Slavemakers (12 page)

“You need to find clean, running water to wash that out,” Mama would have told her. “And make a paste of the sumeito plant and cover the cuts with it.”

Mama had shown her this plant, the sumeito, a pretty flowering vine that had grown on the crumbling walls of the compound in Naro Moru. But Aisha Rose knew she wouldn't find it here, not in the shantytown or anywhere in this blasted city where—even after all these years—not much grew.

She knew she'd be able to find it outside the city. Clean water, too. If she got to them in time.

But before she could take more than a couple of steps, she stopped and stood still. Around her, inside her, the world suddenly seemed crystalline. Fragile.

And beyond the crystal clarity, a wave. A wave building, gathering force and power.

Aisha Rose waited. There was nowhere she could hide, nothing to do but wait, as the wave's strength grew. A darkness that obliterated the stars and constellations and towered over her. All she could do was stay still, stare up at it, and wait for it to sweep her away.

But then, just as it curled toward her, a gigantic hand coming to flatten her, to flick her away, the wave swept
past her. In an instant, the city, the shantytown, went back to looking as they once had. And Aisha Rose was alone once again.

*   *   *

AISHA ROSE WATCHED
the progress of the wave. Watched in amazement, in awe, marveling at its breadth and power.

And at that moment she began to understand the purpose of her hejira.

What it meant, and where it had to end.

*   *   *

HE'D STOPPED JUST
in time.

He'd wanted to finish it. Wanted so badly to go back to what he'd once been. But at the last instant, he understood something: that even ending her wouldn't allow him to unremember her. No matter what, she would be there, inside him, all the rest of his life.

Anger and frustration rose in him then.

But at least he could still play the game. The game he'd been playing ever since he could remember.

Taking in a deep breath, he closed his eyes. Each time he played, he had to reach out farther, but that was never a problem. There was no place beyond his reach. No ruined bridge could stop him, no river, not when he traveled this way.

Soon enough, he found the nearest one.
There.
There it was. And soon, just beyond it, more. So many more. More every year, despite him, despite the game.

And he was suddenly everywhere among them. Between them.

They knew it. They were aware. Alarmed.

Afraid.

He had felt their fear many times before. He knew how the game would end, how it always ended, and so did they.

Only this time, he wanted more.

So he did it differently. He didn't end them where they stood, where they flew. Instead, he summoned them. Called them to him.

Stood in his spot by the river and filled their mind, and the spaces between, with his command, until he knew that they were helpless to do anything but obey, to flow toward him in a vast tide.

That's what they always did, obey. Follow. It was what they'd been designed to do.

He stood still for hours, until just before the sun set over the wounded lands behind him. Until the air was filled with the sound of their wings, and he opened his eyes to witness the whirlwind above him. Swirling there like fog, some already pattering to the ground around him in exhaustion, the rest tied together, yoked to his command, unable to escape.

He could have ended them all this way, by doing nothing else but waiting a little while. But he was bored of waiting. So, with a single stroke, he disposed of the desperate whirlwind then and there.

As he walked home, their bodies crunched under his feet, and their odor rose and wreathed around him, as thick in his nostrils as smoke.

EVEN AFTER ALL
these years, most Fugians still weren't very easy in Mariama's company. They tended to give her a wide berth, to end conversations abruptly, to discover something else they needed to do when they saw her coming. Though no one was outright rude, she could tell they thought her strange, unpredictable, and possibly even a little dangerous.

She wasn't offended. Because they were right: She
was
all those things. Strange and unpredictable. And more than a little dangerous.

It was who she was. Who she'd been since childhood, growing up here in the Casamance. The region in southern Senegal that had been the site of a decades-long insurgency against the government in far-off Dakar.

The insurgency had been about many things, but—like most such conflicts before the Fall—the focus had
been religion. The Muslim north battling the Christian and animist south.

