Lament for the Fallen (17 page)

The music is outstanding: raw emotional chords against steel drums and outraged guitars.

[How is it that these terrible places always produce such fantastic music?]

‘Review a little history and you’ll see that creators seem to find inspiration in adversity.’

The dancers stagger along, eyes vacant. The amplifiers have overpowered the speakers, and the louder notes crackle, heard over the shouted conversation. Posters on the wall advertise products that will make people younger, more beautiful, more popular.

[Perfect, I found you a quote. ‘Don’t be so gloomy. After all it’s not that awful. Like the fella says, in Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, they had five hundred years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock. So long, Holly.’]

‘Orson Welles. I love that film.’

Oktar did not come back to the hotel that night, all through the next day, or the day thereafter. The Five reported that Ortega had agreed and would put the proposal to Congress.

‘We don’t expect any problems, but you and Oktar should remain for the next two weeks. Keep a presence,’ says Hollis. ‘I know you want to come home, but you’re there more to make sure Oktar stays out of trouble than anything else.’

She sighs. ‘Have you seen him?’

‘No, he left two nights ago. He didn’t say when he’d be back.’

‘Well, just make sure he’s there for the final signing. He’s not our finest representative, but he’s the best negotiator there is. We’ll leave with some certainty of being left alone until we’re out of the solar system.’

Which is why he is in a smelly, unpleasant bar in the centre of Anacostia. Oktar has decided to go silent, so Samara has been following reflected signatures seen through the connect. Shadows in channels, other people’s shared experiences.

He knows that, until a few minutes ago, Oktar was here. Flashes in the darkness as embeds fire, documenting moments easily interchangeable with any other night. He evaluates a constant stream of images from around the room. Oktar is clearly visible in one of these. He was at the bar with a woman in a purple dress. He does not appear to be present in any of the new images. He sees himself flick past in one, the flash still fading around him.

Symon automatically edits the images, seamlessly removing Samara, leaving no trace of his passing.

Samara cannot tell if Oktar, or his companion, are still in the room.

Why would he come here?

Samara scans the room. A group of men at the back of the room are armed. They appear to be carrying narcotics – a hypomethamphetamine hybrid, from the chemical signature – perhaps about to trade. [They call it Sutra. Mildly hallucinogenic, strongly entactogenic. Side effects are paranoia and neurotoxicity.] There is another group of armed men behind him, close to the dance floor. He ignores them, heading towards the bar. Someone may remember where they went.

He moves wide of a pool table around which a large group of heavyset men are betting on a game. They are leaning over the table, obscuring the lie of the remaining balls. A tally of their current wager glows in the air at the edge of the table above a row of empty bottles.

As Samara passes, there is a click, a shout of anguish, and a man steps backwards into him.

The man turns, angry. His face is misshapen, swollen, too many drugs, too much alcohol. His teeth are stained. Dirt and dried food smeared on his unevenly shaven round face. His hair is short, spiky, grey and blond. He is holding his beer glass, his hand wet, foam dripping on to the floor, adding to the filth.

‘You spilled my drink!’

[He will attempt to hit you in three, two, one.]

Samara moves before the man does, pulling the man’s arm past and up and behind his back. He presses the point of his heel hard into the man’s instep. He whispers into his ear, ‘I mean you no harm. I am only passing through looking for a colleague. You are welcome to buy yourself another drink. If you interrupt me again, I will rip off your arm,’ pushing him gently back into the pool table to a chorus of groans and shouts from his friends.

[That may not have been sufficient.]

Samara ignores the looks of the men at the table and walks to the bar. He can see that the chairs where Oktar and his companion were sitting are now occupied. He approaches the two women leaning at the counter.

They look as if they may be prostitutes. Their clothes are tight fitting, squeezing their pudgy flesh out over the top, around the sleeves, and causing their dresses to ride up. Their shoes are uncomfortable spikes, their feet raw around the straps. They leer at him, eyes like week-old fish, lipstick smeared in a thick band over their lips and on to their teeth.

