CHAPTER 1
Year 2880 CE
Port Harcourt, Nigeria
MERCY OMOTOLA
Confusion—I felt sudden confusion, then pain, then horror. On my way to work, on a lovely warm morning just after a rain shower, I stood among other people at a street corner. I barely noticed the young woman as she approached us. Then she flew into me so violently that I was smashed onto the sidewalk beneath her.
Why? I’d done nothing to her. I tried to push her off, but my left shoulder burned with pain.
I raised my head and saw blood blooming lush-red. Was it mine? I was injured, I knew that. The flow and flash of color fascinated me until I forced myself to look away, disgusted at myself for finding beauty in gore. I tried to stand, too dazed to listen to the chip in my mind and its whispering, singsong voice telling me to be still—too dazed to obey my body, which told me the task exceeded my strength.
“Don’t move,” said a man with a startlingly deep voice. “Be calm.” He bent over me, a stranger, his elegant eyes and mouth tight with concern. “There was an accident. A car struck a woman who was thrown on top of you. Help is on the way.”
I tried to talk but ideas were too elusive to form into words.
He looked around, nodded, and said, “Here, let us take her off you.”
He and another man picked up the young woman and placed her next to me. I realized they were acting on instructions from their own chips about how to help, and I felt relief. Things were under control.
But I could see the woman now, and she was limp. Her head—jewel-red blood imbued her hair and clothes and sparkled on open flesh, captivating.
I still didn’t understand. Cars never hit anyone. I lay helpless and in danger on the sidewalk, and I tried to stand.
“Please, Mercy Omotola, stay still,” a woman said as she knelt at my side. Her chip must have told her my name. She took one of my hands. “You will be all right, but please … let the doctors do their job.”
* * *
Meanwhile, you were watching from across the street, anonymous in a group of onlookers. You didn’t know me, Mercy, and I didn’t know you, but in time I came to understand everything about you. As you watched, what did you feel? Relief? The young woman who could have put you in grave danger was dead. Did you feel remorse? Terror? Her death might not be enough. Was it even your first murder? I still don’t know if you felt anguish because an innocent bystander, me, had been hurt.
Other strangers were so very kind to me that morning, first those who came rushing to help, then the doctors who took me away, fussing at my shoulder—a broken collarbone, as it turned out. They took me to the nearest clinic and checked me carefully, my bloody clothing stripped off and a stiff white paper gown draped over me. I asked about the young woman, and they said they didn’t know with a somber hesitancy that told me they did know, and the news was what I feared.
I closed my eyes and prayed for a blessing for her soul. And for blessings for all those who were so kind and helpful. I gave thanks for my life, confused as that blessing still felt.
Someone knocked on the post of our curtained-off room. “It’s Ngozi,” she announced in her raspy voice. I knew she was coming. I had listened to my chip that much. “Are you all right, Mercy?”
The doctor looked at me to answer as I chose, and I said, “Come in. I’ve broken a bone, but that seems to be all.”
She stepped through the curtains, a tall, century-old woman not as exquisitely frail as she looked, with a colorful dress draped over her arm. She reached to hug me, then stopped herself, her wrinkle-rimmed eyes growing wide. Why? What did she see?
“Be very gentle,” the doctor said. “She’s badly bruised and sprained everywhere. We’ve sped healing of that bone.” He had sent a diagnosis and instructions to me that I hadn’t yet studied. I realized I should share them with Ngozi, so I sent them on, now not eager to know their news if the mere sight of me had made her hesitate.
She took my right hand as gentle as if it were made of spun sugar. My left arm was in a sling. By then the doctor was through with me and left so I could take off the rustling paper gown and put on the striking yellow and green dress she had brought. I desperately wanted to shower, to wash away the odor of blood, of death, and if I could, the color-filled sight of rent flesh. We walked out to the street. I was limping from a sprain and using Ngozi’s cane without her elegance.
“Can you take a car home?” she asked. “Are you comfortable with that? With cars?”
“Of course.” I was surprised she had asked. She usually acted imperiously. Did she think I was afraid? Cars were robots and never had accidents, or rather, almost never. Whatever had happened, it wouldn’t happen twice.
She called for one, and I could not help but relish the trip through gorgeous curving streets lined with trees and gardens—new Port Harcourt.
