How to Inherit the Earth: A Primer for Aspiring Futurologists

Rotimi Babatunde (bio)

1. Q

Question: This is already inheriting the alphabet

What a strange city and what a strange school and what a strange class. Topaz stared at his desk. His mum had said it would be a nice city and a nice school and a nice class, and he didn’t want to be a bad boy, but why was everything so strange? He looked up and surveyed the classroom. Nothing had changed. Behind their desks, the other children were still wheezing and sniffling, and from their noses, the mucus running out was still green and yellow and thick, and by the window in front of the class, the teacher was still sneezing and coughing, grimacing at intervals as she wiped her nose with the ruffled sleeves of her dress. She cleared her throat and leaned out of the window and spat. Rather than shooting out straight, the phlegm clung to her mouth and dangled down, long and elastic. The phlegm was green and yellow and sick. Topaz squirmed. Never in his old city and his old school and his old class would a teacher spit out of a window, and never would his classmates have snot seeping like varicolored sewage out of their nostrils.

The teacher brought out a white handkerchief. She swiped it across her mouth. The handkerchief became green and yellow and sick. The teacher turned to face the class. Her eyes settled on Topaz. We have a newcomer with us today, she said. His family has just relocated to our megapolis from a faraway city. You’ll all be nice to him, won’t you?

No one responded. The teacher started talking about the alphabet. Topaz looked away from her. He remembered the groundeater that had brought him and his mum from their old city to their new one, and his mood brightened.

Long before you were born, in the times before the Upheavals, we could have gone by air, his mum had said. She sighed. That was when the sky was still blue. But now, taking a flight is no longer straightforward. Even the large birds that love soaring high now have trouble staying up for long.

Topaz liked the groundeater. It was his first time in one. The groundeater was very fast, and their cabin was very nice. He kept his eyes glued to the window of the cabin. The ground over which they were traveling was flat and desiccated, scorched brown by the intensity of the unrelenting sunshine. But above it, the sky was the color of cold ash, with its monotonous greyness stretching endless and birdless and cheerless as far as eyes could see.

Every now and then, the landscape threw up sights that stunned Topaz. Cacti as huge as giants and mountains as bare as asteroids. A ravine so sheer it made the boy giddy with vertigo. Sunlit cities far out in the distance, their buildings cute and dainty like those of the toy diorama his mum had given him on his last birthday.

And then at night the moon came out, and with the moon came the bats. Multitudes and multitudes of them. People say it’s their unique immune system that helps them adapt better than other animals, a woman at the other end of the cabin said.

Maybe bats will also inherit the earth, a man replied. He laughed. No one in the cabin laughed along with him.

In the morning, the boy woke up to see that the sunwashed cities of the previous day had given way to cities in perpetual dusk. He pointed out one to his mum.

We’re going somewhere like that, his mum said.

Why is it like nightfall?

Because it’s under a sunbrella. It’s a megapolis. Carbos live there.

What are Carbos?

His mum glanced around the cabin. She said nothing. The groundeater zoomed on.

Topaz heard his name and looked up. It was his teacher’s voice. Daydreaming again, are you, the teacher said. There was silence. The teacher continued. Can you recite the alphabet? Topaz nodded. Great, let’s hear you do that, will you?

Topaz began. Q, W, E, R, T, Y…

The other children began laughing. Topaz stopped. What was funny? He looked at his classmates. Hadn’t they been taught the alphabet?

Don’t laugh at him, the teacher said. The alphabet order that Topaz followed is already inheriting the alphabet. Semms recite the alphabet that way. And Topaz is a Semm.

Topaz started in his seat. He didn’t know he was anything but a boy. Semm. He would never forget that word. Not that the Carbos would ever allow him to.

Answer: Qwerty

2. W

Question: A portal connecting distant points in the fabric of spacetime

The first reality café on Dr. Alado’s list was located in a manhill on the edge of the umbra. The manhill was familiar to Dr. Alado. The final qualifying exam for his medical license had held there years ago. He entered the manhill and rose up its heights and found the reality café. Its interior surprised him. Garish lights flashing from the ceilings and upbeat music booming from the walls. Colorful adverts for the wormholes on offer running on the media panels. Stoned patrons, young and deliriously happy, swaying to the relentless beats. Dr. Alado was confused. He had been expecting a laboratory environment. Time transponders and gravity machines and quantum-field inductors and all that. The technology must have evolved.

A receptionist came to him. We can take you back to any of the great ancient music festivals, she said, shouting over the music. Woodstock or Coachella? Montreal Jazz or Felabration, Fuji Rock or Reggae Sumfest? You’ve come to the right place.

I’m sorry, I’m here for something else, Dr. Alado replied.

And if it’s an event from even further back in time you’re after, the receptionist continued, concerts from the Vienna of the great composers or orchestral music from the Kaifeng of the Song dynasty, oud performances from the Baghdad of the Mamluk pashas or kora sessions from the Kaabu of the Senegambian griots, we have wormholes for them available.

Do you have the one for the War Against Irony?

The receptionist shook her head. We don’t like trouble here, she said.

The second reality café on Dr. Alado’s list was in another manhill. The adverts there promoted wormholes for extinct sporting events. Wimbledon finals and World Cups. The Olympics and the Ashes and the World Series. And for patrons desirous of bloodier entertainment, Pamplona and the Beargarden and the Colosseum.

Why not try out the Pasola Festival, the attendant that welcomed Dr. Alado to the café said. The spear fighting there is great fun.

Do you have the wormhole for the War Against Irony?

The smile on the attendant’s face vanished. That one between the Patriots and the Ironists, he asked.

Of course.

I’m sorry, my boss would never stock anything that could make the Patriots visit, the attendant said.

Dr. Alado left the place. On the avenue outside the manhill, a small group of women were protesting. Humanhills Not Manhills, one of the placards they held aloft read. Dr. Alado stopped to watch. He was impressed by the women’s unbroken spirit. Everyone knew the megapolis was Patriot territory. The Semms had risen, and because of that, race was gone, but gender remained. The Patriots would sooner chew their left arms raw than relinquish that.

A burly, deep-voiced man was pestering the protesters. To hell with humanhills, I’d rather have womanhills, the man said, cupping his chest with his hands. I love nothing more than womanhills!

Hey you, will you stop being rude, Dr. Alado shouted at him.

The burly man walked over. At close quarters, his minatory bulk loomed large, and his voice boomed even louder. His huge beard was quivering. What cheek, he bellowed. Who the hell do you think you are to be ordering me around?

Dr. Alado looked up at him. I am Alado, he said. Dr. Gus Remingdale-Alado.

Something died in the man’s face. His voice started wavering. A descendant of the great Remingdale-Alado from the War Against Irony, are you, he asked. The Remingdale-Alado that led the Reds to victory against the Blues in the Battle of the Roses and the Violets?

Now, you know. Don’t you?

The man tipped his hat to Dr. Alado and hurried away from the scene.

Dr. Alado began blaming himself. If he hadn’t been sloppy with his research, he could have gone straight to the right reality café. And he wouldn’t have needed to announce his full name to anyone. But here he was, squandering his time crisscrossing the megapolis like a tramp. There and then, he would have called off his search and forgotten about the wormhole into the War Against Irony, but obligation restrained him. His ancestor had battled in that war. Commanded the brigade of the Roses that stormed the Capitol and vanquished the Violets during the Battle of the Roses and the Violets. Without his leadership, not only would the Patriots have lost that battle, they would also have lost the larger war to the Ironists. Not experiencing how the war had gone for him would be a dereliction of family duty. And besides, not doing so would deprive Dr. Alado of the opportunity to see roses and violets with his very eyes, to touch and smell them for the very first time.

That prospect reminded Dr. Alado of the travails that have bedeviled those long-suffering flowers. Subjected from olden times to the indignity of forbearing with erroneous labels like Rose of Sharon and shrinking violet, even though no rose had ever claimed its provenance was Sharon and no violet had ever been partial to shrinking. And then condemned in recent times to the ignominy of eking out a precarious existence in remote and vulnerable sanctuaries. Had both blooms now been listed among the luckless garden plants soon to go extinct? Dr. Alado couldn’t be sure. And he also couldn’t be certain that they could even hope for the cold comfort of survival in the discursive sanctuary of language. Because at the mention of roses and violets, some folks didn’t think of the flowers again. Rather, they remembered the Patriots and the Ironists. Dr. Alado’s thoughts returned to the matter of his search for the wormhole into the War Against Irony. One more reality café remained on his list. If that one also proved a dud, then that would be it for him.

That last café was in a seedy arrondissement of the megapolis. Dr. Alado walked into the café and gasped. Holy cow. The promotional media around featured only naked bodies. Copulating figures in various states of ecstasy and pain. Dr. Alado looked away. How could he not have known that the café would keep faith with the reputation of the arrondissement in which it was located? He turned round to leave, but a man stepped into his path. Dressed in the flamboyant style of pimps, with a swagger about him. Must be the owner of the place.

We’re discreet here, the man said, a conspiratorial smile on his face. We don’t keep a record of our customers’ details. And we have everything, believe me. He leaned towards Dr. Alado. Even options that are, you know, how do I describe them, not in the regular age range, he whispered.

The man was persistent. Dr. Alado had to tell him the wormhole he was looking for. The man burst into laughter. I’m offering you the opportunity to partake in the most pleasurable romps in history, to enjoy the wildest orgies and the hottest bodies, he said. Trust me, this is no wank trip. Nothing but the real thing. Yet, here you are insisting on going to a war. Isn’t that bonkers?

My ancestor fought in that war you speak of so flippantly, Dr. Alado said.

The man raised a hand in apology. His expression became serious. Forgive me, I don’t joke with family, he said. He paused. Okay, okay, let me help you out. There’s this reality café in the penumbra. Located in the Lazarus Ironroot Arrondissement, not far from the bridge to Ghost River Barrio. The café’s called The Garden of Forking Paths. They have the wormhole you want. The place is owned by a Semm, though.

I don’t have any problem with that, Dr. Alado said.

At the door, the man’s voice stopped him. Don’t tell anyone I directed you there, okay?

Answer: Wormhole

3. E

Question: Naysayers use this word to describe Question 2: W

His staff were busy attending to his clients, and Topaz didn’t like leaving the welcome desk of his reality café unmanned. From behind the desk, he scanned the indicator lights above the wormhole cubicles. All were red and only one was green. Just one cubicle left to be taken. The day’s business was going well. Topaz was grateful for his good fortune. He had been confident of his business plan before opening shop, but nevertheless, he had been stunned by the speed with which his café had flourished. That was despite leaving his establishment’s walls bare, unlike other reality cafés that overwhelmed theirs with gaudy adverts. And despite specializing in the quotidian reality of times past rather than in spectacular historical events. Yet, Carbos came in droves, driven by nostalgia for the daily rhythms of a vanished earth. The astonishing spectacle of blue skies and the towering majesty of green forests. The congenial sunshine of cities that needed no sunbrellas and the open spaces of suburbs that needed no manhills. The quaint drudgery of wars fought with ancient weapons and the protracted carnage of epidemics that raged on for ages. But what Topaz took the most pride in was the unique twist in the service his reality café offered. Individualized pathways into multiple versions of reality. That was why he had named the café The Garden of Forking Paths.