[Active embeds. Blocking.] The embeds are a poor shadow of the symbionts used by the Achenians. Easy to hack, easy to fool.

Samara has no idea what Oktar has been doing, but he will not be drawn into any potentially embarrassing situations if he can prevent it.

‘Excuse me, would you happen to have seen the two people who were here a few minutes before you? A man in a knee-length cream shirt and a woman in a long purple dress? They would be quite distinctive,’ he says.

Their heads wobble slightly as they attempt to sort out all the different versions of Samara standing in front of them.

‘Ooh, you look funny, doesn’t he, Hilda?’ says the slightly fatter one to the one smoking a long, thin cigarette.

‘He does – funny skin, funny eyes, why you look like that?’ She attempts to poke her finger at him but misses. It must have been one of the other Samaras.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, ladies, but I would appreciate your assistance,’ he tries again.

‘He sounds very fancy, Nancy,’ hazards the one called Hilda. She giggles inanely at her rhyme.

‘Buy us a drink?’ says Nancy.

‘If that would help.’ He raises a hand to call the barman, who is leaning back against the counter fridges behind him, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. He stubs it out on the bar and nods that he is listening.

‘The same of whatever these ladies are having, please,’ he says, automatically transmitting cash from an anonymous wallet.

‘That’s more like it. Would you like a blow-job, too?’ asks Hilda, as she sinks her flabby face into a green and purple drink.

Samara smiles, but carefully. ‘No, thank you, just the information. Please.’

‘They was here, but they left,’ says Nancy. Hilda nods vacantly.

‘Would you happen to know where they may have been going?’

‘No, but they were speaking to them,’ says Hilda, pointing vaguely in the direction of a group of people in another corner of the bar, close to the dance floor.

‘Thank you, have an enjoyable evening,’ leaving before they can respond.

[This is not improving. Those look like policemen.]

As he approaches through the gloom, squeezing past revellers, he can see the reflections off badges and belt buckles. The three men are clearly on duty but just as clearly drinking. One of them has his arm around a woman who, since he knows he left them behind at the bar, would have to be a twin for either of Nancy or Hilda.

Symon transmits their standard hack for the police live streams, deleting Samara in real-time.

‘Excuse me, officers,’ Samara starts, speaking loudly to be heard over the noise.

‘It’s another one of them spacers,’ says one, his eyes wide as he stands up very straight.

[Oktar would appear to have been here. And, more correctly, we’re ‘orbiteers’. Of the geostationary variety. I think I’ll stop now.]

‘My apologies, I have no wish to interfere with your evening. I am looking for a colleague of mine.’

One of them steps forward, ‘And?’

They are hostile for some reason. Defensive.

[Only moderate levels of alcohol. I’m unsure why they are responding aggressively.]

‘My colleague is a man in a knee-length cream shirt and his companion is a woman in a long purple dress. Perhaps you’ve seen them?’

The men share a brief, anxious glance and then the lead policeman says, ‘No, haven’t seen anyone like that. Why don’t you ask somewhere else?’

[Why are they lying? They’re broadcasting telemetry and image. They’re on duty. What’s going on?]

It is close here, crowded; the strobing lights and grinding music make it hard to pick up who is moving where. He is surprised when a man with spiky grey and blond hair suddenly attacks him.

[Oh, him again.]

He has brought his friends this time. The policemen do not intervene, having a whispered conversation of their own. Samara breaks the man’s wrist and hurls him back into his friends. Two of them run at him, but he moves sideways, tripping one and catching the other’s arm, locking it back at the elbow.

He holds the whimpering man like a shield and turns to face the group. There is nothing he can say, so he hopes only to make it clear that they cannot hope to fight him and should leave.

He is surprised a second time when, against all expectation, someone shoots him in the back of the head.

He blanks out.