* * *
And you, did your eyes see this city with pleasure? You had come here from the north, but you would have known its history. Centuries earlier, the sea had risen, and the city had to be moved inland bit by bit and rebuilt. Yet this changing world brought prosperity and more beauty than ever to Nigeria. Architecture marked by organic material rose up, gleaming windows surrounded by walls and roofs of intricate motifs on tiles and panels. I would never tire of the sight.
You—I can imagine because I have known others like you—fled from the scene of the crime that morning to your home, a lonely apartment, where you paced restless, waiting for an acknowledgment that never came, until it was time to go to work. On an ordinary day, you would spend the afternoon monitoring operations and checking schedules at the docks as ships arrived or left. Were they being loaded or unloaded well, and had robots encountered obstacles? The mere sight of a rat or the odd heft of shifted cargo could make the robots seek guidance. Did the contents match the manifests? These days, everyone seemed to be trying to smuggle something in or out.
It was dull work, mostly, but you enjoyed the sea and its moods, the drama of storms, the revel of sunshine, even the oppression of damp heat like an unpleasant but familiar hug.
Today, though, you would arrive acting as carefree as a young man with a happy childhood, and expected news from a coworker would make you stop short. Maryam was dead, the conscientious and well-liked woman you often worked with. In a freak accident, she had been struck by a car. You would gaze into your coworkers’ eyes with feigned shock, perhaps share a brief embrace of solace, and speak of how fine she had been in her job and her life. But the sorrow on your face would be for you, knowing what you had done and why.
As for myself, Mercy, I still knew nothing of this, off in my own life, trying to avoid self-pity. I had been hurt, but I had survived. I would be fine. Then I discovered how simply leaving the car caused new pain, and Ngozi had to help me. In that moment, I understood how deeply blessed I was to still be alive, and this grace flowed through me like a wave breaking on a beach. Lord, direct my hands and feet to serve Thee in joy, for I must still have a purpose on this Earth!
I gazed at the building and garden in our compound as if they were a fresh gift: Tabitha House. Ngozi must have called ahead, because our four other members came out on the graceful, sinuous balconies on all three stories and sang a welcoming prayer of thanks. I joined in, my ribs aching when I breathed deep, and I added a verse to share my heartbreak for the woman who had died. The sisters of our house do many good things, and most of all we sing to the Lord.
They gave me mint tea and sympathetic smiles, and helped me shower, insisting on cool water, then tucked me into bed. They brought me lunch and cold compresses and sat with me until I dozed. I knew better than to argue that I deserved no such loving care, although the thought never left me. Truth clings like a burr.
When I awoke, I thought to hobble to the bathroom and look at my face in the mirror, and I recoiled at what I saw. My left eye was puffy, its lid and socket purplish, the eyeball bloodshot, my cheek scraped, my lips swollen and bruised.
With kind fussing, my sisters helped me downstairs for dinner, and we prayed for that woman, now officially declared dead. The meal was followed by an urgent house meeting at the dining room table.
“It can’t have been an accident,” Ngozi said. “We’ve been found out.”
Publicly, as a women’s lay Christian group, every Tabitha House not only helped its members in our needs, we helped other people, giving what we could, even if it was only song and a joyful presence. Few knew that we and other Tabitha Houses helped refugees escape from war, persecution, and organized crime. Some of them we arranged to disappear safely into other countries. A few I helped escape to space. And often, governments or lawbreakers were outraged to have these people snatched from their grasp.
“Here’s how we know.” She turned to me. “Mercy, what did you hear just before you were struck?”
The question seemed odd, but I knew it must have a purpose. “Nothing. Nothing special. Birds singing, people talking.”
“Yet if a car has gone wrong, if it’s going to hit anything or anyone, it brakes and sounds a warning. Sometimes they slip on debris on the street or have a mechanical failure, and cars lose control. But they’re robots. They have their systems and routines. They brake and they sound a siren. You’re right, there was no noise. The car ran right into that woman. No accident. We can assume this was attempted murder of you and accidental murder of that poor young woman who stepped into its path.”
The sister next to me, Debra, took my hand. I felt confused once again—this time because I understood too well.
“But it’s more complicated than that.” Ngozi gestured to Josepha, her assistant, to explain.
“As soon as I learned it happened, I checked the record.” Josepha was young and usually looked carefree. Not now. “I found the car’s identification number in a list of free robots.” She paused to let us think. “That made no sense. When robots go wild, they hide from humans. They never attack unprovoked. Most of all, they struggle very hard to survive. They don’t commit suicide, and this car destroyed itself striking that woman and then crashing into a wall.”
