Courier of the Undercity

The rain in Eko never fell down. It fell sideways, through the gaps between the towers, on a wind that smelled of salt and solder.

Zainab Lawal rode it on a hoverboard the colour of old chewing gum, weaving between the vertical rivers of traffic. Below her, the Undercity glittered in the dark: a maze of rusted gantries, lantern markets, steam vents and neon, the whole thing lashed together with cable and prayer. Above her, a hundred storeys up, the Spires caught the last of the sun and turned to molten gold.

"Courier Lawal." The voice in her ear was her dispatcher's, crackling and bored. "Parcel pick-up at the Ajegunle Dock. Priority."

"I'm on the Marina run."

"Reassigned. Double fee."

"How double?"

"Four thousand eko-credits."

She nearly fell off the board. Four thousand would cover three months of her sister's medicine. "Who's the client?"

"Anonymous."

"Is it legal?"

"Zainab. It's Lagos."

She swung the board hard left and dived through the canopy of a defunct billboard. The Ajegunle Dock lay at the bottom of the Undercity, where the old waterline had once been, a black cavern of cranes and rusting container-stacks. A single lamp burned over a door. Beneath it, a figure stood waiting.

He was thin and tall, in a hooded rain-cape, with a battered case chained to his wrist. As she landed, he stepped forward, and she saw his face: young, dark-skinned, exhausted, with a split lip and eyes that burned.

"You're the courier."

"You're the client."

"I'm in a hurry."

"Everyone is." She held out her palm. "Credits first."

He fumbled in his cape and produced a chip. She scanned it. Four thousand, as promised. She nodded.

"What's the parcel?"

"This." He unlocked the case. Inside, wrapped in oiled cloth, lay a small black box, about the size of a human heart. It hummed faintly. "You're to deliver it to the Observatory on Lekki Spire. By dawn."

"The Observatory's a government site."

"Yes."

"They'll shoot me."

"Not if you're quick." He pushed the box into her hands. "Don't open it. Don't scan it. And whatever you do, don't let it get wet."

"It's raining."

"I'm aware."

A siren rose, far above, thin and angry. The man flinched. "They're coming," he said. "Go. Please."

"Who's coming?"

"The Council." He grabbed her wrist. His hand was shaking. "Courier. Whatever you hear about me, whatever they tell you, remember I only wanted to save the city."

"You're being dramatic."

"I'm being accurate."

The siren swelled. A cluster of black drones appeared over the dock, searchlights sweeping. The man pushed her toward her board. "Go!"

She went. She kicked off the dock and shot into the dark, the box clutched against her chest. Behind her, she heard a shout, a crack, the whine of a plasma bolt. When she glanced back, the hooded man was running, zigzagging between the containers, a dozen drones behind him.

"Idiot," she muttered.

She should keep going. Four thousand credits was four thousand credits. She'd been paid. The job was clear.

She spun the board around.

The drones had cornered him against a wall of stacked steel. He stood with his hands raised, shielding his face. One of them dropped, arms extended, ready to fire.

Zainab didn't think. She hurled the hoverboard like a discus.

It struck the drone dead centre. Sparks exploded. The machine tumbled, shrieking, and crashed into its neighbour. A chain reaction of whirling metal. She dived through the smoke and grabbed the man's wrist.

"Get on!"

"I can't..."

"The box won't deliver itself!" She dragged him onto the second board, her emergency one, a rattling antique. "Hold on!"

"Where are we going?"

"Somewhere with fewer lasers."

They shot out of the dock into the dripping gloom, over the black water, past the stilt-villages and floating markets, as the sirens fell away behind. After ten minutes, she brought them down on a rooftop garden, among racks of hydroponic cassava, and pulled off her goggles.

"Name," she demanded.

"Dayo."

"Last name?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me, since I've just committed treason."

He laughed. It was weary and hollow. "Dayo Falade. Chief engineer of the Aso Project. Until yesterday."

"What happened yesterday?"

"I found out what the Council was building." He looked at the box in her hands. "And I stole its heart."