Tomorrow, DAW Books are due to publish the latest novel by Wole Talabi: The Fist of Memory — a first-contact novel sure to appeal to fans of Arrival, Contact and sci-fi in general. To mark the occasion, CR has a short excerpt from the novel to share with our readers! Here’s the synopsis:
A strange alien spacecraft suddenly appears in the sky in this electrifying, action-packed first contact novel set in near-future Nigeria from award-winning author Wole Talabi
When a non-communicative alien spacecraft suddenly appears in the sky, global powers are thrown into turmoil.
But for Tope, a principled Nigerian assassin with a talent for lethality in the employ of the mysterious witchdoctor known as “Baba,” it’s all just business as usual. At least until a job goes wrong, and Tope is caught in the scramble—a high stakes game of power and politics for the future that is to come. Joined by Itumeleng, a South African astronomer plagued by mysterious dreams, they must find a way to survive, navigate their complicated pasts, and come to understand how they, and all of humanity, are connected to the alien craft before it lands and the world changes forever. But it won’t be easy. There are sinister forces marshalled against them, including a strange assassin obsessed with a single memory.
The Fist Of Memory is a first contact thriller unlike any other; a meditation on the nature of reality, memory and connectedness.
*
Warri, Nigeria
Tope
Here’s the thing about killing people: I don’t like it, but I’m good at it.
That’s why I’m perched on a dusty rooftop, ensconced in an electromagnetic reflection bubble, patiently waiting to kill Rever end Doctor Clement Osagie.
It’s hot and the air is heavy with humidity. [Thirty- one- point- four degrees Celsius and ninety- four percent,] Ori, the augmented intelligence system embedded in my brain, tells me in a soft, neural whisper. The noon sun beams down relentlessly through blue gaps in the clouds. Puffy and white and grey‑ edged, they are swollen, pregnant with [a sixty- three percent probability of] precipitation. Sleek black police drones drift lazily like metal birds, specks against the clouds. Bloody spies are all over the damn country now thanks to the government subcontracting surveillance to foreign companies that use their proprietary, predictive algorithms to monitor the feeds re motely, and flag high‑ probability crime scenarios to local authorities for action. They think it’s clever and cost efficient. Well, perhaps it is, but they still haven’t seen me yet and they never will.
I’ve already been here for . . . [two hours and sixteen minutes,] my rifle barrel in line with the high‑ arched window above the main door of the cream‑ colored building that serves as the headquarters of Modern Christ Ministries Church. Hopefully, I won’t have to wait much longer. I ignore the sweat that is running down my shaved head, dripping off my chin onto my elbows, wicking my wool jump suit. The sickly‑ sweet odor of dry sweat is starting to bloom. My skin is sticky and itches in places, but I don’t scratch. That will only make it worse. Besides, I’ve been in much worse positions in much worse conditions. What I really want is to get this over with and be gone before the downpour begins. I don’t like rain. Especially the kind we’ve been getting recently: infrequent but heavy. The kind that triggers floods of semi‑ biblical proportions— washing away whole villages like they are nothing but stains on the fabric of the world.
“Every living soul! Every living soul praise the Lord!” Pastor Osagie declares from inside the church. His voice is high‑ pitched and loud, and it carries well, becoming an electronic screech by the time it reaches me, distorted by the EM bubble— my mobile Faraday cage. He is a heavyset man, relatively tall. Well above the average for Nigerian men which is . . . [a hundred and seventy- three centimeters.] That voice, though. It’s incongruous with his appearance and personality. Reminds me of the first time I heard recordings of Mike Tyson. I’d watched holo‑ records of his boxing matches during my training, and he’d been such a terrifying man in his prime, but even then, he’d sounded like a whiny child.
Pastor Clement leaps into the air. He’s surprisingly agile for his age and lifestyle. He runs up from his place on the church floor to the podium, repeating his words over and over again. The choir echoes him in a call and response that inspires the seated and primed congregation to their feet in chant and dance.
Bloody hell.
They’ve ruined my shot.
I grip the rifle pad tighter and adjust the focus of my scope. Tilting my head back a few centimeters to angle slightly up and to my right, I create a new path for my bullet. One that avoids the risen sheep but pierces the shepherd. The new path cuts below the rounded upper arc of the window of the new and expansive church building. Ori projects the expected trajectory as a bright yellow augmented reality line, confirms the unobstructed route for my bullet. Now I just need him to stop moving. But he keeps bouncing around and shouting. He is wearing an obscenely shiny grey suit that looks like it was sewn from polished silver with a blood‑ red dress shirt, sleeves tethered to each other with gold cufflinks that gleam when they catch the fluorescent light. His ridiculous permed hair, diamond‑ encrusted watch and gold chain complete the look he is apparently going for. It matches his expensive fleet of vehicles parked along a wide dirt road beside the church and minded by several hefty‑ looking bodyguards in all black suits and knock‑ off designer sunglasses. Aviators. They always wear aviators. Not sure why. Don’t the members of his congregation ever question why a “man of God” needs so many gold accessories, four different types of Mercedes, a private jet, and body guards who used to be Niger‑ delta militants until the final, extended collapse of the global petroleum economy had made kidnapping ex pats and vandalizing pipelines unprofitable? Don’t they read their own Bible and what it says about rich men, heaven, camels, and the eye of a needle? I guess not. Most of the congregation seem completely ensorcelled by Clement and his promises. They dance, sing, and pray with tears running down their faces, their bodies twisting and contorting at his urging.
Watching all this, it would be so easy to believe that he has a special connection to both God and his congregation. They are synchronized, responding to his directions like a hive mind. Easy to believe, indeed. The world is a complex place full of confusion and uncertainty, Nigeria especially so. They find meaning in his simple message, his confident, charlatan charms. They want to believe in him, in their divine connection. It gives them something to tether themselves to. A sense of being part of something grander. Foolish, but understandable. We all need someone or something to anchor ourselves to. Pity they have chosen a sinking ship. One that never had any destination anyway.
Pastor Clement is nothing but a very good con artist, willing to take advantage of people’s faith and desperation. He is having affairs with several members of the church, including Enajite, the choir mistress who is standing in the front row wearing a blonde Brazilian weave she should not be able to afford and a tight white shirt that seems mildly unchristian. I collected evidence of their lurid sexual encounters along with the details of his money laundering activities for the same people who now want him dead because he’s become greedy. Very greedy.
*
Wole Talabi’s The Fist of Memory is due to be published by DAW Books in North America (October 27th), and by Gollancz in the UK (October 29th).
