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  A door lifts open, then closes shut.

  She snaps out of her trance to find Daren sitting opposite her, eyes closed, head leaned back against his headrest. He heaves out a sigh so big it seems to deflate his body.

  “Are you all right, Kadan?” he asks at last.

  Ify nods, then looks away, out the window. She doesn’t know what she’s looking for, but knows that she can’t bear to look him in the face. “It won’t always be like this.” It comes out as a sentence, but she means it as a question.

  Daren’s expression softens. He moves to sit beside her. “You care for them. This is important. But you can’t love someone into common sense. You can’t love them into peace.”

  “They’re caged like animals in there. At least we let actual beasts roam the pastures. But them?” The sobbing takes her by surprise. For a while, she can’t speak. She feels Daren’s arm around her and wants to shake him off, but can’t find the strength.

  “I should not have taken you here,” he whispers into her hair.

  She pushes away. “No. Don’t say that. I wanted to come.” She fights for more words. “I want there to be peace. It shouldn’t be how it is right now. We are all Nigerians.”

  Daren shakes his head. “No, it shouldn’t. And you are right. We are one nation. But I see the way you are with them, and I worry for you. You cannot meet the unreasonable with kindness. It is like you keep digging hoping to find water. If you are dying of thirst, one drop of that dirty water will feel like the best water you have ever tasted. When you are dying of thirst, you will drink it all without question. And after so much thirst, you will not even listen to those who are trying to tell you that there is another well twenty feet away.”

  “You called them udene!”

  At this, Daren stops. His brows knit into a frown. “They are willing to send children to kill themselves for their foolish cause.” He speaks through gritted teeth. “They would have done that with you had we not rescued you. Had we not returned you to your home.”

  “What home! That was my home! That was my family!”

  “They were not your family!”

  “Onyii was my sister!” Ify sniffles and fights back her tears. “She was not udene! She loved me. She cared for me. She was just trying to protect me.” She is about to say it, but stops herself.

  “Say it.” His fists are balled at his sides. He seems like he is made out of metal. “Go ahead. And. Say it.” His fists tremble. “Protect you from what?”

  Ify can’t stop shaking.

  “Protect you from what?”

  It comes out as a bark, like a bullet spat out of his mouth and aimed straight for her chest. It paralyzes Ify. “From you,” she whimpers, as she finally sees him in all his fierce and controlled power. He seethes with energy. It sounds as though the air crackles with it.

  But he relents. Neither of them speaks for the rest of the ride home.

  CHAPTER

  23

  Onyii watches Agu aim the Mauser C96 semiautomatic pistol at the target two hundred fifty meters away. The wind picks up as the sun slowly descends behind the mountains, casting the firing range in rays of pink and gold. Kesandu and Kalu are packing up their things, and Onyii glances at the two of them as Kesandu palms the back of Kalu’s head. Ngozi stands silently a couple stations down, looming over Nnamdi as he picks up the shell casings from the afternoon’s training. Kesandu stops at the top of the ridge and looks over her shoulder, waiting. Onyii wonders what she’s waiting for until Ngozi looks back at her and their eyes catch. Something silent passes between them. Whatever it is, it makes Kesandu smile. Then she and Kalu are gone. Ngozi sees Onyii watching, and her frown pulls down the tribal scars on her cheeks. Those scars, three small, vertical lines on each cheek, mean she must have come from some kind of wealthy family. The type of family to look at someone like Onyii, half-covered in Augments, and suck their teeth.

  Onyii spits on the ground and looks to Agu.

  “Oya!” she shouts. “Are you waiting for the moon to give you permission? Go!”

  The gun has only enough available room on the grip for one hand, so Agu has to stabilize his gun arm with his free hand. The first shot goes wildly to the right of the target. He stands there, silent, then resumes his stance, firing again. The next shot wings one of Nnamdi’s targets nearly a dozen meters to the left. Again, closer to his own target but still laughably off-mark. Ngozi snickers. Tears spring to Agu’s eyes.

  “Try holding it sideways,” Nnamdi whispers. “Hold it sideways, and you can use the muzzle jump to create a horizontal sweep. Instead of trying to force it under control.” He backs away with his armful of shotgun shells.

  Agu tries it and aims a little to the right of his target. When he pulls the trigger, the stand-up target swings backward. In the next instant, the one beside it does the same until he has successfully hit all five in a row. A smirk ghosts across his face before his expression turns stony again.

  Onyii draws closer to Agu. “It took you all day to hit your targets, according to the spotter.” Then she leans in closer to Agu’s ear. “Do you know why I had you use the Mauser?”

  Agu has no answer.

  Onyii shakes her head. “That is too bad.” The first drops of rain start to hit the tables. “Go load up and resume shooting. Also, move the targets to three hundred meters. Keep training until you can hit them all and figure out why I made you use that gun in the first place.”

  Ngozi and Nnamdi are already up the ridge. Onyii stuffs her hands in her pockets and follows after them. Dinner will be ready soon.

  In the warm mess hall, a few of the abd sit together around a mountain of gari. They each have a rinsing bowl and a bowl of pepper soup next to them.They scoop out handfuls of gari, roll them into balls, and dunk them in their soup as they chatter softly to each other.