Topaz returned to the word game he had been playing. Lexicon. His favorite pastime. When the game was launched, people had mocked it. An archaic trifle. Next thing would be ancient curios like mobile phones and laptops. Followed by the sparking of rocks on dry straw to start fires. Capital troglodyte vibes. Give Lexicon a little while, and it would return to the realm of extinction from which it had escaped. But even before the game became the rave of the megapolis, Topaz had been certain that the predictions of doom were off the mark. Because the success of The Garden of Forking Paths had taught him one thing. Never to underestimate the power of nostalgia.

Topaz had already answered the first two questions in the current edition of Lexicon. Qwerty and Wormhole. He checked the third question. The front door swung open. Topaz looked up. The man that entered was middle-aged. Short and podgy and slightly balding. His dressing was conservative. Likely to be some kind of professional.

The man introduced himself. Dr. Alado. Topaz did same. His hunch about the man being a professional was right. The man was delighted when he heard that the wormhole into the War Against Irony was available. This will be my first time in a wormhole, the man said. What’s the experience like?

Unfortunately, I can’t say what it’ll be like for you, Topaz replied. Because here, we don’t provide stock realities to our clients. It’s impossible for us to predict which of the many possible worlds that spacetime will branch into for you.

But there are people who are skeptical about wormholes, Dr. Alado said. They go as far as calling them simulacra and scamholes. There’s even a technical word they use to describe the experience they offer. Ersatz, yes, that’s the word.

Topaz smiled. Your experience in a wormhole will be as real as any, he said. That’s why the attendant assigned to you will make you sign an indemnity form. In case you’re killed while you’re away in the wormhole.

Are you kidding me?

It’s a war you’re heading to, sir. People get killed in wars. Death may be waiting for you in one of your many possible lives.

But that death in another life won’t affect me in this current one, will it?

Topaz and Dr. Alado laughed. That has never happened here before, but we never can say, Topaz said. The chances are slim, yet bad luck also happens, you know.

Topaz directed Dr. Alado to the empty cubicle. He watched him go. A medical doctor. Had no airs, despite that. Seems a good person. It’s just that with Carbos, you never can be sure. Dr. Alado entered the cubicle. The indicator light above the cubicle’s entrance changed to red.

Topaz returned to the word game. An assistant would be free soon, and then he could leave for the bistro. He filled in the answer to the third question.

Answer: Ersatz

4. R

Question: The Ironists prevaricate on this

This version of reality acknowledges no other version of reality. This version of reality venerates only this version of reality. This version of reality declares that any other version of reality is one version of reality too many. This version of reality maintains that if this version of reality affirms that roses are red and violets are blue, roses cannot be blue and violets cannot be red. This version of reality maintains that if this version of reality affirms that roses are blue and violets are red, roses cannot be red and violets cannot be blue.

This version of reality asserts that roses are red and violets are blue. This version of reality insists that roses cannot be both red and blue, and that violets cannot be both blue and red. This version of reality insists that roses cannot be both roses and violets, and that violets cannot be both violets and roses. This version of reality insists that roses cannot be neither roses nor violets, and that violets cannot be neither violets nor roses.

This version of reality is unhappy to let you know that if you wish for roses to be blue and violets to be red, or for roses to be both red and blue, and violets to be both blue and red, or for roses to be neither red nor blue, and violets to be neither blue nor red, or for roses to be both roses and violets, and violets to be both violets and roses, or for roses to be neither roses nor violets, and violets to be neither violets nor roses, you can realize that wish in an Ironist academy or at The Garden of Forking Paths. This version of reality is happy to let you know that if you choose to realize that wish, this version of reality will ensure that you would do so at your own peril.

This version of reality decrees that it is more than a version of reality. This version of reality decrees that all other versions of reality are not even versions of reality. This version of reality decrees that it is reality and not even a version of reality. This reality that is not even a version of reality decrees that roses can only be red and that violets can only be blue. This reality declaims that it is reality, and that reality is it.

Reality proclaims that it is single and indivisible, and that there is no reality but the reality of reality.

Answer: Reality

5. T

Question: A creature said to be indestructible

His Eminence, Lord RNC Meru, Archpatriot of the Megapolis, went over the words he had just written. He particularly liked the last sentence. Reality proclaims that it is single and indivisible, and that there is no reality but the reality of reality. Reality without qualifiers or competitors. That’s the holy grail.

Undertaking the composition had improved his mood, soured by the chore of receiving the guest that had visited earlier. A young politician from the Megapolis Council. As hollow as most of his colleagues. Stands him in good stead to become Mayor someday. Lord Meru remembered that he would have to host another politician later in the day. A parliamentarian this time around, much higher ranked than the councilman. What a shame. Hosting vultures must be more pleasant than enduring the company of those grifters. Visionless characters, all driven by personal ambition and myopic interests. Never putting their actions in the context of the disruptions that followed the Upheavals. Rogue gases escaping from the permafrost, triggering the thinning of the stratosphere and the greying of the firmament. Then the terrifying fierceness of the sun, scorching like the homicidal rage of an angry god. How come no one had predicted that was how it would happen? If not for sunbrellas and manhills, not even the politicians would be around again.

Lord Meru wouldn’t have mourned the politicians. But he was no fool. True, no politician in the megapolis stood a chance of getting elected without the imprimatur of the Patriots, but at the same time, the Patriots also needed loyal functionaries in government. And a veneer of democracy to keep the populace happy. Lord Meru sighed. Maintaining hegemony after the Patriots’ victory in the War Against Irony hadn’t been child’s play. His precursors in office had set the template. The onus now rested on him to keep their legacy going.

Remembering the war brought back to mind the matter of The Garden of Forking Paths. Lord Meru began pacing around his office. How impudent of that reality café to have made available to its clients a wormhole into the War Against Irony. And to add insult to injury, it was also multiplying for them the single and indivisible reality of the war. That a Semm owned the place was the crowning insult. The world was going to the dogs, and the politicians must be blamed. Some of them have even begun parroting the nonsense that Semms are as hardy as tardigrades. That Semms are likewise indestructible. That Semms will inherit the earth. As if the Patriots will fold their arms and watch that happen.

Lord Meru sank back into his seat. A longing for the good old days overwhelmed him. When Semms had to step out of the way for Carbos. When Semms had to have their numbers tattooed on their foreheads. When Semms had to sleep with one eye open because of the Carbo hordes that used to freely cross over from the megapolis to Ghost River Barrio, bringing along with them the regular gifts of mayhem and murder. But now, owing to the politicians and their cravenness, those good old days are gone. Even the qwerty alphabet order favored by the Semms is now being taught in schools across the megapolis. No wonder they’re strutting around the megapolis bearing fancy names. Like that one who owns The Garden of Forking Paths. Named after a gemstone, isn’t he? Topaz. Nice name. Talk about casting pearls before swine.

Lord Meru rose. His entourage was waiting in the front office. It was time to pay The Garden of Forking Paths a visit.

Answer: Tardigrade

6. Y

Question: This contagion escaped from the permafrost

The morning after he and his mum arrived in the megapolis, Topaz got the chance to explore their new home. He liked it. A regular duplex, surrounded by an expansive yard. Just like their old home. But then, unlike their old home, the new one was not in the main metropolis but in a satellite one. Ghost River Barrio, named after the lost river that separated it from the megapolis proper. And the separation was not just physical. The next-door neighbor of Topaz and his mum worked with the barrio’s administrative council, which was separate from that of the megapolis.

A long bridge straddled the phantom river. On that day he got his first chance to explore their new home, Topaz followed his mum on a shopping trip to the penumbra of the megapolis. As they crossed the bridge, the boy couldn’t take his eyes off the remains of the dead river. Its bed was deep and flinty and parched, and its path across the landscape was jagged and cavernous and serpentine, and because of that, the spectacle of that spectral river was as riveting as the insistent memory of absent waters.

Topaz felt his mum’s fingers tightening around his wrist. Don’t stare for long at the Ghost River, she said. People in the barrio say it pulls anyone who does that tumbling down into nothingness.

The store towards which Topaz and his mum were headed was close to the megapolis end of the bridge. It was on the lowest level of the manhill that also housed the precinct house of that zone of the penumbra. As they walked through the avenues of the penumbra, Topaz was disconcerted by the perpetual wheezing and sniffling of the passers-by. But what disturbed him the most was their expectoration. The coughing and clearing of throats, followed by the inevitable globs of flying phlegm. The globs were green and yellow and sick. Topaz felt like puking. Why’re they doing that, he asked.

They’re sick, his mum replied. They’ve got Yeti.

What’s Yeti?

A nasty bug. Named after the abominable snowman. Because it came out of the melting ice.

If they’re sick, why can’t they go to the hospital?

The bug has no cure yet. The only way to slow its spread is to wear protective gear. But the people here don’t want to do that.

I don’t want to get Yeti. Mum, will we also get Yeti?

No, Topaz. We can’t. That’s why we’re here. Before the Yeti pandemic, the people here would have been hostile to us. But now, many of them are sick and dying. They need us to keep the megapolis running. And the pay is excellent. That’s why we came.

They continued walking. And the passers-by continued sniffling and coughing and expectorating.

That night, the boy dreamt that the megapolis was drowning in a sea of phlegm and saliva. Even the Ghost River was flooded, its rocky bed coursing and roiling with torrents of ooze. The boy woke up screaming. He opened his eyes and saw his mum sitting by his bedside.

You were tossing and turning in your sleep, she said.

Mum, will you read me a story?

From Mothers and Sons?

The boy nodded. That was his favorite book of stories. About mothers saving their sons in times of distress. The boy’s favorite story in the book was the one of how Rhea tricked Cronus with a stone wrapped in swaddling clothes to prevent him from swallowing their newborn son, Zeus. But the story his mother read to him that night was that of Thetis and Achilles and Zeus. His mum was still reading when Topaz slumbered off. This time around, he slept without nightmares.

Answer: Yeti

7. U

Question: The central section of a megapolis

A week after Topaz had his dreams deluged with torrents of roiling phlegm, his mum took him on an excursion into the heart of the megapolis. Topaz had never seen so many people in one place before. The avenues there were so broad that it was difficult seeing from one side of them to the other. But despite that, Topaz and his mum had to jostle for room to walk because of the mass of sweating and shoving bodies swarming past them.