And, like most such low-simmering revolutions, there had been no real end to the struggle. It had gone on and on, until the thieves demonstrated the meaninglessness of such conflicts, solving them far more decisively than humans ever could.

So Mariama had been raised in a world where snipers could shoot you from a thousand yards away, killing you before you even knew you were a target. Where your after-school activities could include laying snares in the rain forest or clearing mines planted by the soldiers from the north. And (as if that wasn't enough) where, long before the rest of the world had any idea the thieves existed, you had to live side by side with them.

A mine had taken the life of her father Seydou's older brother. Thieves had killed two of her young cousins. The insurgency itself had claimed several of her friends. And she'd witnessed more than her share of the deaths of people she would never know or care about.

Witnessed and caused.

If this all made her someone to be avoided if possible, so what? Her job in Refugia wasn't to make friends. It was to keep everyone, all those naïve, willful, idealistic people who'd gathered here to make a new world, alive long enough to see the world they hoped to create.

Idealism was a good thing, she supposed—though, in truth, she thought the greatest murderers in history had often been its greatest idealists—but it was useless if you perished in its pursuit. You needed someone around who was a realist. Someone who understood
that survival required strength and the willingness to deal in death.

Was that a paradox? Maybe. Mariama didn't know.

Or care.

*   *   *

THE WILLINGNESS TO
deal in death.

When Refugia was being built and populated during the final tumultuous months of the Last World, this had been its creators' greatest failing: neglecting to recruit a sufficient number of soldiers. Inviting so many architects and doctors and farmers but hardly anyone equipped to protect them.

Only a handful of Fugians were good with weapons. And even fewer—Mariama, Malcolm, and a couple of others—had ever used them in real life.

That was an important distinction. With enough practice, anyone could become a good shot on the firing range, or master in-close knife work, even learn the methods of killing with their hands. But pulling the trigger or wielding the blade when your target was a living human was something else entirely.

Though not to Mariama, and everyone in Refugia knew it. To her, they were all the same thing.

Strange? Dangerous?

Sure. You were who you needed to be, and did what you had to do, to keep your people safe.

*   *   *

MARIAMA DID HAVE
close friends in Refugia, mostly those who'd witnessed the Fall with her. Or in the past she'd
had them. But by now Trey was dead, and Malcolm had gone off on his great foolhardy voyage, taking Kait with him. That pretty much left only Sheila, and Sheila, as one of the colony's few remaining doctors, was almost always busy. (People didn't die from disease in Refugia too often these days—not, at least, compared to the early years—but they still got sick a lot.)

So Mariama was on her own most of the time. Which was fine, because she had plenty to do.

Plenty: making sure Refugia's walls—which she and Malcolm had insisted on building—weren't falling prey to the destruction that the rain forest's humidity and countless termites wreaked on all wood. Checking on the watch she kept stationed day and night in the towers at the corner of each wall. Making sure the wooden hides she'd built in several forest trees, and that the caches of food and weapons she'd left in each one, remained in good shape.

And patrolling a large area around the colony, a perimeter only she could see, much less care about.

“What are you looking for?” Sheila asked, one of the few times she'd joined Mariama on one of her restless treks through the forest.

Mariama could have come up with an answer. It would have been easy to say, for instance, that she wanted to locate and destroy any new colonies the thieves were attempting to establish. Because they did still try, every so often.

But instead she just shrugged off the question and waited for Sheila to ask the right one.

Which Sheila eventually did, one day as they stood
on the beach. The two of them were standing side by side, staring out at the distant stripe of horizon, as if expecting to see the familiar shape of the
Trey Gilliard
reappear there at any moment. Even though they both knew that would not happen for months or years, if ever.

“Mariama,” Sheila said, “what are you afraid of?”

That
was the right question.

Though Mariama herself was at a loss to answer it.

“COME INSIDE,” CLARE
Shapiro called from the open hatch.

