Year's Best SF 17

The soft humming was continuous and the lights flickered as we walked down the narrow corridor single file. The padded walls added to the narrowness. Everything was spotless, no dust or dirt in any corners. And everything smelled like face powder.

“I don’t like this,” Ahmed said, moving faster. “Not at all.”

I smiled. Windseekers hate tight places. “Inhale, exhale,” I said, staying close behind him. “We’ll find the passengers and then get out. Relax.”

As he loudly inhaled and exhaled as he walked, I took a moment to look behind us. So far we’d moved in a straight line and I could still see the sun shining in from the open door. I felt a little better. If it was a trap, the door probably would have shut. Eventually, the corridor did break off in three different directions. We took the one in the middle and came to a large metal door with a sign on it that said CONFERENCE ROOM B. Ahmed was about to touch the blue button beside the door. I grabbed his hand.

“What?” he said, accidently looking into my eyes. He quickly looked away, squeezing his face as if I’d stuck a pin in his arm.

“Don’t start that again,” I snapped.

“It’s your damn eyes!”

I rolled my eyes. “Let’s knock first.”

“Fine,” he said, gritting his teeth. He knocked three times. The sound was absorbed by the hallway’s padding. We stood there, listening hard.

I sighed, “Maybe, we could …”

“Arinze?” a woman called from behind the door.

Ahmed grabbed my arm, and I stepped closer to him.

“Please!” a man shouted in English, banging on the door. I couldn’t place his accent. “Open up. Just …”

“Is that English? What are they saying?” Ahmed asked me in Arabic. “I can’t understand.”

“They want us to open the door,” I said. I stepped up to the door. “We’re … we’re not him!” I responded in English. I turned to Ahmed and switched back to Arabic. “I told them we’re not Arinze.”

“Let’s open it,” he said.

“Okay.”

He was about to and then stopped. He turned to me, looking guilty. “You should step back.”

I understood. My eyes. Who knew what they’d think? And I didn’t want anyone looking into them.

“Okay,” I said, stepping behind him. “Makes sense.”

He touched the blue button and there we were facing about thirty sweaty dirty people all crammed at the door. Hot air wafted out. It reeked of sweat, urine, feces, and rotten fruit. Ahmed and I coughed.

Ahmed stood up straight. “We’re here to—”

“Take her down!” a man shouted in English. There was a mad rush as they all tried to lunge for me through the narrow corridor. I stumbled back as Ahmed jumped in front of me, using his body to block the way. Five men tried to shove him aside but he somehow managed to remain lodged.

“Stop it!” he shouted in Arabic.

“We can handle her!” someone said in Igbo. “Just get out of the way!”

“We’re getting off this damn shuttle!” another said in English.

“Stop!” Ahmed screamed in Arabic, pushing them back with all his might. “She’s not—she’s human!”

No one listened or maybe they didn’t understand. Everyone started shouting at the same time. Sweat gleamed on Ahmed’s face as he fought to keep himself in the passageway. I ran back several feet but I wasn’t about to leave Ahmed.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a blast of wind flew through the passageway. It knocked me off my feet and I slid several feet back. Then everything went silent. I slowly sat up. Everyone in the passageway had been blown back into the conference room. They murmured as they sat up, rubbing their heads, arms, confused.

Only Ahmed remained, hovering, his seven long thick braids undulating as the windseeker breeze circulated his body. The passengers stared at him. I smiled broadly, though once again, I was shaking all over.

“She, we are not …” Ahmed switched to French as he landed on his feet. “We are not whatever you’ve been dealing with! Does anyone understand me? We’re here to get you out!”

“How do we know that?” some woman asked in French from behind everyone. Good, I thought. Someone understood.

“Speak in French,” I said. “I can speak that, too.”

Ahmed looked at me. I winked. I can speak six languages, Arabic, Hausa, French, Igbo, Yoruba, and English. My father liked to call me the daughter of Legba—the Yoruba deity of language, communication, and the crossroads—because I picked up languages so easily.

“Why else would we unlock the door?” Ahmed snapped. The woman translated for those who couldn’t understand.

Silence.

“Stupid,” I muttered, stepping closer to Ahmed.

“This is Fisayo and I’m Ahmed,” he said. “We’re … Do you know what’s happened on Earth since you left?”

More confused murmuring. The general consensus was that they knew something bad had happened but they weren’t sure what.