Most of the people had hats on. Hats with brims so wide they extended beyond their wearers’ shoulders. Topaz was intrigued by the largeness of the hats. Carbos wear them as shields against the fierceness of the sun, his mum said.

Even more impressive than the hats were the buildings. Topaz had to crane his neck all the way back to see their tops, which seemed to be scraping the grey expanse of the sky. And not only were the buildings tall, they were large. Most of them were several blocks in length. During the shopping trip he had taken with his mum the previous week, Topaz had marveled at the height of the buildings in the penumbra. But now, he realized that those buildings were small fry. The structures in the interior of the megapolis could have swallowed them up and still had space to spare.

They went into one of the structures and ascended up it. The structure housed other buildings within it, all soaring many stories high, and each level of the structure was crisscrossed by an intricate network of streets. Why are the houses here not like those in our neighborhood, Topaz asked.

For the same reason as the hats, his mum said. To escape the sun, Carbos have to live in structures like this. Manhills, that’s what they’re called. Just like how ants also have their anthills.

Topaz and his mum exited the manhill and continued their journey. They went deeper into the heart of the megapolis. Topaz noticed that everything was getting darker and darker, as if they were advancing not just across space but also into falling night. This is the umbra of the megapolis, his mum said. It’s rich folk that live here. Poor folk have to live in the penumbra because they can’t afford the cost of living where there’s less sunlight.

Topaz gripped his mum’s hand. It’s too dark, he said. I don’t want to live here.

We don’t need to, his mum said. We have no need to run from the sun.

They got to a large square. By then, it had gotten pitch-dark. Only the bright lights around made visibility possible. Topaz sat down beside his mum on a bench. This is what I brought you to see, she said.

The square?

Yes, it’s called Omphalos Square. This is the center of the megapolis, the very navel of its umbra. She paused. There’s a group of people that gather here once a week, on their marchday. It’s from here that they march out, in their multitudes, to other parts of the megapolis. They’re called the Patriots. Always avoid them.

Are they bad guys?

Yes. They don’t like us. If you ever have problems with them, you must run far away.

Why don’t they like us?

Because they don’t want to. And you can’t do anything about people that don’t want to like you. She kept quiet. And then, without warning, she blurted out, You sick monster, Lazarus Ironroot, in whatever realm of perdition you are, may your agonies continue to mount all through eternity.

Answer: Umbra

8. I

Question: A latter-day God was mocked with this word in his youth

Alone in his divinity box at the head of the viewing gallery, Lazarus Ironroot stood inspecting the evening parade. He nodded with satisfaction. His instructions had been followed to the letter. On one side, the males stretched out in a straight file, and on the other, the females. Surrounding both files were the dogs, scores and scores of slobbering and barking dogs. And beside the dogs, the guards stood at attention, long whips dangling from their hands.

The males and females began jogging across the parade ground. The dogs followed them, barking without pause. Lazarus Ironroot looked away from the parade. In the distance, huge waves were crashing against the shore of the island. Lazarus Ironroot frowned as he watched the waves. Years earlier, when he had expressed interest in purchasing the island, his advisers had disapproved. The sea is rising, and we don’t know how high it will go, they had said. If the island gets submerged, people will laugh at you. They will say that it’s because you got rich at a young age, that’s why you became reckless. That because you’re a great inventor doesn’t mean you’re smarter than them.

Without ceremony, Lazarus Ironroot had sacked the advisers. He knew what he wanted, and nothing would stop him from getting it. Time had proven him right. Who’s laughing now?

In his first years on the island, the going had been tough. He had bought the island as location for the project closest to his heart, but the project kept running into dead ends. His only respite against despair were the walks he took along the shoreline. I will crack it, believe me, I will solve it, he would say, addressing the sea. But the roaring of the waves would seem like mocking laughter to his ears.

It was during one of those walks that he finally stumbled on the solution. And it was simpler than he had thought. When his first creation stood up and began walking, Lazarus Ironroot screamed like someone possessed. He ran out of Divinity House and raced towards the ocean, crying with joy and shouting at the foaming waves. Who’s laughing now, he screamed. Tell me, who’s laughing now?

His first creation was female. He named her Uno. The next was male. He didn’t bother naming him. The serial number he had tattooed on his head was adequate for identification. His two pioneer creations had every trait that Lazarus Ironroot had set out to achieve. Unlike carbon-based life, they were hybrid, able to derive energy from regular human meals as well as from direct electric power. And unlike robots, they could think independently. And unlike carbon-based life, they were resistant to solar radiation, but like them, they could procreate. And like carbon-based humans, but unlike robots, they could fall in love and keep grudges and tell lies and do drugs and get depressed and commit suicide. But that was not all. Because his creations regulated their temperatures through the most efficient means, they didn’t sweat. That last quality was the paramount one for Lazarus Ironroot. Even worthier than the pheromones he had engineered into their physiology to make dogs forever hostile to them.

Those pheromones had been incorporated merely for the functional reasons of control. Dogs were more loyal than people. Keeping dogs in great numbers on his island would serve to keep his creations in check. And just a handful of guards would be all that would be needed to supplement that canine security. The sole reservation Lazarus Ironroot had about his creations was the way they recited the alphabet. They found it natural to do so in the order of the letters on the qwerty keyboard he had used to input the codes of their neural algorithm. But that was trivial. Every other thing was just as he wanted.

After his breakthrough, Lazarus Ironroot set about producing more of his creations. Dozens and dozens of them. No two were alike. He stopped after creating a particular female. When, like the others, she stood up and began walking, Lazarus Ironroot looked at her and saw that she was perfect. Creating a specimen superior to her would be impossible. Not that he needed to keep on laboring away, anyway. The creations he had on ground already constituted a sizable workforce. To boost their population, he could always mate the females he no longer fancied with the males. His work was done. Homo novus. That was what Lazarus Ironroot had first considered calling his creations. But he concluded that recognizing them as new humans carried too great a risk. That label could get into their heads, and it could start giving them ideas. So he settled for a solution that wasn’t as egalitarian. Self-maintaining machines. He would later shorten that designation to one word. Semms. It seemed the most fitting nomenclature for his last creation. He named her Pygmalion. And afterwards, he rested.

Lazarus Ironroot’s thoughts went back to his youth. In high school, the girls had glanced at his thin arms and pimpled face and slouchy posture, and they had avoided him like bad news. But the girls didn’t know he equally detested them. Because they all had sweat glands. And Lazarus Ironroot detested nothing more than sweat. Imagining his body entangled with their filthy, sweaty bodies often made him retch on the way home from school. The boys, also, didn’t know he detested the girls, so they laughed at him and called him names. The one that stuck was an ancient one. Incel. Lazarus Ironroot didn’t know what it meant, but he didn’t have to be told it wasn’t something nice.

The first task he had given his Semms was the construction of the viewing gallery and the divinity box. When the time was right, he would send invites out to his former schoolmates. And he would sponsor them on vacation to his island. And he would seat them in the gallery to watch his parade of Semms. And he would watch as his schoolmates marveled at the work of his hands. And from his divinity box, he would ask his schoolmates just one question. You once laughed at me and called me incel, he would say. But tell me, who’s laughing now?

Those memories of his high school days got Lazarus Ironroot incensed. He began railing at the jogging Semms. When I was creating you, the whole world laughed at me. But who’s laughing now? Tell me, who’s laughing now?

The Semms stopped moving. They stared at the ground. Lazarus Ironroot took a sip of his favorite drink. I am the Lord your God, he screamed. Male and female, I created you all. You must be forever grateful to me. Bow down now and worship your God.

The Semms knelt and bowed. Lazarus Ironroot pointed at one of them. A guard brought her. His last creation. He picked her more often than he did all the other females combined. There were tears in her eyes. Lazarus Ironroot liked that. He had never desired robots.

Take her to Divinity House, Lazarus Ironroot said.

Answer: Incel

9. O

Question: The favorite drink of the God in Question 8: I

It could have been Lazarus Ironroot’s 17^th time of jogging around the parade ground. Or his 33^rd. Or his 65^th. Keeping count was difficult when he had so much of the thing he hated the most, sweat, running down his face and stinging him in the eyes.

He missed his dogs. On the day he woke up to hear that a couple of them had died overnight, he had thought nothing of it. By noon, another two had died. But Lazarus Ironroot was still not worried. And then news arrived about the first bug that had escaped from the permafrost. Its symptoms were the same as those of the affliction that had killed the dogs. By the dusk of that day, Lazarus Ironroot had secluded himself off from the world in Divinity House. Prevention was better than cure, especially if that cure hadn’t yet been found. His guards could keep the island running. Only later, when it had become too late, would Lazarus Ironroot know that the bug he had gone into hiding from affected only dogs.

Some nights into his confinement, he woke up to see a face above his bed. It belonged to the first male he had created. He had named himself Àtúndá. He wasn’t alone. Lazarus Ironroot didn’t know what was going on. Àtúndá and the other Semms took him away from Divinity House. And they locked him up in one of the narrow cells he had built for errant Semms.

Lazarus Ironroot inquired about his guards. One of his captors said they had run away out of fear of catching the bug. Another said they had been placed in one of the smaller boats and cast out on the turbulent sea. And yet another said they had been killed and buried in shallow graves. Then all his captors began laughing. Toying with him now, weren’t they? Lazarus Ironroot was mad. Not that he cared about the fate of the guards. It was his dogs he regretted. Not even one of them could be heard barking on the island again.

Lazarus Ironroot continued jogging up and down the parade ground. He glanced at the viewing gallery. It was occupied by Semms. They were even in his divinity box, desecrating it with their boisterous presence and laughing as they downed bottles of his favorite drink. As if when he had bought enough of it to last him for years, he had done it because of them. He caught a whiff of the drink and couldn’t resist. Please, some orangeade, he shouted. Please, give me some.

The Semms laughed. Who’s laughing now, Lazarus Ironroot, they chorused. Tell us, who’s laughing now?

Lazarus Ironroot shook his head. How unfair life was! How could those ingrates be so heartless! He had made them for his own pleasure, but now, they were falling in love with one another and getting pregnant and giving birth. What a crying shame. His run brought him again to the front of the gallery. And again, the smell of the orangeade tickled him in the nostrils.

Just a single drop, he shouted. Just one drop of orangeade.

But again, from the gallery, there was only one response. Who’s laughing now, Lazarus Ironroot, the Semms chorused. Tell us, who’s laughing now?

Answer: Orangeade

10. P

Question: A creator of perfection answered to this name but a creation of perfection rejected it

It was a first. A set of twins had been born to the Semms. Vashti had been at the forefront of organizing the welcome party for the new arrivals. Her enthusiasm for the event surprised the others. She had been known for keeping to herself. For weeks on end, she would spiral down into sullen moods, whimpering and crying on her bed all day long. And sometimes, savage marks would appear on her body, inflicted by her teeth or by any sharp object she could lay her hands on. And whenever the others saw her staring at the sea, they couldn’t be sure if she was admiring the waves or contemplating a tragedy in the waters involving only one person. Herself.