  Onyii looks up from her plate of rice and stew every so often, toys with the fried plantains on top, then looks back down again. The chatter from the abd and the patter of rain against the roof and the low hum of the generators powering the lights fade away. She feels herself drifting.

  In the memory, Onyii’s hands move of their own accord.

  Muscles tensing and loosening as she grips the slide of the machine pistol, slides it back, flips the catch, and pulls it off. The barrel falls out, landing with a muffled thud on the tablecloth, followed by the spring, and before long, the entire handgun lies in a neatly ordered display, piece by piece. She stares at it for a long time, memorizing each component, how they all fit together, and in forty-five seconds, she has the whole thing back together again. She repeats the exercise, her mind going blank, becoming empty space. The movements are instinctual until pain pricks her finger, and blood drips onto the cloth.

  Stunned, she watches the small pool grow larger with each drop. Coming back to herself, she sucks on the wound.

  A tray clattering on the table snaps her out of her reverie. She half expects to see Chinelo, who is always playing practical jokes on her, but it’s Kesandu. Onyii forces a smile, then returns to her meal.

  “You’ve grown an appetite since we were just War Girls in the camp,” Onyii says.

  Kesandu’s mouth is already full with puff-puff. She chews fast and swallows even faster. “Someone has to eat all this food. And I am willing to make that sacrifice.” She lets out a sigh. “I saw you and Agu earlier. The Mauser is such an old gun. Nobody uses it anymore. Why are you having Agu train with it?”

  “Muscle control, owning your nerves. That’s what it’s about. If he can’t learn to control the muzzle jump on an outdated Mauser, he’ll never learn the intricacies of a SIG.” Thunder booms outside. “Speaking of which, have you seen him?” She nods toward the group of abd, who have finished their meal and are now busing their plates. “He’s not with them, and when I went by his room, he wasn’t there either.”

  Kesandu’s eyebrows
rise. “Have you checked the range?”

  “What? There’s a thunderstorm outside. It’s been hours. No one in their right mind would just stay out there and . . .”

  She rushes out of the mess hall as fast as she can, Kesandu close behind her. Dread makes her limbs feel as though she’s made entirely of lead, but eventually they get to the range, and when Onyii gets close enough, she can see a lone figure standing by one of the metal tables, arms stretched forward.

  Agu’s teeth chatter. His arms tremble, and he struggles to hold the gun in his hand as he pulls the trigger. The recoil nearly throws him onto the ground. The intervals between shots grow longer and longer.

  Out of ammo, he shuffles to another table where, blood running along his fingers and melding with the rainwater, he thumbs more bullets into his empty clip. He staggers back to his station, stands still for a moment, then collapses.

  Onyii gets to him before he hits the ground, and she scoops him up in her arms. “It’s okay,” she whispers, not quite knowing why. “It’s okay, it’s okay.” Together, the three of them rush back to shelter.

  * * *

  When she tries to go to sleep in her own bed, she can’t. So she lies awake, staring out the window, waiting for the rain to stop.

  The campus is rich with greenery the morning after the storm. By the time the sun is halfway to its peak, the wood benches have dried. Onyii makes her way outside and sits, absently tapping a pebble against the wood of the armrest. Kesandu emerges from the compound, wearing a long olive-green coat, and smiles, then starts drawing a pattern in the mud with the toe of her boot.

  “He was just following orders,” Kesandu says, like she’s trying to reassure Onyii.

  Onyii looks into the middle distance and, for a long time, says nothing. Then she turns to Kesandu. “Are they all like that?”

  Kesandu stops drawing in the mud. “What do you mean?”

  “Broken.” She frowns, trying to figure out what she wants to say. “Kalu seems well-adjusted, but maybe that’s because you’ve had him for a while. Chiamere seems to work just fine for Chinelo. And Nnamdi and Ngozi seem like they are working well together. Maybe Agu’s broken.”

  Kesandu shrugs. “They’re all broken at first. And they never really get fixed again, but that’s life.”

  Onyii looks to her friend. “How do you keep Kalu from doing stupid things like what Agu did tonight?”

  Kesandu looks to the compound. “It’s a brain thing, I think. They’re all relearning how to move. How to behave.” She meets Onyii’s gaze. “Have Agu learn penmanship. Or an instrument. I taught Kalu the xalam. But now he’s got blisters on his fingers from all that playing.” She chuckles. “I don’t know. Maybe Agu can learn the piano.”

  “But I don’t know how to play the piano. How would I teach him?”

  “Hah, who says he has to learn from you?”

  * * *

  The studio is a mess of instruments with dust everywhere and the soundproof sheeting peeling in places from the walls. But a little ways from the center of the room, Agu sits on a stool with a touchboard balanced on a flexible stand in front of him. He stands and turns around at the sound of Onyii’s entrance.

  “I was told to meet you at fourteen thirty, sister.” He always says it as seestah, which makes Onyii keep forgetting he’s not a child. He’s a synth.

  She snaps her fingers, and orbs light up the room. Then she takes a seat next to him on the stool. “You can sit now.”

