He is boy. Vest is hanging off his bare chest that is all skin and bones. He is so small that gun he is holding is as big as him. And he is standing so still that not even my mind’s eye is detecting him. He is not glowing red like living things. When smoke clears, he is just boy covered in dust.
Even though he is not shooting at me or throwing knife, I know he is like me. He is child of war.
“You are not having to be like this,” I am telling him. And I am saying this out loud because Xifeng is saying I should practice talking but also because I am sometimes missing the sound of my own voice. So I am saying, “You are not just child of war.”
But the boy is silent.
“You are not needing gun to live.” I am looking for more words, because I know I am supposed to be saying more to this boy. “I am once being child of war, but I am learning of more way of being. Different way of being. Only killing and fighting when I must. To protect people. Some days, no killing and no fighting. I think before I am killing and fighting all the time, but I am not doing these thing all the time anymore.”
He is looking at me and not saying words, and there is small small hair on his head and I am wanting to shave his head so that his hair is not trapping sun-heat on his scalp, and I am wanting to give him headscarf and protect him from sunburn. And I am wanting these things because I have remembering in me that I am doing this thing before for someone who is making my heart happy. And I am wanting to make this boy happy, but he is saying nothing.
“Come with us. Come with me.”
“You’re one of us,” he is saying in quiet quiet voice.
Blood-covered fist is clenching at my sides. “I am not bad person.”
But boy is saying no more thing and is just looking at me with nothing in his eye, not even water. Then he is walking away with gun in his arms and machete slapping his leg softly like it is walking with him.
I am collecting gun and bullet from dead bodies, and I am walking and walking and walking until I see Enyemakas and Xifeng’s trailer. And while I am walking, I am telling myself I am not bad person.
And I am trying to believe it.
CHAPTER
9
To wash the away the memories of terrorist groups and detention of militants and Peter, like oil from her skin, Ify wanders past the Viewer, that giant glass-encased observation deck where she has spent countless hours staring out at the stars and the Refuse Ring that circles the colony of Alabast. She continues past the school dorms where she and Céline had lived as students, then past the streets where, as a young refugee, she had been stopped by bots and other authorities and asked for her papers. She wanders and wanders and would have no way to gauge the passage of time were it not for the information that her bodysuit, connected to her Augment, beams into her brain. But it disturbs her that it always seems to be daylight here. Meandering without direction, she finds herself back in Amy and Paige’s cul-de-sac. This is how she will spend the end of her dwindling time off from work, worrying about whether or not the foolishness of these well-meaning white women will result in tragedy.
It always grates on Ify how the synthetic sunlight never properly mimics the days and nights she remembers. When people should be readying for bed, it still looks outside as though it is the middle of the day. Sometimes, she thinks this is a malfunction of this particular neighborhood or this corner of the Colony. But it is really that the people who live here like it this way. They like long days, even if it means that children grow up not knowing when they should go to sleep to get proper rest and be ready for school. Or teenagers will play their music too loudly for too long while others are trying to sleep. Remove the rules, and you might as well prepare for chaos. That is what she feels, sitting on the front porch of Paige and Amy’s home. Whenever she is in Alabast, this is what’s waiting for her: messed-up sleep cycles and unseasoned spaghetti.
“Not enough spices,” says a voice from behind her, as though reading her mind.
She’s halfway to her feet when Peter shuffles down the steps to sit next to her. They’re close, but he leaves enough space to be respectful.
“I should say something, shouldn’t I?”
Ify doesn’t disguise her skepticism.
“Don’t worry, they’re busy cleaning right now. And saying loving things to each other. I am happy to give them their space.”
Ify lets him sit in silence long enough for it to become uncomfortable, but Peter seems unfazed, focusing his gaze on the starless simulated sky. “What really happened?” She hopes he hears the low threat in her voice.
“What do you mean?”
Ify’s frown deepens.
“Oh. Well, I was captured by the Popular Front. I wasn’t tortured or anything. There were others in my prison. One of them was a journalist who kept going on and on about what a beautiful country Nigeria was. I thought maybe he was a spy with the Popular Front. They maybe put him in prison to see if any of us was with another group or with the government. Maybe they put him there to trick us. If he was a spy, he wasn’t a good one. They even tortured him a little bit, but perhaps this was just part of their plan to make it convincing. Anyway, after my release, they took me to the local chief for that area, a big oga draped in golden robes and jewels, and he apologized for jailing me and asked for my forgiveness. Then he gave me many naira and sent me on my way.”
“This is what you told them?” Ify asks.
Peter shrugs. “It is what I tell everyone who asks.” He shifts closer to Ify. “And when I know I have their attention, I tell them that, while I was in prison, I would ask my guards for photographs of people hugging, and I would say that I asked for this because I’d forgotten what hugging looked and felt like because I had been in prison for so long. Sometimes, in front of the other prisoners, I would take off my clothes and snuggle with them to pretend I was being held in my sleep. That makes them cry every time.”
“But none of that is true,” Ify says, no trace of a question in her voice. “It’s not true, because no rebel group ever captured you. The Popular Front for Justice in Biafra never existed. And you were not an innocent boy.”
A tremor runs through Peter’s shoulders, then is gone.
“You were a militant. A soldier in a secessionist group that used children to blow up crowded buildings.” Ify says this all in a low drone. “You were captured as an enemy of the state and held in detention for your crimes. And, if my guess is correct, you were released as a result of the ceasefire.” She refuses to look at him, not because he very likely did horrible things during the war but because he dared to lie to people Ify loves. “I’m sure you endured trauma during those years, but you have no right to lie to these people. When they discover the truth—”
Peter jumps to his feet and kneels on the steps before Ify. Suddenly, there are tears in his eyes, and he has his hands clasped together as in prayer. For a panicked moment, Ify looks behind her to see if, through the open door, either Paige or Amy can see this, but they’re gone. Out of sight. “Please,” Peter hisses through his teeth. “Please do not be telling them where I am really coming from.”