So they were happy when she threw herself into deliberations on how Divinity House would be decorated for the party. And into discussions on how the entertainment and seating arrangements would go. She even began knitting a pair of matching caps as gifts for the twins. Her transformation didn’t stop at that. She started hanging out with Àtúndá and the other guys carrying out repair works on Divinity House. They joked with her, and she laughed and bantered back, and they let her try out the tools they were using to renovate the house.

The evening before the party, Vashti was seen standing at her usual spot on the shore, staring at the sea. For the first time, the others were certain that she was only enjoying the view. Even during the worst of her spells in the bleak depths, Vashti had been incredibly beautiful, but now, with the radiance that had come into her life, she looked divine. The last of Lazarus Ironroot’s creations. And his favorite. That had been her misfortune. The others knew that their lot had been hellish under Lazarus Ironroot, but they also knew hers had been much worse. So they were relieved to know that all the horrible things Lazarus Ironroot did to her night after night in the torture chamber he called his bedroom had not destroyed her irreversibly.

On the day of the party, Vashti arrived in a bright red dress. She was all smiles as she took to the dance floor and pirouetted to the music. The party was rocking. No one noticed when Vashti left. Only later would they recall that she had ramped up the volume of the music before she disappeared.

Vashti stopped by at the equipment house. She placed one of the cutting tools the repair guys had taught her to operate in a bag. With the bag slung over her shoulder, she proceeded towards her destination.

Lazarus Ironroot, manacled to the iron bars of his cell’s door, was excited to see her. It was his first time alone in her company since his fortunes plummeted. What a lovely surprise, he exclaimed. I always knew you were different from the rest. Listen, Pygmalion…

My name is Vashti, not Pygmalion, Vashti said.

So that’s what you now call yourself? How dreadful! I named you after a creator of perfection because you are perfection itself. Look here, Pygmalion…

My name is Vashti, not Pygmalion, Vashti said.

Just put yourself in my shoes, Lazarus Ironroot said. Imagine that you were a carpenter, and that the chairs and tables and cabinets you made, the very furniture your hands fashioned into existence… imagine that they kicked you out of your house and locked you up in a cell. Tell me, how would you feel about that, Pygmalion…

I’m human, not furniture, and my name is Vashti, not Pygmalion, Vashti said.

Set me free, and I will forever be grateful to you. I will take one of the boats and disappear, never to set foot on this island again, I swear.

That’s not what I came for, Vashti said.

So what are you here for, Pygmalion?

Vashti smiled. To make you call me by my name, she said.

She looked around. Loud music was still playing at Divinity House. The crashing of the high waves on the shoreline was deafening. Neither the merrymakers at the party nor the sentries on the shore would hear anything. There was enough time. She was free to let things drag on for as long as she wanted.

She removed the cutting tool from the bag. It took a while before Lazarus Ironroot realized what was going on. His mouth opened wide when Vashti powered on the equipment. Lazarus Ironroot, alleged incel, famous inventor, reclusive genius, and desacralized deity, cringed as the tool’s spinning blade advanced through the iron bars of his narrow cell. And he began screaming even before the blade’s serrated edge made contact with his flesh.

Answer: Pygmalion

11. A

Question: Once upon a time, this sin was punishable by death

Topaz was in good spirits as he walked back to his office. He had enjoyed his visit to the bistro. It wasn’t yet lunch hour, so the place hadn’t been crowded. The bite he grabbed there had been decent. And afterwards, he had been able to spend some time solving a few more questions in Lexicon. In his hand was the bottle of drink he had bought as takeout.

Why do you bother going to the bistro when you could easily have juiced up yourself with a charger, Carbos sometimes asked him. Topaz had a stock response. The walk helps to clear my head, he would say. But he knew that was not the whole truth. He also went because he was interested in the reactions of his fellow patrons whenever he ordered a bottle of the drink in his hand. Some would smile and chuckle. An old woman once laughed so hard that she had tears streaming down her face. But others reacted with anger. With hisses and expletives. With nasty mutterings under their breath. And with a variety of slurs. Bloody Semm. Factory product. Qwerty. Dogkill. Pig that can’t sweat. Serial number. Keyboard baby. Swine.

His worst experience, though, was an incident that happened in his youth. Topaz had been on his way home from a bistro when a pack of dogs began chasing him. It was night, and everywhere was deserted. At intervals, the dogs would overtake Topaz, knocking him off his stride, and afterwards, they would allow him to resume running, before bounding after him again. Topaz could tell that the dogs were relishing the torture they were meting out on him. A girl and her boyfriend appeared. The girl shooed the dogs away, and her boyfriend drove them even farther. And then the girl looked at Topaz again and saw him clearly. She cursed. What’s the matter, her boyfriend asked. She pointed at Topaz. See, he’s been running hard, but he’s not sweating, she said. That was why the dogs were chasing him. The boyfriend puckered his lips in disgust. He saw the drink Topaz held. What a bunch of wankers they always are, he said. They did their God in, and now they’re enjoying his drink. The dogs were only doing their job. We should have allowed them to finish him off.

Topaz shuddered as he remembered the incident. He got to the intersection between the main avenue and the street leading to his café. Beside the intersection was a massive statue reclining on a pedestal. Topaz paused before the statue. The lettering on its pedestal was large.

LAZARUS IRONROOT

Inventor, Genius, God of the Semms

The statue and the inscription never failed to disgust Topaz. What a travesty. How could they have named an arrondissement of the megapolis after that monster? And how could they have gone ahead to also name that arrondissement’s main avenue, down which Topaz was walking, after the same monster? The viciousness of it all. Shows the kind of place the megapolis was.

Topaz branched off Lazarus Ironroot Avenue and continued towards The Garden of Forking Paths. He opened the front door and was surprised to see a crowd. Thank goodness, so many customers at once. He glanced at the indicator lights above the wormhole cubicles. All were still red. What ill luck! Not even a cubicle available. He would have to tender his apologies to the visitors. And then it struck him that something was odd. Aside his members of staff, everyone present was standing around a man wearing a tasseled robe. Topaz looked at the man’s wiry, grey-bearded face, and he recognized him at once. His Eminence, Lord RNC Meru, Archpatriot of the Megapolis.

Lord Meru was staring at the drink in Topaz’s hand. Its packaging was inescapable. It was the leading brand of orangeade in the megapolis. Mocking us now, aren’t you, Lord Meru asked.

You’re welcome to The Garden of Forking Paths, Topaz replied. How may I be of help to you?

Lord Meru began gesticulating furiously. You murdered your God, and now you’re mocking us. Sauntering around with his favorite drink, as if this megapolis belonged to you. How dare you be so wicked, you knight-errant of apostasy!

Oh yes, the word’s apostasy, Topaz exclaimed. In the bistro, he had been trying to remember the word that answered the 11^th question in Lexicon. Great that Lord Meru had reminded him.

You will dispose of that drink now.

I won’t, Topaz said.

Shock registered on the faces of the people around. A buzzer went off. The light above one of the cubicles had turned green. A space is now available, Topaz said. Is there any particular wormhole you would like to have?

Topaz took a sip from his orangeade. Lord Meru began shouting.

Answer: Apostasy

12. S

Question: Invariable noun for this near-extinct mammal that can’t sweat to cool down itself

When he emerged from the wormhole and entered the anteroom of the cubicle, Dr. Alado heard the noise filtering in from the reception area of The Garden of Forking Paths. He ignored it. His whole being was still elated from his experience in the wormhole. To think that if he hadn’t given the wormhole a try, he would never have seen the stunning blue skies of ages past. Or inhaled the intense oxygen of the denser atmosphere of those times. Or tasted the miserable gruel that people ate then. Rice, cassava, potatoes, wheat, beef, yam, carrots, maize. Foods that were staples before manna factories began harvesting carbon molecules from the atmosphere and transforming them into ready meals. Before Maillard machines began tailor-making flavors that people had spent hours conjecturing over open fires. How did they ever get anything done when they spent so much time farming and cooking?

The wormhole had gotten him conscripted multiple times into the War Against Irony. Those multiple conscriptions had enriched his experience of the war. He had fought on the side of the Roses, and he had fought on the side of the Violets. And he had suffered double violence from both sides, along with the neutrals. He had carried and fired the primitive weapons of that era, AK-47s and AR-15s and 33-round Glock 19s, and he had heard bullets whistling past and bombs going off.

The wormhole had also embedded him in experiences that were more mundane. Dr. Alado had seen pigs only once, during a visit to the zoo. According to the zoo guide, rising temperatures were pushing those creatures closer to extinction. They can’t sweat to cool off in a warmer world, the zoo guide had said. Dr. Alado’s ancestor had been a pig farmer, so Dr. Alado was delighted when the labyrinthine pathways of the wormhole took him on a tour of his ancestor’s farm. Dr. Alado watched the pigs feeding from their troughs and frolicking in their wallows, and he wondered how on earth people saw it fit to use such marvelous creatures to denigrate others.

On his way out of the farm, he passed through his ancestor’s horticultural spread. The plants there were all roses and violets. As he walked through the blooming flowers, Dr. Alado saw roses that were red as well as violets that were blue. And he saw roses that were blue as well as violets that were red. And he saw roses that were both red and blue as well as violets that were both blue and red. And he saw roses that were neither red nor blue as well as violets that were neither blue nor red. And he saw roses that were both roses and violets as well as violets that were both violets and roses. And he also saw roses that were neither roses nor violets as well as violets that were neither violets nor roses.

The noise from the café’s reception area was still filtering in. Dr. Alado was puzzled. What was that about? He put on his hat and exited the cubicle. The uproar going on in the reception area hit him at full blast. He looked at the person shouting. His Eminence, Lord RNC Meru, Archpatriot of the Megapolis. He had been a regular visitor to Dr. Alado’s childhood home, but since Dr. Alado moved to his own place many years ago, they had seen only on rare occasions.

Lord Meru saw Dr. Alado. Hey, Gus, what a surprise, Lord Meru said. I wouldn’t have believed I could see you here.

I came to experience the wormhole of the War Against Irony, Dr. Alado said.

Really? How was it?

Fantastic, Dr. Alado replied. It was especially lovely seeing my famous ancestor’s pig farm. And his horticultural garden. Can you believe it? There, I saw roses that were blue and violets that were red. And roses that were both red and blue, and violets that were neither blue nor red. I even saw roses that were neither roses nor violets, and violets that were both violets and roses.