Kait barely turned her head in response. Huddled against the cold, walking the deck alone, she'd been watching the ocean world swirling all around her, a mesmerizing kaleidoscope of silver foam and surging blue-green waves and deep blue skies and dark, long-winged birds. Birds everywhere, albatrosses and storm petrels and ones she didn't recognize, hovering just over the churning water or wheeling above the
Trey Gilliard
as it plowed through the waves.

The ship at the southernmost point of its journey, going around Cape Horn before turning north and heading up the east coast of Africa.

Not that land was anywhere in view. A three-day storm had driven the ship far to the south, easing only about twelve hours ago so they could get back on course. That was why Kait was out on deck, despite the cold—it
had been either that or go insane from claustrophobia in her tiny cabin.

Claustrophobia and anticipation of what she knew she had to do. No, not anticipation: fear. After all this time, she discovered something she hadn't expected: She was afraid.

But as long as she stayed on deck, she didn't have to think about it. She hardly had to think at all.

*   *   *

SEASICKNESS HAD BEEN
a problem from day one of their journey, something Malcolm and Dylan Connell had anticipated with a crew made up entirely of landlubbers. Even many of those who had thrived during the journey's early days succumbed during the storm. Some were so wretched that they were no help at all at a time when the old phrase “all hands on deck” finally regained its original meaning.

It turned out, though, that Kait was immune to seasickness. So for three days and nights, as the ship rose on one towering wave after another and came sliding down into the troughs with an impact that seemed to foretell a final, fatal splitting into pieces—a disaster that somehow Malcolm averted, time and again—she and just a few others were everywhere. Doing everything.

Doing whatever Malcolm commanded them to do (“You effing whackas!”), whether it was lashing down supplies, raising and lowering the sails in accordance with his almost mystical understanding of the wind and the waves, even going out in the middle of the night to help repair a spar that had splintered, as a cold, violet-blue fire sprouted from the masts overhead.

But now, at last, the seas had begun to settle. A little. Enough that the ship, accompanied by its coterie of seabirds, could ride the long swells and start making up the miles it had gone off course.

And enough time for Kait to think about what she had to do, and to be afraid.

*   *   *

EVERY DAY, SEVERAL
times a day, she checked. And every time she was sure she'd waited too long, that her fear—her cowardice—had kept her from taking the step she'd been planning for years. Ever since she learned what had happened to Trey.

And every day she found that it was still possible. Was that relief or disappointment she felt? She didn't know.

*   *   *

“KAITLIN!”

This time Kait looked back. Shapiro was standing in the hatch, a tall, gaunt figure, arms akimbo. With her stiff posture and arrow-sharp bone structure, she reminded Kait of one of the albatrosses rising and swooping behind her.

Regardless of how much everyone suffered from Clare Shapiro's uncompromising tongue and dictatorial ways, they knew what they owed her. She too had proven unstoppable during the storm, and alongside Fatou Konte had ministered to those who hadn't been. The potion that resulted from their joint efforts—a mix of ginger, acacia, and decoctions from the bark and roots of the bakoro m'pegu, samenere, and other Senegalese
trees—hadn't proven a panacea. But it had been effective enough to keep a skeleton crew at work.

“She sure as hell knows what she's doing,” Kait had overheard someone say on leaving Shapiro and Fatou's laboratory/sick bay/dispensary. “Too bad she's such a witch.”

“What was that last word?” someone else had asked.

Standing there in the hatchway, with her knotty shot-with-gray hair loose to her shoulders, Shapiro
did
look like a witch. Kait found herself smiling.

But the witch didn't notice. “Have something to show you,” she said, and turned and walked away, certain that Kait would follow. Which Kait, of course, did, leaving the bright sunlight and the sliding waves and the darting birds behind.

Noticing as they went down a passage toward the sick bay/laboratory how steadily the older woman made her way. Almost as easily as Kait did. It was amazing what became normal if you lived with it for a while. That was the thing about humans, Kait thought: For better or worse, we're adaptable.