  For a long time, Onyii sits in silence. What am I doing? She tentatively puts a finger to the board, and a single note rings out. A little dulled, as it’s been a while since the board was cleaned. But still fresh. She puts her hand back in her lap and is staring at the board again when Agu puts his own finger to it. There’s a look of curiosity on his face, and in that moment, Onyii can swear she’s looking at a child.

  She touches a different part of the board, and a lower note hums. Agu reaches out with his left hand to do the same. His eyes light up.

  Onyii touches a third key, more confident this time, and Agu does the same, then Onyii touches another, faster, and Agu mirrors her movements. They go back and forth, touching random keys, and Onyii knows they’re just making noise, but she can’t stop the smile from spreading across her face. When she looks at Agu, a smile has split his lips as well.

  After a moment, she stops smiling, then gets up. “That’s enough for today.”

  For the briefest instant, a look of pleading fills Agu’s eyes, then it’s gone. “Yes, sister,” he says before rising and leaving.

  She tries to look and sound like a commanding officer, like she’s concerned with just his training and that she needs him to be ready for more combat sessions. But she knows why she made him stop. His fingers haven’t healed yet. He had smeared blood all over the board, and he hadn’t even noticed.

  In bed later that night, rising melody wakes her. Like an aircraft slowly angling its way upward. Sleek and silvery. Then the dip. All low notes mingling together before the tune unscrambles itself. It turns confident.

  Onyii is slow to get up. But she follows the music all the way down to the studio. The door opens before her. But when she steps inside, Agu doesn’t move. Doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t even hear her. A cord extends from the back of his neck to a console Onyii hadn’t seen earlier against the side wall. She realizes with a start what he’s doing. He’s downloading music.

  His shoulders are swaying back and forth as his bandaged fingers glide over the board. He had come back to this place without Onyii telling him. She hadn’t issued any commands, hadn’t adjusted any of his programming, hadn’t altered his prime directive. He . . . he wanted this.

  Onyii has never heard a synth express want, but this is the most beautiful thing she’s heard in her life.

  CHAPTER

  24

  Outside the Nigerian Consortium for Social and Technical Sciences, Daurama waits.

  Ify stops short, standing at the top of the broad marble steps while Daurama stands with arms folded beside the sleek, bulletproof van that will take her from school to her quarters. Normally, Daren waits for her after school and they walk through the streets or spend time afterward in the parks. Sometimes, he even takes her to the top of the Millennium Tower in the center of Abuja. But the sight of Daurama means that Daren must still be angry with her.

  Sullen, she makes her way down the steps. Before she reaches the van, Daurama has the door opened, then climbs in after Ify and slams it shut.

  “You’re late,” Daurama says. It is probably the most that Daren’s sister has spoken to her in years. Ify realizes with a start that they are rarely in the same room. If Daren and his sister are together, Ify always catches Daurama just as she’s leaving. She could never bring herself to ask Daren why she hated her.

  “I’m sorry,” Ify murmurs. She looks out the window as the city passes them by.

  Suddenly, the van stops. Without a word, Daurama reaches under her seat and pulls out what Ify realizes is a rolled-up prayer rug. When the door opens, Ify hears the chanting, then the door shuts, and Daurama vanishes. Ify climbs on her seat to peer through the window at Daurama facing eastward, knees on the rug, encased in a translucent tent hastily erected by her guards. With a start, Ify realizes what time it is.

  She fumbles underneath her own seat but comes up empty. Her heart sinks. That chanting, broadcast from the loudspeakers all around Abuja: the call to prayer. How could she have missed it?

  Her heart races as she scrambles to find a substitute rug. She’s still searching by the time the door opens and Daurama climbs back in. Daren’s sister has the look of someone who has just woken from a peaceful nap. She even looks Ify in the eye and smiles.

  Daurama places the folded rug back underneath her seat and keeps that smile on her face as the ride resumes. In one hand, she holds a string of beads that she thumbs t
hrough absently. Somehow, the expression Daurama wears unsettles Ify. It reminds her of something—someone—from long ago. She barely remembers, but she knows she’s seen that look before.

  “What were you whispering just now?” Ify asks, then silently chastises herself for interrupting whatever peace Daurama has found.

  “Allahu akbar.”

  An instinct to fear that phrase arises in Ify. Long ago, when she was a War Girl, she was taught that this was what savage Nigerians said before they killed you. It’s what they screamed before bloodshed. And, for so long, Ify could only see it coming out of mouths contorted by rage, twisted by hate. The mouths of monsters. But since arriving in Abuja, she’s heard it constantly. Whenever the elderly dorm prefect stretches in the evening and makes her way down the hallways of the building to make sure all the girls are asleep as they should be. Whenever the Super Eagles score a goal. One time when Daren went animal-watching with Ify and they happened upon an unAugmented deer and her young.

  Daurama still has that dreamy gaze in her eyes when she continues. “I first consciously heard those words when I was a child. Maybe five years old. My mother prayed in front of me. When she kissed the ground, she did it with her whole body. So filled with love. She would come up, whisper it, then gently kneel again. Her nose would touch the prayer rug, and I remember thinking it tickled her.” Her smile widens. “It was so graceful.”