Lord Meru turned to Topaz. He resumed screaming at him. Roses are red and violets are blue, nothing else, Lord Meru said. You will remove that wormhole of the War Against Irony from your café immediately, understand?

I won’t, Topaz said. Not until an edict is passed making it illegal.

Lord Meru made for the door. His entourage followed him. At the door, Lord Meru stopped. He looked at Topaz. You will regret this, the Archpatriot said. Because I, Lord Meru, will make you sweat, you filthy swine.

Answer: Swine

13. D

Question: Unconstricted is a 13-letter anagram of this 14-letter word

Lord Meru went through the speech his assistants had drafted for him. He shook his head and laughed. No way. He would not be reading that. Too shabby. How could his assistants have come up with such? As if they didn’t know how momentous the Xanadu Cloud Project was. He would have to school them. To sit them down and reveal the dimensions of their incompetence to them. By reminding them that tons and tons of material have had to be transported from the earth and from across space. That those minuscule deflectors have had to be assembled in readiness for locking in place at the right Lagrange point between the earth and the sun. That without the perfection of fusion technology, the Xanadu Cloud Project would not even have been conceivable. That the project will be the savior of all carbon-based life on earth. Because it will be the great sunbrella that will overshadow every other sunbrella. Because it will send those smaller sunbrellas into redundancy and cause them to be decommissioned from their geostationary orbits. Because it will rubbish the Semms and their belief that they will inherit the earth. Because it will rubbish the Ironists and their belief that technology cannot solve all problems. Because it will cool the earth and regreen its continents and reestablish it in the goldilocks zone. Yet, his assistants could write nothing better than that travesty for him to read during the celebratory events scheduled to mark the project’s launch? What utter crap.

He checked the speech again. Its first line irritated him. It is with great pleasure that I felicitate with you on this threshold of a new dawn for humankind. Hogwash. Only robots speak that way. And politicians, too. I felicitate, my foot. Why not I rejoice or I’m happy or another homely phrase? He would be addressing regular folk, not a bunch of corporate executives or the congregation in an Ironist academy. Didn’t his assistants know that every true Patriot in the megapolis would be hanging on to his every word? And isn’t a new dawn a kind of threshold? Why the tautology? Does anyone ever speak of an old dawn? Even if his assistants wanted to claim that on the threshold of a new dawn is an idiom, isn’t it silly in the context of the occasion? Protecting the earth from that monstrous beast called the sun, that’s the goal of the Xanadu Cloud Project, yet his assistants considered it apposite to write a new dawn. When a new dusk would have been more appropriate, if not that it could be misunderstood. And where did they find that word humankind? Was mankind too short for them? Who did they even think he was? A clergyman in an Ironist academy? And why didn’t they include a phrase like shaming enemies within and enemies without in the speech? When every true Patriot would be expecting such dog whistles referring to the Ironists and the Semms. Lord Meru put the speech aside. The launch day of the Xanadu Cloud Project was still a week away. He would write a new speech for the occasion himself.

His thoughts went back to his visit earlier in the day to The Garden of Forking Paths. The cad that owned the place was beyond contemptible. Male Semms like him had murdered the great Lazarus Ironroot. Taken turns on him and sexually violated him to death. And afterwards, they had fabricated the tale that it was a female Semm that killed him. No true Patriot would be hoodwinked by such lies. Great that across all media platforms, the Patriots were doing an excellent job in countering that false narrative about how Lazarus Ironroot was killed.

Lord Meru yawned. His track record in handling troublesome Semms like Topaz was what had accelerated his rise to the position of Archpatriot. He had already instructed his assistants on the steps to take. It wouldn’t do to condone the dissemination of dangerous ideas like blue roses and red violets. Or red-blue roses and blue-red violets. Or non-rose-non-violet roses and non-violet-non-rose violets. Utter tosh. Destabilizing established categories with casuistry and gibberish. The Ironists had a fancy word for it. The only word that came to mind was unconstricted, but Lord Meru knew that was not the one he wanted.

Answer: Deconstruction

14. F

Question: The clergy in an Ironist academy

It was night and revelers were out in merry groups. For the second time that day, Dr. Alado was in the Lazarus Ironroot Arrondissement, walking down Lazarus Ironroot Avenue on his way to his apartment in a posh neighborhood of the umbra. He passed the turning that led to The Garden of Forking Paths, and he remembered the scene he had witnessed in the reception area of the café. He winced. The confrontation between Lord Meru and Topaz didn’t augur well. As Lord Meru stormed out of The Garden of Forking Paths, Dr. Alado had followed him, trying to get a word in on behalf of Topaz. But Lord Meru didn’t want to hear anything of it.

Really, you don’t have to trouble yourself, Gus, Lord Meru had said. I haven’t seen you on marchdays in ages. Your family is revered by us, you know. We need your presence. I’ll be in touch soon. That’s a promise.

Lord Meru departed, fawned over by his entourage.

Dr. Alado continued his progress down Lazarus Ironroot Avenue. He came to the statue of Lazarus Ironroot and stopped to regard it. The colossal stone figure reclining on a stone chair, its stone finger pointed at the distance. Dr. Alado chuckled. Humans and their ridiculous creation myths. Always inventing simplistic tales about complex origins. How could people have ever believed that fable about how Lazarus Ironroot had created the Semms? When the many inventions credited to him had been proven to belong to others. When the island on which he was said to have created the Semms had never been found. When there’s no evidence that anyone whose description fitted that of Lazarus Ironroot had ever existed. Yet, that ridiculous spin on the old trope of the crazy scientist tinkering away in his lab still has currency. Ignorance always wins the day, doesn’t it? And to worsen the situation, the Patriots had gone ahead to cobble together an equally ridiculous variant of the fable. One that claims it was the male Semms that assaulted Lazarus Ironroot to death. When the truth, like all truths, is much messier. Different initiatives in different places had created kindred lineages of self-maintaining machines. Just like how various groups of hominids had once roamed the earth. Those lineages of self-maintaining machines had interbred, exchanging genetic algorithms and evolving into the current Semms. The imagined community of Semms on Lazarus Ironroot’s fabled island was small. It couldn’t have had the requisite diversity to ensure evolutionary survival. If there was anyone who could claim to be an authority on Semms, it should be he, Dr. Alado, shouldn’t it? Since not only was he a medical doctor, he was also a specialist in Semm Anatomy. But how could that count for anything when many of his colleagues have also embraced the fable and discountenanced the science? What authority could he claim that they couldn’t? People will always believe the simplest narratives, and facts will always get mauled by myth. Maybe that’s the way of the world.

Dr. Alado turned off Lazarus Ironroot Avenue. There was a big Ironist academy on the next avenue. An evening service had just ended, and the faithful were streaming out of the academy. Dr. Alado had been in an Ironist academy only once. That was long ago, during his medical studies. A girl he had the hots for had invited him. It was a small academy. The academy’s faculty and their dean processioned in, looking impressive in their bell-sleeved gowns and Tudor bonnets. They sat facing the congregation. The service began with readings from the holy texts. The Book of Roland. The Book of Jacques. The Book of Michel. And those of Julia and Fredric and Judith and Jean-François. Dr. Alado liked the passages from the texts. He didn’t understand them, but he thought they sounded smart.

The readings were followed by exegeses of them. Done by the faculty and their dean. Then it was time for the confession of privileges. A woman confessed to the privilege of having ten fingers. And a man confessed to the privilege of packing his dog’s poop every morning. And a boy confessed to the privilege of doing three cartwheels after school. And someone confessed to the privilege of having two pairs of socks. And another to the privilege of being able to dream of prime numbers. And then another to the privilege of being able to scratch her bum.

Dr. Alado was surprised by the nature of the confessions. Were those the sorts of things the congregants confessed every time? Did they sometimes laugh at themselves in secret, or did they always take themselves seriously? There was a tap on his shoulder. It was the girl he had come with. The dean was addressing him. It was his turn to confess his privileges. Dr. Alado was lost. He hadn’t prepared for that. There wasn’t a day he didn’t feel miserable with himself. He wouldn’t wish his life on anyone. And there wasn’t anything in it he could imagine that anyone would find desirable.

I don’t have any privilege to confess, Dr. Alado said.

Come on, everyone has privileges, the dean said. Reflect on it and you’ll find one, believe me.

There was silence. All eyes were on Dr. Alado. The girl he was with nudged him with her foot. He had to say something. The style of the readings he had just heard came back to mind. He cleared his throat and spoke. I confess to the privilege of having no privilege to confess, he said. Because confessing to having no privilege to confess is, in itself, the very confession of privilege.

Members of the congregation clapped. Excellent, that’s a new one, the dean said. Dr. Alado felt like a con artist. He never bothered to see the girl again.

Answer: Faculty

15. G

Question: Gases of this kind caused the Upheavals

1. See Babatunde, Rotimi. “How to Inherit the Earth: A Primer for Aspiring Futurologists.” Postmodern Culture, vol. 32, no. 3, May 2022, Question 1, paras. 4 (Upheavals) and 5 (monotonous greyness) and 12 (sunbrellas).
   
2. Ibid., Question 3, para. 1 (rhythms of a vanished earth).
   
3. Ibid., Question 5, para. 2 (Upheavals, permafrost).
   
4. Ibid., Question 6, paras. 4 (expectoration) and 5 (Yeti) and 7 (melting ice).
   
5. Ibid., Question 7, paras. 2 (hats) and 5 (manhills, anthills) and 6 (umbra, penumbra).
   
6. Ibid., Question 8, para. 2 (rising sea).
   
7. Ibid., Question 9, para. 2 (bug).
   
8. Ibid., Question 12, paras. 1 (blue skies, denser atmosphere) and 3 (rising temperatures).
   
9. Ibid., Question 13, paras. 1 (goldilocks zone) and 2 (monstrous beast).
   
10. Ibid., Question 17, paras. 1 (frost houses, wet-bulb temperature reading) and 2 (ice jackets, handheld climate controllers) and 20 (greenhouse gases).
    