Shapiro walked through the door, letting it swing shut behind her. Kait, still smiling, caught it and went through as well. Then, crossing her arms, she said, “Okay, here I am. So?”

But it was foolish of her to speak to Shapiro yet. Kait had spent enough time hanging around the biochemist's lab to know the drill.

Whenever the scientist returned to her lair after being away, even for five minutes, she always ran through an inventory of her precious possessions. Making sure her
antique microscope, her collection of slides, the racks holding the little bottles and tinted-glass mason jars containing the medicinal plants and other decoctions she and Fatou dispensed, were all where she'd left them.

And checking the sealed containers holding the living thieves she'd brought along as well, as if anyone would consider stealing
them
. The wasps were quiet, sitting still in the bottom of the jars, only their upright posture and the slightest movement of their heads in Kait's direction showing that they were alive.

Kait had always believed that Shapiro's laboratory was the last place a Fugian would come to steal anything, but she'd long since learned to be patient with the scientist's eccentricities.

Finally, Shapiro looked over at her. “So tell me what you see.”

Kait didn't reply, just raised her eyebrows.

Shapiro frowned. “You've been here enough. What's different this time?”

So Kait looked around. At first glance, the cabin looked the same as always.

But inevitably, Kait's attention turned to the thieves. From what she'd seen before, once imprisoned, they just lived on, eating the bits of meat Shapiro dropped into their containers, mating if they were kept together. Never desperately beating themselves against the glass while attempting to escape. Accepting their fate while they waited to learn what would happen next.

But was something about these ones different? Unexpected? Kait thought . . . maybe so. But she couldn't tell what. Maybe something about their posture?

Seeking a closer look, she took a couple of steps toward the nearest jar, which contained two thieves. As she approached, the wasps tensed, their eyes focused on her. As usual.

But then, when her face was no more than three inches away, they leaped at her. Acting in concert, thumping against the glass so hard, Kait could feel the vibration of the impact in her chest.

The jar rattled in its wooden rack, and the thieves' extruded stingers left black smears of venom on the glass.

Startled, Kait took a quick step back into the middle of the room, lifting her hands in an automatic defensive gesture. Almost instantly, the two thieves fell back to the bottom of the jar. When they regained their feet, they again seemed calm. No, more than calm. Oblivious.

Kait turned to face Shapiro. “What was
that
about?”

Shapiro smiled. “You tell me.”

Kait looked back at the thieves, unmoving in their prisons. “That behavior reminds me of the way they act after they've been decapitated,” she said, half to herself. “Yet these ones are intact.”

“Ah,” Shapiro said. “But doesn't that depend on how you define ‘intact'?”

As she pondered this question, Kait heard Malcolm shouting at someone (“Whacka!”), the squealing cries of the seabirds, and the never-ceasing sounds of the wooden ship itself, which was always creaking and groaning like a giant, living creature.

“Connection to the hive mind,” she said at last. “That's the only thing that matters to them. It's what makes them whole.”

“Ah,” Shapiro said.

Kait looked again at the thieves in the jars, seeing them in a different way. They weren't calmly awaiting orders. Instead, they were looking for the opportunity to kill. To kill even those, like Kait, who'd been vaccinated, and then to die.

Which meant they'd been severed from the hive mind.

But how?

She met Shapiro's gaze. “What have you done to them?”

“But didn't you just say they're intact?” Shapiro widened her eyes. “I don't have the ability to perform laser surgery on bugs. Not for twenty years now.”

She paused, her mouth pursing. Then she said, “I haven't done anything to them. So phrase your question differently.”

Again Kait paused in thought, staring at the cabin floor, damp—as all the ship's wooden surfaces were—with what she thought of as salt sweat. Nothing was ever dry on a sea voyage, especially not after a storm.

A storm.

And then Kait understood.

Raising her gaze again to meet Shapiro's, she said, “Okay, I'll rephrase my question: What was
done
to them?”