23

‘How do you cook so well?’ asks Sarah. ‘Gideon has some competition. Last night’s ekpang nkukwo was—’

‘Bliss,’ says Jason, beaming. He is leaning back against an iroko tree, its vast trunk towering above them. Bats are sleeping in the upper branches, and their rustling and subtle squeals filter to the ground.

They have slept in a circle in a clearing just above the riverbank. Raffia palms shield them from the water. They have hung burners from the trees and the smoke still lingers, repelling mosquitoes.

In the distance they can hear a monkey hoot as a troop moves through the trees in search of food. Birds call and there is the whispered clutter of a breeze through the tree canopy.

Symon is tending the fire and cooking a second pot of maize porridge, which he is spooning out. David is next in line.

Unintentionally, since he does not sleep, the chores have fallen to Symon, and much of the equipment used during the night has already been packed.

‘I am able to maintain a small memory archive similar to your sphere. When I learned your language from it, I also learned a few recipes. I felt that last night’s dinner would be appropriate.’

‘Are you able to add new information to the sphere?’ asks Jason.

‘No, only other sphere can do that. I can only query and receive, the same as you.’

‘They have many sphere in Calabar. When we get there, will you get news from your people?’

‘Not now, no. I am out of alignment. I cannot risk attracting notice if I start asking questions like that directly.’

Daniel returns to the campsite. ‘Do not go that way,’ he says, indicating with an outstretched arm pointing behind him where he has made his ablutions. He is rubbing his belly. ‘That smells good. You are feeding us well, Symon.’

A troubled expression clouds Sarah’s brow. Something has occurred to her. ‘Symon, you do not appear to –’ hesitating in embarrassment.

Symon is unconcerned by the question. ‘I do not pass waste matter, no. I am able to process all food content. I can absorb far more energy from the same quantity of matter. It is more efficient.’

Daniel pauses, a spoonful of porridge midway to his mouth. ‘Are you still human?’

Symon’s expression barely changes. ‘I am not human, but I understand your meaning. Samara and his people are very much human. Their physical form has been adjusted, certainly. They call this “conscious directed evolution”: making changes in moments, which would normally take millennia of random selective pressure.’

They have all eaten now, and he scrapes out the dregs of the pot into the coals. The wooden spoon in his hand having been plucked from the hands of a sleeping child, no doubt protesting even now.

‘They are still human but freed from the briefness of a natural lifespan. They spend time on relationships, on exploring the possibilities of creativity, of science, of the universe. They laugh, they love, they fight, they grieve. You will not find them so very different.’

David, sitting on his heels alongside his bedroll, stares into the still-glowing embers before looking up. ‘And you, Symon, what are you?’

‘I am a product of a multi-material biologics printer. I was born into a containment jar, filled with the control systems that define my function and loaded with a subset of the knowledge of our people. I am a mesh network of nanoscopic biological machines: a symbiotic intelligence. I maintain my systems and memory as part of the network. I achieve my sentience, my self-awareness, only once I am injected into a host and can bond with my host’s subconscious. I live as long as my host, and my interests are his interests.’

‘Are you and Samara friends? Is that how it works?’ asks Jason.

‘The closest friends anyone can ever have. We know each other’s thoughts as we are having them. We know each other intimately.’ He scoops up soil and throws it on to the coals, covering and smothering them. ‘And, before you ask, yes, I miss him very much and want to be reunited with him.’

A blue and emerald-green kingfisher flies through the camp, lands on a branch and looks at them, first out of one eye and then the other. Then it leaps and is gone through the raffia and towards the river.

Joshua comes up the bank. ‘It is getting late. We must go if we hope to be there tomorrow.’

There are assorted groans as everyone straightens up and massages cramping joints. Symon cleans the pot in the river, the ceramic triangular cooking stand at his side, as the others load the last of their gear into the boats.

The kingfisher reappears, a silver fish in its beak. It slaps it against the branch it is standing on. Again and again, until it is satisfied it is stunned. It swallows the fish whole.

They push the boats into the river and start wending their way once more through the network of creeks and lagoons that criss-cross the lower delta.