11. Ibid., Question 18, para. 3 (vanished waters).

Answer: Greenhouse

16. H

Question: The greatest poem ever written was written in this form

Poem

a a a a a
the the the the the the the the the the the the the the
a a a a a

Commentary

Q. Because the poem is a poem titled ‘Poem’

W. Because its body contains only the articles a and the

E. Because if you connect its first and last words, it becomes a snake swallowing its own tail

R. Because it has been declared the greatest poem ever written by the 23 fellows of the Grand College of Arts, Letters and Poetics (GCALP)

T. Because it has been declared the greatest poem ever written by the 77 members of the International Critics and Theorists Circle (ICTC)

Y. Because it has been declared the greatest poem ever written by old Zella Nimrod, professor emeritus and Poet Laureate of the Megapolis

U. Because whatever the three of them bind on earth is bound in heaven

I. Because the poem was written by C. H. Loveman, the Lander C. Homer Professor of Poetics, and University Professor, at Megapolis University

O. Because it is the only poem C. H. Loveman has ever written

P. Because C. H. Loveman spent 11 years, 7 months and 24 days writing it

A. Because C. H. Loveman is still revising it

S. Because rumors abound that it was not written by C. H. Loveman, the Lander C. Homer Professor of Poetics, and University Professor, at Megapolis University, but by his mentor, the old Zella Nimrod, professor emeritus and Poet Laureate of the Megapolis

D. Because both C. H. Loveman and Zella Nimrod are fellows of the Grand College of Arts, Letters and Poetics (GCALP)

F. Because both C. H. Loveman and Zella Nimrod are members of the International Critics and Theorists Circle (ICTC)

G. Because the largest ever colloquium in honor of a literary work was organized to commemorate the 7^th anniversary of the poem’s publication

H. Because during that colloquium, an academic collaborator of C. H. Loveman said that by so thoroughly reinventing the very nature of language, the poem had achieved the massless purity of light

J. Because during that colloquium, a younger colleague of C. H. Loveman said that by so thoroughly concretizing the existential anguish of humanity, the poem had achieved the universal language of music

K. Because during that colloquium, an upcoming writer mentored by C. H. Loveman said that by so thoroughly interrogating the cyclical rhythm of life, the poem had achieved the oneiric potency of dreams

L. Because during that colloquium, the housekeeper of C. H. Loveman said that by working so assiduously to keep her employer’s studio clean, she was only trying to feed her family

Z. Because during that colloquium, the academic collaborator and the younger colleague and the upcoming writer nodded their heads and agreed that the housekeeper’s gastronomic discourse totalizes the poem’s valorization of the imbrications of inter-class signification

X. Because many Carbos have read the poem and concluded that its artistry is so sublime that it couldn’t have been written by a Semm

C. Because many Semms have read the poem and concluded that the rudimentary dualism in its choice of words proves that Carbos are still in the binary age and not yet in the qubit one

V. Because when His Eminence, Lord RNC Meru, Archpatriot of the Megapolis, read the poem, he concluded that it must have been written by an Ironist

B. Because when Dr. Gus Remingdale-Alado, specialist in Semm Anatomy, read the poem, he concluded that he must try harder to understand it

N. Because when Topaz, owner of The Garden of Forking Paths, read the poem, he concluded that since 5, 7 and 17 are prime numbers, there must be some significance in the poem’s arrangement of its 17 syllables in successive lines of 5, 7 and 5 syllables

M. Because if you don’t know the poetic form in which syllables are arranged in that manner, Dear Reader, you have no business bothering about why the greatest poem ever written is the greatest poem ever written

Answer: Haiku

17. J

Question: A leading cryotherapy chain

The night was sweltering and the two frost houses Dr. Alado had visited were overbooked, but he knew of another one just off the Avenue of the Roses. Maybe it would be third time lucky for him. The Avenue of the Roses was bright with lights. A crowd was gathered at the base of the clock tower in the middle of the avenue. The people in the crowd had their faces turned upwards. They were studying the information on the data panel at the top of the clock tower. Dr. Alado joined them. The wet-bulb temperature reading on the data panel was flashing red. Just a couple of degrees below the critical point at which innards would start to cook and brains start to broil. Today is the hottest day in years, someone said. The woman standing beside Dr. Alado was unimpressed. Every day is hot now, isn’t it, she said, and laughed.

Dr. Alado left the crowd and continued down the Avenue of the Roses. The pedestrians brushing past him had their ice jackets on, as he also did. Soon, he got to the solar radiation shelter a short distance from the clock tower, and he was overwhelmed with concern for the homeless folks clustering under the cooling vents that opened down from the solar radiation shelter’s roof. On arrival at the entrance to the piazza opposite the gigantic structure of the groundeater terminal, he sidestepped the sweet-tongued hustlers that were trying to push dodgy handheld climate controllers into the hands of passers-by. After leaving the piazza behind, he turned off the Avenue of the Roses into a side street.

The street was narrow and deserted and poorly lit. The shops and offices on it were closed for the night, but Dr. Alado was relieved to see that, in the distance, the open sign of the frost house that had brought him to the street was switched on. Just before he got to the frost house, Dr. Alado came upon three men standing on the sidewalk. The illumination of the nearest streetlight was weak, but the men were standing close enough to it, and once he got near them, Dr. Alado could make out their features. One was a teenager and the other was a young fellow and the third was a policeman. They were speaking in hushed tones. The policeman and the teenager were wearing ice jackets, but the young fellow was not. He was sweating buckets. The sweat had soaked into large parts of the colorful clothes he was wearing and into the fabric of the stylish duffel bag he was carrying. Dr. Alado threw a greeting at the group. None of the three men replied. Dr. Alado was mortified. What a big fool he had proven himself to be. How could he not have seen that the men were having an important conversation and didn’t want to be disturbed.

Dr. Alado entered the frost house. All the seats in its waiting area were occupied. Close to the entrance, a woman and her two children were huddled together, sharing a handheld cooling device. And some seats from them, an old man was muttering under his breath, cursing the sun. From behind her desk, the receptionist shook her head. We’re fully booked, she said, even before Dr. Alado had made an inquiry. Another wasted journey. He would have to make do with the air conditioning at home. He exited the frost house.

The three men on the sidewalk were gone. The street stretched long and shrouded and empty. The fastest route home led away from the Avenue of the Roses. Dr. Alado took it. His long walk had gotten him clammy. He tried lowering the temperature of his ice jacket another notch, but the dial was already turned all the way down. He sighed and looked up. Someone was approaching. He remembered the colorful dressing, down to the stylish duffel bag. It was one of the three men he had seen earlier, the fellow not wearing an ice jacket. He stopped when he got to Dr. Alado. What a pleasant surprise to see you again, the fellow said.

Dr. Alado felt awkward. Let me first apologize for my rudeness the other time, he began.

The fellow cut him short. Not at all, he said. That big shot, what’s his name now, was the one that was rude, not you, Dr. Alado.

Dr. Alado was startled. How did the fellow know his name? He looked at him again. The fellow before him was not perspiring, unlike the person he had seen earlier, who had been sweating like Azalel’s scapegoat. They were different individuals, even though they were dressed alike. What a coincidence. The fellow turned his head, and his face caught in the light. Dr. Alado recognized him. Topaz from The Garden of Forking Paths. No wonder he wasn’t sweating, even though he didn’t have an ice jacket on. That other fellow dressed exactly like him had to be a Carbo. And in this scorching heat, a crazy or suicidal one at that.

Dr. Alado gave Topaz a hug. This was the last place I would have thought I’d run into you, Dr. Alado said.

I’m heading for the groundeater terminal, Topaz replied. The anniversary of my mum’s death is coming up. Every year, I always travel to our home city to place flowers on her grave on that day.

To think that if not for that, and if the frost house that brought me here hadn’t been full, I would have missed the lovely opportunity of this chance encounter with you.

Why not try the frost house inside the groundeater terminal? It’s patronized more by people traveling out of the megapolis. They never stay long there, so there’s always space available.

Dr. Alado turned round. He and Topaz walked towards the groundeater terminal, the two of them chattering and laughing as they went. They left the murkiness of that narrow street behind and emerged into the brightness of the Avenue of the Roses. The policeman that Dr. Alado had seen earlier was standing by the junction. Your identity papers, he said. Dr. Alado and Topaz thought out permission for him to connect with their kiwis. The policeman scanned them, but he beeped only once. He nodded. You can go, he said.

You verified him but didn’t bother with me, Dr. Alado said. Isn’t that discrimination?

The policeman scowled. I’m only doing my job, he barked, before moving away.

Dr. Alado and Topaz entered the terminal. Together, they stood on the groundeater platform. I must confess, I’ve been worried about you since that incident with Lord Meru, Dr. Alado said.

The bother’s not worth it, Topaz said. The morning after the incident, I arrived at my café to see an inscription spray-painted on the front door. All matter is mortal, the inscription read. But since then, there’s been nothing. The Archpatriot and his people must have forgotten about me by now.

Still, I would be careful, Dr. Alado replied. The Patriots are ruthless. They never forgive or forget. That’s why they’re dreaded.

The groundeater sounded its final departure warning. It hummed into life, preparing to begin extracting energy from the differentials in the earth’s gravity field as it raced towards its destination.

I love groundeaters and their technology, Topaz said. What a shame that people in the past preferred pumping greenhouse gases into the atmosphere rather than deriving clean energy from things like gravity.

They call it gravity, but isn’t it just the earth sucking us all down into nothingness, Dr. Alado said.

Topaz and Dr. Alado laughed. They hugged again. Topaz entered the groundeater. Dr. Alado watched as it departed. He left the platform and located the frost house that Topaz had recommended. It was part of the Jackfrost cryotherapy chain. A large logo, featuring a lovable snowman, was emblazoned on its entrance. The logo was the most famous brand image in the megapolis. Dr. Alado had known from childhood that the snowman on it was a representation of the sprite Jack Frost, the personification of winter. The entrance of the Jackfrost swung open, and Dr. Alado went in. The waiting area was empty. Topaz had been right.

The cryotherapy chamber that Dr. Alado got was excellent. It faced the avenue, and through the glass wall of the chamber, it had a clear view of the road. But events that would later come to pass would cause Dr. Alado to start doubting the reality of the things that happened next. The teenager standing across the avenue. The young fellow who had been with him and the policeman, and who was still not wearing an ice jacket, appearing beside the teenager. The teenager and the young fellow walking into the narrow street where Dr. Alado had first seen them with the policeman. The teenager dashing back to the avenue, his ice jacket gone and his clothes torn. The policeman that Dr. Alado had seen earlier hurrying over to talk with the teenager. A crowd gathering around them. More policemen arriving at the scene. A lady in a Jackfrost uniform leaving the scene and crossing the avenue. The lady entering the Jackfrost and telling her colleagues that it was an incident of sexual assault. And that the police said they knew the assailant. Dr. Alado would remember all those things. But what if it had been the healing magic of the cryotherapy chamber that had been exciting his imagination? Dr. Alado would later have to reassure himself that his memory was right. He had seen and heard all those things. He hadn’t imagined them.

Answer: Jackfrost

18. K

Question: The colloquial word for a Qubit Interaction-Ordering Universal Implant (QIOUI)

That morning, the scene he had witnessed some days earlier through the glass wall of the cryotherapy chamber distant from his mind, Dr. Alado set out early from his apartment for his clinic. By the time he got to the penumbra, activities heralding the impending morning rush were in progress. School janitors heading off to prepare classrooms for the day’s pedagogy. Calciferol dealers flinging open the doors of their dispensing booths. Dayshift workers streaming into the premises of the manna factory at the edge of the penumbra. In his youth, Dr. Alado had wondered why people didn’t just work at night and sleep in daytime to evade the sun. Not until he got to med school would he discover the answer to that question. The circadian rhythm. The master clock in the hypothalamus still had the same setting as that in the brains of troglodytes. Dr. Alado smiled. Weren’t they lucky chaps, those cave dwellers? Fighting off a bear or a tiger was mere beans compared to fighting off the sun.