We pondered what might have happened. Free robots were a nuisance, like unwelcome wildlife, as uncontrollable as rats. Josepha still frowned.
“Then, just a little while ago, I double-checked. The identification number for the car in the record had changed, and any history of it having another number was erased.” She shrugged. Across the table, Opal smiled wryly. “Now the record says it was a regular car. Either way, no robot would do such a thing unless it was sabotaged.”
“Robots aren’t sinners,” Chioma added, an old joke. If robots do something wrong, it’s not their fault. Someone ordered them to sin.
“That is why I say we’ve been found out,” Ngozi said. “We have been found out by someone or something capable of sabotaging a robot. This is especially significant if they can alter a wild robot. And if the record has changed, we know the government did it. Now, what do we do?”
After a brief silence, Josepha said, “First of all, we should set the security systems for our compound higher and put out more patrol robots. Have them watch for any kind of approaching robot. And set security higher for our chips. I’ll do that right now.”
We all agreed. She closed her eyes to handle the house, and all of us reviewed the settings of the chip in our brains.
At that moment, as we sat there pondering the source of sin and murder, the door announced a visitor, Police Inspector Eme Aderibigbe.
“Does anyone know him?” Ngozi asked. No one did, although we knew the local officers well. That told us something and frightened me very much.
“He’s high-ranking,” added Opal, who must have quickly checked the record.
“Act relaxed,” Ngozi ordered. Josepha jumped up to show him in.
Meanwhile, we knew what to do. Debra asked if my children or former husbands had called me since my injury, and we began to chat about families. Opal grabbed a toy to entice a fippokat to play. She had been altered to look like a fippokat, with green hair and pointed ears, and who was I to disapprove of changing one’s physical self? Chioma and Ngozi laughed as if they were telling jokes. We said nothing to each other over the networks. Even with the best security, someone might listen in. Especially the police.
A thin-faced man in a gray uniform entered the dining room, gazing around. Visitors always do that. Perhaps they expect a place of worship, but we merely have an ordinary home with pets and after-dinner chatter. We live together for convenience and mutual support. We do what good we can, share what blessings we have, and owe nothing, especially obedience, to anyone but each other and other Tabitha Houses. This is always hard to explain. Except for what we secretly do, we are really rather ordinary women, not nuns or fanatics.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” he said to Ngozi with a courtly bow. He looked at me, his eyes narrowing at my injuries, and bowed again.
“Please, sit down,” Ngozi said, gesturing. “Can we offer you something? Coffee, tea? Dessert?”
“Coffee, thank you.” He sat in a way that somehow expressed authority, as if we had been called into his office. He had broken protocol to come here, so he probably meant to upset us. He looked at me. “Madame Omotola, I’m glad to see you up and as well as you seem to be. I’m here to discuss the accident, and it may be good for all of you to hear this. Do you agree?” I nodded, hoping he would speak only of that.
“It was no accident,” he declared confidently. “The car deliberately struck that unfortunate woman and injured you. We are treating this as a criminal act.” He accepted a cup of coffee from Josepha and sipped, relaxed, as we glanced at each other.
I seemed to be expected to say something. “This is very disturbing news.” It could have been worse.
“Indeed.” He set down the cup and looked around the table. “We suspect we know why. The target was you, Madame Omotola. Your house helps people escape.”
We sat like stones.
“Oh, the government knows this. We have for a long time. And we see no reason to stop you.”
Only Ngozi moved, tilting her head, probably using her chip, but he stared at me. I wished he would look away.
“Madame Omotola, your job is counselor and recruiter for the Space Habitat Consortium.”
I nodded. I find qualified residents for space stations, colonies on the Moon and Mars, the Venus orbital complex, and sometimes interstellar missions.
“We know you help people escape.” He consulted a thought. “You expedite their cases, as far as the rules allow and perhaps a tiny step more.” The knowledge gave him a brief smile. “You help at most a half dozen a year, nothing to draw suspicion. Do you know why we don’t object?”
He stared. I had to answer. “No, we don’t.”
“Three reasons.” He counted on his thin, nimble fingers. “First, they are in fact all fully qualified. Second, they no longer make trouble here on Earth, which is good for us. We might have to protect them or arrest them. We have less work if they leave Earth. Third, they work very hard in their new homes. They’re happy to be there, and everyone else is happy.”
He stared at me again. I thought of a fourth reason: off-world recruitment is hard. Refugees solve that problem, too, by being a ready pool of volunteers. But I said nothing.
Copyright © 2024 by Sue Burke
