“I am on a fact-finding mission launched by Alabast Central Space Colony. Much of our refugee population is afflicted with an illness, and I am in the process of researching its causes and, hopefully, its potential cure. I was in the course of this investigation when the police station was attacked.” She realizes something. Her minders. Her eyes shoot open, and she looks to the men standing over her bed.

They do not open their mouths, but Ify can tell from the expression on their faces that her minders are dead. They must have been standing right by the entrance when the bomb went off. They would have been caught in it immediately. Torn to shreds. No part of their form recoverable. She wishes she hadn’t been so dismissive of them, so intent on reminding them at every opportunity that she was their superior.

“I was conducting field research in Kaduna State and thought I might find some of the information I was looking for at the police station. Perhaps there was someone there who could offer some insight into . . . into the problem I was facing.”

“Did you speak to anyone other than the desk attendant?” the first asks.

Ify shakes her head. “No. Only him.”

A moment of silence passes between them before the second one says, “When you are released, please come and contact us regarding your stay in Nigeria. We want to make sure it is as smooth and pleasing as possible.” His words do not match his tone. He sounds like a tree trying to give a hug. Then they turn to leave.

Ify is about to ask how she is to contact them, then thinks better of it. They have probably been following her since her arrival in Abuja. Every set of eyes in this country is capable of telling the government where she is at any given moment. If they need to find her, they will.

It’s only now that she begins to let misgivings fill her. It was easy, when she was a Sentinel in another life and part of Nigeria’s security apparatus, to let herself be part of the country’s extensive surveillance network, to let herself be watched. Everyone was always being watched. If you were connected, your every thought or conversation or purchase was seen. The surveillance orbs that hung overhead tracked every citizen’s movements. At the time, Ify thought nothing of it. It had simply been a part of the world. It was understood that this meant peace. But as Ify sits in her hospital bed, thinking over this encounter with the Nigerian security service, she can’t help but think that all of this didn’t mean peace; it meant order—something else entirely.