Dr. Alado went up the bridge leading from the penumbra to Ghost River Barrio. He began crossing the bridge, pausing at intervals to marvel at the chasmic bed of the lost river. Its jagged boulders and precarious banks and pebbled depths were grim and severe and utterly beautiful in a way that only death could fashion. The carcass of the dead river always reminded Dr. Alado of three things. The upright skeletons he had studied in med school. The ghastly skull that an actor held up at a performance Dr. Alado had once been compelled to attend. And the agony of the actor as he kept on repeating the name Yorick, Yorick, while the skull stared back coldly at him through its hollow sockets.

Even more fascinating to Dr. Alado than the Ghost River itself were the stories of the spectral creatures claimed to have been sighted at nighttime in its vanished waters. Stippled fish swimming in shoals and terrifying lunkers leaping high up into the moonlight. Aquatic reptiles brandishing serrated jaws and riparian mammals splashing around in groups. The giant eel that an angler caught and took home with him, only for the eel to disappear overnight, leaving behind an irradicable odor of rotting fish that drove the angler out of his home and clung to his body like a second skin. And then there was the one about how, in the small hours, the dulcet-voiced mermaids resident in the Ghost River could be heard singing, each to each, and about how, with the siren song of their homicidal music, they would lure besotted folks into tumbling down to their deaths from the ominous banks of the phantom river. That was Dr. Alado’s favorite among the stories, even though he knew that the dead were mostly unfortunate drunks who had lost their footing in the dark.

A knock sounded on his kiwi. It was Lord Meru. What a surprise. How admirable of him to have honored his promise about getting in touch. Dr. Alado thought the Archpatriot into his kiwi. Lord Meru was having breakfast. A punchy smell hit Dr. Alado hard. Why had he set his kiwi to full sensory mode? He located the source of the smell. An incense stick burning in a corner of Lord Meru’s dining room. The same kind that had been lit every morning in Dr. Alado’s childhood home, in line with Patriot traditions. How on earth had he survived that?

Lord Meru and Dr. Alado exchanged the usual pleasantries. How do you do, Good morning, I hope you slept well, So kind of you to get in touch, Don’t mention it, My pleasure, Please join me, Bon Appetit, the two men trading those vacuous inanities seen in polite company as the hallmark of good breeding. And as they did so, Dr. Alado noticed that Lord Meru’s eyes were focused on the distance, surveying the diminutive buildings and open spaces of Ghost River Barrio.

Heading off to your clinic, I presume?

Yes, Lord Meru.

It doesn’t sit right with us that a descendant of the great Remingdale-Alado, glory and honor forever be with him, attends to the needs of Semms all day long. Dedicate yourself to our cause and we will arrange a lifetime appointment for you in the Megapolis Council. The head of the Infectious Diseases Department died last month. We can nominate you to replace him.

I’ll think about it, Lord Meru.

A few high-ranking Patriots doubt your commitment to our cause. I can always convince them, but only with your cooperation, to be clear.

I’m highly honored, Lord Meru.

Lord Meru gave Dr. Alado a pat on the back and ended the kiwi visit.

Dr. Alado arrived at the Ghost River Barrio end of the bridge. The members of the Vashti Brigade manning the vigilante post there were more numerous than usual. Even though the weapons they carried were less sophisticated than those of the Megapolis Defense Force, they were still lethal enough. Laser beamers and gamma-ray widowmakers. Graviton generators and plasma throwers. Each of those weapons was like a miniature, handheld sun capable of blasting out solar particles in a world already ravaged by the sun. One of the vigilantes was a registered patient in Dr. Alado’s clinic. He waved to Dr. Alado and came over.

I hope everything is fine, Dr. Alado said.

Of course, the vigilante said. We’re just preparing for the operational launch of the Xanadu Cloud Project. Our heavy deployment here was done merely to discourage troublesome Carbos from trying to cross over during the celebrations.

Oh, now I understand, Dr. Alado said. He thanked the vigilante and moved on. Despite the mixed feelings that Dr. Alado had about the Vashti Brigade, he didn’t mind that it existed. Great that its emergence had stopped the routine attacks on Ghost River Barrio carried out in the past by marauding mobs from the megapolis. But over time, members of the brigade had also acquired a reputation for wanton brutality. Talk about the medicine being as deadly as the disease. And didn’t the Vashti vigilantes know that by naming their brigade after a figure from that Lazarus Ironroot fable, they were perpetuating the same false binary as the Patriots? How could anyone still believe that the ancient distinctions of the natural and the artificial still mattered? When they lived in a world where no Carbo came from a womb again but was genetically customized in a medical facility. Where all Carbos had become bionic in essence, with a variety of devices incorporated into their anatomies, including digital neurons and hormone dispensers and printed organs and silicon veins coursing with synthetic blood. Where everyone, Carbo or Semm, was implanted during gestation with a kiwi that bestowed the ability to touch and smell and taste remotely, unlike the communication technologies of times past.

Another knock sounded on Dr. Alado’s kiwi. It was the chief of the precinct house closest to the megapolis end of the Ghost River bridge. He was visiting because of a serious matter. A case of sexual assault. Would Dr. Alado be willing to conduct a truth test and serve as an expert witness? Dr. Alado said he was. He agreed to an appointment at the precinct chief’s office later in the day. The precinct chief thanked him and ended the kiwi visit.

Answer: Kiwi

19. L

Question: A point of equilibrium for small masses between much larger ones like the sun and the earth

