“She knew the government was hunting them. Trying to eliminate any relics of the war.” The sky begins to change colors with the setting of the sun so that gold dapples the wings of Ify’s craft and the red and blue light glows softly off the edges of Ngozi’s mech in front of her and Grace. “Xifeng had called them the Ceasefire Children—born and bred for war, but when the ceasefire was declared, that’s all they were. Children.”

Ify is silent as they fly and the land begins to turn red with sand dunes.

“Onyii thought she would have to go on trial.”

The sentence startles Ify.

“We’d all done horrible things, but Onyii carried everyone else’s guilt for them. And she was willing to let the courts make an example of her if it meant lasting peace. She never said it, but she was always trying to take credit for everything.” Ngozi’s chuckle is soft and static-y over the comms. “She was very uncomfortable with peace. Just like the synths. We’re all trying to find our place in the world as it changes around us. When you’re defined by war, what’s left for you when the war ends?”

Ify is glad for the autopilot function, because tears blur her vision. She takes a moment to wipe them away, grateful that Grace is asleep beside her and can’t overhear. So many of Ify’s memories of Onyii are memories that bring her peace. Onyii and Chinelo pounding yams to make food for the rest of the camp’s girls, Onyii building the greenhouse so that the girls could garden and take their minds off of the conflict raging around them, Onyii counting the stars with Ify at night, tracing constellations in the sky above them, letting Ify dream up her own stories with the pictures they saw. And the thing that had brought them together was murder.