The biochemist's eyes were bright. “You tell me, Kaitlin.”

But Kait didn't answer, not directly. Instead, she asked another question. “How far did the storm blow us off course?”

Shapiro waited.

Kait rephrased again. “How far are we,” she asked, “from shore?”

“Ah,” Shapiro said.

*   *   *

THAT WAS IT.

After all this time, all her experiments, all her frustrations, circumstances had allowed Shapiro to make the most important discovery yet about the thieves: that distance could disconnect them from the hive mind.

If a healthy, intact individual, or even a few, were separated from the horde, they would behave like ones that had been decapitated, or whose heads had been severely damaged. Free of the prohibition that the vaccine caused in every thief still ruled by the hive mind, they would attack. Sacrifice themselves to kill, to breed.

“It makes all the sense in the world,” Shapiro said. “I just wasn't smart enough to see it.”

Kait waited for her to go on.

Shapiro tilted her head. “I mean, all their power? It's not magic. It was
never
magic.”

Kait felt obscurely disappointed, even resentful. She found herself saying, “Then what was it?”

“It's always been a matter of broadcast and reception, and that has to depend on proximity.” She turned her palms up. “Kait, there was always going to be a maximum distance beyond which the individuals couldn't stay in contact with the mind. Of course there was. We just never got far enough away to see it.”

Shapiro, noting her expression, smiled. “Did you
know,” she said, “that, right near the end of the Last World, neuroscientists demonstrated ‘brain-to-brain' communication in humans five thousand miles apart?”

Kait blinked. “Brain-to-brain?”

“It's true, between India and France, for some reason. Neuroscientists and specialists in robotics did it, using an EEG on the sending side and TMS on the receiving, and, of course, the Internet in between.”

Kait said, “Clare—”

Shapiro scowled. Then she wriggled her shoulders and took a deep breath. “Okay,” she said more slowly. “A person in India would think something. If I remember right, something simple like the word
hello
in various languages. An EEG—an electroencephalogram, you know what those were, right?—would read that thought as changes in brain activity. Then a computer would translate it into the word and transmit it via the Internet to the receiver.”

She paused, and after a few moments, Kait said, “Didn't they use EEG transmissions that way, like to help quadriplegics operate wheelchairs and robotic arms? They'd think a command, and the robot would obey?”

Shapiro nodded. “Sure. That was at much closer range, though. This was the first attempt at long-distance communication.”

“And . . . ?”

“As I said, the Internet transmitted the signal to a receiver attached to the scalp of the person in France. From there it was sent directly to that person's brain by means of transcranial magnetic stimulation, via a device first designed to spur the activity of brain cells.”

After a pause, Kait said, “Okay. I get that. But the recipient, the guy in France, what did he see? The word
hello
in front of his eyes, like on a screen?”

“No. Code, binary code. Flashes of light. But yes, in front of his eyes—or, rather, at the periphery of his vision.”

“And it worked? He could decode it?”

Shapiro nodded. “Yes, about ninety percent of the time.”

Kait took a while before she spoke again. Finally, she said, “So that's how you think the thieves do it. Electric pulses.”

Shapiro nodded. “Basically. Each thief inputs a mass of signals, data, from those around it, then broadcasts it—and whatever it has to add—to all the other thieves in the vicinity. Who then do the same to others, who then do the same. All while inputting.”

“And this happens instantaneously?”

Another nod. “Pretty much at the speed of thought, I'd guess.”

Then Shapiro's mouth twisted. “Once we would have been able to test that.” She shook her head. “I miss my toys.”

“Still,” Kait said, “it's a web of communication.”

Shapiro smiled. “But not quite a worldwide web. The hive mind doesn't have fiber-optic cables or satellites to boost its signal.”

She gestured at the quiescent thieves in the jars on the shelf. “Just take them far enough from the hive, and they're as isolated as an ant whose scent trail you've erased.”