, signal 73. Good luck, and see you on the outside. Rose-1 out.”

  “This is a mistake,” says Femi. He thinks she is afraid at first, but then realises she is shaking with rage. “We need to be a hundred per cent sure the alien is dead.”

  “Which alien now? Wormwood or the plant?” asks Jack.

  “The Beynon needs—”

  “Either way, it’s my mistake. You can leave any time you like.”

  Femi storms out.

  “What now?” asks Lora.

  “We make phone calls.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Aminat

  “Run, Kaaro!” Aminat says.

  Two soldiers left, but they are good. Aminat has been hit, but her armour holds. They are tough and agile, clearly worked together before. They seem to be everywhere, even though this should be close-quarters fighting, sidearms and bayonets only. She cannot get off a shot, but neither can they. There is little cover except cadavers, and she has to worry about her lover at the same time. She does not wish to fire at random in case she hits him. They have no such compunction, but risk hitting each other. It’s a stalemate, but only for now. Aminat can feel the fatigue in her muscles and knows she can only keep this pace up for minutes at most.

  Why the fuck is Kaaro just sitting there? The commandos know about him and are wearing skin-tight body suits under their armour and breathing helmets. One of them throws a flash-bang, but Aminat’s helmet polarises the visor and noise-cancels. The dome is open behind them, and Aminat can see a way out, but Kaaro is being an asshole again. And the fucking dog is right beside him, tail tucked in, whimpering at the sporadic gunfire.

  She takes a shot to the shoulder and it makes her drop her gun. She falls to the rotten ground to avoid fire. There are people crowding the opening in the dome. She squints. They are not cherubs, they are people. They rush the soldiers and hold them down. They get shot, but they ignore the wounds, even though they bleed.

  They’re reanimates.

  “Okay, now we go,” says Kaaro. “Are you okay?”

  “I have to be. Jacques made us an exit. Let’s use it.”

  The last they see of the soldiers is a hand struggling under a mound of reanimates lying on top of them.

  Outside, the sky is full of war planes and drones not quite on bombing runs yet, but in formation, crawling, showing off the might of the Nigerian Air Force.

  “We have to get to cover. We’ll be spotted soon.”

  Kaaro grabs her arm. It hurts from the shot, but she bears it. “Anthony’s dead. You have to get Alyssa. You need to bring her back here and she needs to bond with Wormwood. It’s the only way any of us will survive this.”

  He explains the conversation with Molara to her, the death of Anthony, his agreement to fight the plant creature, and she nods. “Why do these things always end with you teaming up with a former girlfriend?”

  He shrugs and starts running towards the Beynon plant, holding his stupid dog. He has to leap over a woman who is dragging the front end of a horse that has been blasted in two by God knows what powerful force. She pulls it like a reluctant child, back facing the direction she travels in, trailing a long streak of blood. Aminat has never eaten horseflesh. She watches Kaaro recede, knowing he isn’t fit enough to sprint the two miles. Sedentary motherfucker, but she loves him.

  Oh, how she loves him.

  She heads for Ubar.

  All the stations on the Rosewater train track are roughly a mile from the dome, and they circle it. The Ubar station is a further mile out, north-west, and if you keep going in that direction you’ll hit the east bank of the Yemaja, but not in the flood zone. Aminat commandeers a jeep and its driver, so she’s at the ministry of agriculture in fifteen minutes. She calls Femi throughout, but that bitch has gone dark again. In fact, she cannot reach Lora or Dahun or any of the people who should be “mission control.”

  The ministry looks quiet, ordinary, but Aminat knows how dangerous it is, and begins to sweat. She checks her phone, makes sure that the right implant is switched on. She does not know what happens to those misidentified at Ubar, but she does not want to find out. She knows the building will be functional because it has always had an independent power supply. The gate still stands, and she walks through. It’s deserted, but the reception area looks like it’s been looted. The president’s portrait hangs askew, and someone has painted a black cross through his face and on to the wall. Broken glass on the floor and the smell of defecation. The lift stands amongst all of this, aloof, untouched. Aminat stands before it to be judged, and the doors shift open.

  A disembodied voice says, “Drop your weapons, Agent.”

  Aminat unslings her rifle and carefully places it on the floor. She takes the magazine out of her sidearm and leaves it beside the rifle. After a moment’s hesitation she drops the hunting knife beside the handgun.

  The elevator takes her down the sublevels, down, down, until it slows and stops. She is in the lab level, and two soldiers await. One covers her while the other pats her down. They walk her to where Femi Alaagomeji waits.

  “I’m glad you made it, Agent. I was worried you’d die of love.” Femi holds a glass of red wine. Her hand is on the control panel, and behind the protective screen, in the chamber where Aminat had seen scientists puree a guy, sits Alyssa Sutcliffe.

  “Why is she in there? We already know this device doesn’t work,” says Aminat.

  “That depends on what you want it to do. If disintegration is your aim…”

  “Femi, you’re not making sense.”

  “No, I’m making perfect sense. Think, Aminat. This, she, is the only leverage we have against the aliens.”
>
  “So you want to kill her?”

  “Not unless someone tries to take her away.”

  “Why did you let me in?”

  “Because you’re my agent, and because this facility is hardened. It’s the safest place to sit out the final phase of this ridiculous war.”

  Something occurs to Aminat. “You’re the one who let the Nigerian troops in.”

  “Yes, I showed them how to use Wormwood’s vents; and they know where each bunker is, thanks to me. Aminat, wake up; I trained you better than this. We walk in shadow and when the light between those shadows hits us, it is temporary until we can flit to the next shadow. I will stop this invasion and I’m willing to pay any price to get it done. Where’s Kaaro?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “I need to know where my assets are.”

  “Asset? He hates you.”

  “Maybe, or maybe he just wants to fuck me so bad, but knows he can’t. And maybe you need to learn that emotion isn’t important. He may hate me, but he spends his time doing my will, even if he doesn’t know that’s what he’s doing. Where is he, agent?”

  “Killing the plant.”

  “He’s going to get himself blown up,” says Femi. “Didn’t know he had that in him.”

  “At least he’ll die on the right side of history,” says Aminat.

  Femi points to Aminat, stabbing the air with her words. “Love makes you stupid, Aminat. I don’t mean you in particular. Love makes us stupid. Pull back and look at the whole picture. You are here to give the aliens what they want—Alyssa. Your boyfriend is going to try to destroy the only effective weapon against those aliens. And Jacques is about to surrender, saving thousands, maybe millions of lives. “Right side of history.” Bitch, there is only history if humanity is here to write it. You have it the wrong way around, Aminat. You should kill Wormwood and save the Beynon plant. But don’t worry. Auntie Femi is here to save the day.