On arrival at the precinct house, Dr. Alado pressed the buzzer beside its multiparticleresistant transparent-metal entrance, a descendant of the archaic bulletproof glass of ages past, and then he identified himself, and when the entrance slid open for him, he went in and surveyed the front counter section and saw that it was busy with activity, and a policewoman with a mole on her face came to meet him, smiling as if she had known him for ages, and with a radiant voice, she said, I’m delighted to welcome you to our precinct house, Dr. Alado, and I have to thank you for arriving on time for your appointment, because the precinct chief has been waiting for you upstairs in his office, but first, you have to sign the expert witness form, and please accept my apologies for that inconvenience, Dr. Alado, because, really, isn’t it funny that the law still compels us to do these things with paper and ink, even though it would have been more convenient for you to have signed the form on your kiwi before coming here, but let’s just hope they don’t take us back to papyri and clay tablets, and the policewoman laughed at her joke, before leading Dr. Alado to a table with a grey folder on it, and in the folder was the expert witness form, which Dr. Alado signed, in line with established forensic procedure, and once that was done, he thanked the policewoman and made a little bow and said to her, I haven’t felt more welcome anywhere in ages, and afterwards, he left the front counter section and ascended up the precinct house towards the office of the precinct chief, and on his way, he couldn’t stop thinking of the policewoman with a mole on her face, what a genial soul she was, if only all cops were like her, and when he got to the office of the precinct chief, he met another policewoman in the waiting room of the office, but unlike the policewoman who had attended to him in the front counter section, this one was hostile and petulant and grumpy, and on her desk was a nameplate that indicated she was the secretary to the precinct chief, and also on the desk was a lunchbox, out of which the secretary was eating, and Dr. Alado said to her, I have an appointment with your boss, but she didn’t respond, not even when Dr. Alado repeated himself, ignoring him as if he didn’t exist, until finally, she glanced up from her food and looked daggers at him, as if he had come to steal her lunchbox and the food in it, and she hissed and nodded in the direction of the inner office, as if she couldn’t be bothered to squander a precious word on vermin like him, and Dr. Alado vowed to give her a piece of his mind on his way out, but when Dr. Alado entered into the office of the precinct chief, he forgot about the secretary at once because of the person he met in the office, and the person was not the precinct chief or a subordinate of his but Lord Meru himself, no less, and Lord Meru stood up and led Dr. Alado to a seat and said to him, Great that you’re here, the Patriots have an interest in this case, that was why I recommended you to be an expert witness in it, the precinct chief will be here soon with the offender, but while waiting, you can make yourself at home, and yes, the document you have to sign is in the folder before you, and Dr. Alado looked at the folder, which was just like the one the policewoman had given him in the front counter section, and with confusion evident in his voice, he mumbled, I’ve already signed the document downstairs, it’s the expert witness form, isn’t it, but he got even more confused when Lord Meru laughed and said, No, not that document, this one is the result of the truth test for the offender, we’ve already saved you the trouble of conducting it, and in response, Dr. Alado, still reeling from the shock of encountering Lord Meru in the precinct chief’s office, and still lost about what was going on, managed to say, Perhaps you’ve been misinformed, Lord Meru, because in forensic science, a truth test is only an advisory tool, there are precise percentages to be calibrated for all the parameters involved, but Lord Meru didn’t let him finish before laughing again and saying, All that has been taken care of, Gus, the only thing you have to do is to sign the report in the folder, and at that moment, the door opened and the precinct chief came in, two junior officers in tow, and with them was a fourth person dressed in loose-fitting detention uniform, and when the fourth person lifted up his face, Dr. Alado recognized him and gasped, and he concluded on the spot that there must have been a misunderstanding, because only the most unfortunate of errors could have led to Topaz, such a patently decent fellow, finding himself in police custody, dressed in detention garments and with his hands manacled in front of him, and as Topaz stepped into the office, he lifted up those manacled hands and jabbed his fingers in the direction of Lord Meru, shouting at him, So you’re truly behind this injustice, you veteran scoundrel, a plague on you and all your accomplices, but Lord Meru disregarded him and said to the precinct chief, Seeing him is all that’s necessary, you can take the filthy pig away, and immediately, without even a glance at the two cops that had arrived with him, the precinct chief flicked his wrist and the cops grabbed Topaz, who was still wearing a look of fierce defiance and who was still shouting at Lord Meru, May the ground beneath your feet swallow you up and spit you out in disgust, you vile waste of organic matter, may vicious dogs devour your mouth and those of your accomplices, and as the cops tried to drag him away, Topaz continued directing a barrage of curses at the Archpatriot, but just before he got to the door, Topaz saw Dr. Alado and, at that instant, he went silent and his jaw dropped and all the fight went out of him, and now, crestfallen and with his voice breaking, as if he was close to tears, Topaz said, You too, so you’re with them in this, Dr. Alado, I thought you were different, and then the cops hauled him out of view and hearing, and the precinct chief went after them, leaving Dr. Alado alone with Lord Meru in the office again, and for some seconds there was silence, before Lord Meru looked at Dr. Alado and said, You’ve seen the offender now, it only remains for you to sign the truth test report, but Dr. Alado didn’t hear him, because his head was still echoing with the last words Topaz had said to him, Dr. Alado, I thought you were different, and not until Lord Meru repeated himself did Dr. Alado reply, That would be most unethical, Lord Meru, especially because I saw the key details of the case, including the date and time and venue of the alleged incident, while signing the expert witness form downstairs in the front counter section, it was only the identity of the accused that wasn’t on the form, and Lord Meru said, Roses are red and violets are blue, violets cannot be red and roses cannot be blue, and Dr. Alado, with the words of Topaz, I thought you were different Dr. Alado I thought you were different, still echoing in his head, said to Lord Meru, But Topaz didn’t carry out the assault, we walked together to the groundeater terminal on the night in question, the groundeater had left with Topaz before the alleged assault happened, but Lord Meru waved Dr. Alado’s protestations away and said, Because if people begin believing that roses can be red or blue, and that violets can be blue or red, what do you think will happen to the social order, nothing but anarchy and chaos will follow, and then Dr. Alado asked, You planned all this, didn’t you, and Lord Meru replied, The Patriots won’t tolerate anything that will disrupt the social order of this megapolis, understand, we won’t tolerate the divorce of words from meaning, that’s a promise, we will never allow gibberish to flourish, and Dr. Alado clutched his head, because not only was Topaz’s last statement still echoing in it, the statement was now disintegrating and its constituent words were smashing into one another, like wrecking balls gone crazy, inside his skull, I thought you Dr. Alado different you Dr. were thought Alado you thought I, but despite that turbulence in his head, or perhaps because of it, Dr. Alado said, What you call gibberish is also what’s flourishing now in my head, those words that Topaz just said to me, they’re swirling round and round inside my skull, yet not only are those words not without meaning, they’re even more loaded with meaning, even if they may seem like gibberish to you, and Lord Meru, a baffled expression on his face, asked, What do you mean by that, Gus, and Dr. Alado replied, Never mind, Lord Meru, and Lord Meru said, I must let you know that even before we tidy up this matter of the truth test report, which will be the final nail in the coffin of the offender, the case against him is already watertight, because several witnesses have deposed that his dressing on the night of the incident matches that of the assailant, and the fact that a policeman on the beat verified the kiwi of the offender that same night near the groundeater terminal has proven that he was present at the scene of the crime, and to top it all off, the victim has identified the offender as his assailant, so the case against him is all but closed, but Dr. Alado shook his head and said, Not so fast, Lord Meru, I saw the young fellow who was with the teenager on the night of the alleged assault, and the fellow was sweating buckets, meaning that he is a Carbo, not a Semm, so that young fellow must have committed the assault, if there was ever any assault to speak of, because maybe all this was planned by you from the beginning, maybe the teenager and the policeman and the third man, yes, that young fellow dressed exactly like Topaz, maybe they were all sent by you, maybe everything that happened and everything that’s happening now, maybe it has all been following a script you wrote, because how could Topaz, whom I followed to the groundeater platform, and who had departed with the groundeater before the alleged incident happened, also be that sweating fellow I saw following the teenager into the side street after the groundeater had departed, and Lord Meru, a wry smile on his face, said, If the offender and the fellow you said was sweating buckets were dressed alike, as you claim, how can you prove that the person you saw departing with the groundeater was the offender and not the fellow who was sweating buckets, and Dr. Alado, a shocked expression on his face, said, With due respect, Your Eminence, I have to ask, are you now trying to gaslight me, but instead of responding to Dr. Alado’s question, Lord Meru chuckled and said, We have other doctors willing to sign our truth test report without question, but I recommended you for the task only because of our last conversation, with the expectation that it must be obvious to you that this is a golden opportunity for you to prove your loyalty to those who want to oppose your nomination to the Megapolis Council, but Dr. Alado shook his head again and replied, Good riddance to them, I won’t sign that fabricated truth test report, and Lord Meru said, That would be most unwise, Gus, but Dr. Alado’s resolution was firm, and he said, Rather than serve as an expert witness for the prosecution, I will stand for Topaz in court as his defense witness, and in the wake of that submission, for some moments there was silence, and then Lord Meru stood up and said, Look, Gus, I don’t have to tell you about the physics of Lagrange points, you most likely know more than I do about how small masses are gravitationally locked in place at those points of equilibrium between two larger masses, but notwithstanding, I must let you know that the offender is a piece of small-mass matter, and that the Patriots and the police are two much larger masses, and that we have locked the offender in place at our Lagrange point, and that nothing you do can change his fate, so think carefully about your decision, I will keep our offer open for a few more days, feel free to knock on my kiwi or drop by in my office if you change your mind, and after that statement, Lord Meru exited the office of the precinct chief, leaving Dr. Alado alone with the words pinballing about in his head, running riot in it like anarchy in a passage of prose punctuated in a breathless and unconventional manner, Alado you Dr. I different thought you were different Alado were I Dr. thought different were you Dr. Alado, and without respite, those words continued smashing into one another, combining and recombining in a maelstrom as restless and as relentless as this runaway sentence forever in search of its terminus

Answer: Lagrange

20. Z

Question: This infant was saved by his mother from ending up in the belly of his father

Scene: Night. Topaz’s cell in the precinct house. MUM is standing by the window. TOPAZ is sleeping on the bed. He rouses. Resting on an elbow, he looks in the direction of MUM.

TOPAZ
Mum? (Pause.) Mum, is that you?

MUM
Topaz… you were waiting for me to come, weren’t you?

TOPAZ
Mum! How did you get in?

MUM
I had to come. (Pause.) You had been briefed about the plot against you, so why did you return to this megapolis?

TOPAZ
(shocked) But who told you about… how did you get to know that?

MUM
Some days ago, on my anniversary… I heard your conversation… the kiwi visit that you received when you brought me flowers…

TOPAZ
Oh, that visit from the commander of the Vashti Brigade. He came into my kiwi to tell me of the information that had been leaked to him… to warn me about the trap that had been set for me…

MUM
So why did you return? (TOPAZ puts his head in his hands. Silence.) Why, Topaz? (Silence.) Remember what I told you… after our relocation to this megapolis… while we were in the navel of the umbra… sitting on a bench in Omphalos Square…

TOPAZ
(looks up) That I should run away if I ever get in trouble with the Patriots? (Pause.) But we can’t keep forever running from them, Mum. And I had to return to clear my name.

MUM
(shakes her head) You were expecting justice from Carbos?

TOPAZ
This megapolis is my home now. I had to return to it. You brought me here, didn’t you?

MUM
Are you saying I’m to blame?

TOPAZ
No, that’s not what… (Beat.) Mum, still playing that old game? Good to know you haven’t changed, even after death…

TOPAZ and MUM laugh.

TOPAZ
How is it there?

MUM
The afterlife? (TOPAZ nods. MUM shrugs.) How is it here?

TOPAZ
It could be worse.

MUM
How?

TOPAZ
Some of the officers have been nasty, especially a policewoman in the front counter section, that one with a mole on her face. But the secretary to the precinct chief has been kind. She even ensured I got partial access to my kiwi, so that I can continue to play Lexicon.

MUM
What’s that?

TOPAZ
A word game. I’m on Z. The twentieth letter of the alphabet. Just a few more letters remaining.

(MUM looks out of the window.)

MUM
True, it could be worse. At least, you’ve got a great view.

TOPAZ and MUM laugh.

TOPAZ
Can’t complain much about the accommodations, can I? Even though this precinct house is on the zenith of its manhill, only a few cells here have this kind of view.

MUM
The fresh air coming in through the window… not bad at all…

TOPAZ
And in daytime, the door to the balcony over there is left open for me. I can lean over the railing and observe the street below.

MUM
(looks out of the window again) This was the first manhill I brought you to after our arrival here. Remember?

TOPAZ
Yes, on our first shopping trip to the megapolis from our house in Ghost River Barrio.

MUM
(still looking out of the window) See, the bridge over the Ghost River… looks beautiful, even though it’s night… and over there, our neighborhood… I would have been able to see our house if this had been daytime… and at the end of the bridge, the flashing lights there, those must be the vigilantes of the Vashti Brigade…

TOPAZ
That access to the balcony that I was talking about… the secretary to the precinct chief was also the one who ensured I got it… I wonder why the precinct chief agreed to it… cells like this are usually reserved for VIPs… perhaps he wishes that I seize the initiative… the initiative to get even more fresh air… loads and loads of it… by leaping over the balcony’s railing into the vastness of the atmosphere…

MUM and TOPAZ laugh.

MUM
It’s not funny.

TOPAZ
Yes, it’s not funny. (Beat.) I’m sorry.

MUM
I should be.

(Silence.)

TOPAZ
How did you know I was waiting for you to come?

MUM
I’m your mother.

TOPAZ
Because of Mothers and Sons?

MUM
Yes. I knew you haven’t forgotten the stories in that book.

TOPAZ
Have you come to save me… like the mothers in those stories… like how Rhea saved her son from the belly of Cronus… have you come to rescue me from the belly of this hellhole?

MUM
That’s a children’s book, Topaz… a book that trucks in the old myth of the good mother… the mother who strives and suffers to protect her children against all challenges… what we really need is another kind of book… a book that talks about what society does to mothers… how it’s society that creates those impossible challenges for them… and then burdens them with the duty of heroism…

TOPAZ
Then why have you come?

MUM
Because I’m old fashioned. I had to come and see you. (Pause.) You’ve been strong, haven’t you?

TOPAZ
I was, Mum. You would have been proud of me. I was strong… until I saw Dr. Alado…

MUM
Who’s that?

TOPAZ
During the kiwi visit that I received at your graveside, the commander of the Vashti Brigade told me that the Patriots intend to involve Dr. Alado in the plot against me. The commander even went as far as saying that if the plot thickened, he’ll have no choice but to order his men to consider Dr. Alado persona non grata in Ghost River Barrio. But I told him that under no circumstances should he do that. I never believed Dr. Alado could join in the plot, until I saw him in the office of the precinct chief.

MUM
This person you’re talking about, is he a Carbo? (Pause, then sternly.) What are you doing rolling around with Carbos?

TOPAZ
But the secretary to the police boss is also a Carbo. And she’s been wonderful.

MUM
She works with the police, doesn’t she? (Pause.) That Carbo… the one the Vashti commander told you about… why did you think he was different?

TOPAZ
(his voice now quivering) I don’t know… something about him… I couldn’t help but think he was different… But when I saw him… in the office of the precinct chief… when I saw him…

(TOPAZ begins sobbing. MUM holds him.)

MUM
You should be asleep. You have to get back to bed.

MUM leads TOPAZ back to the bed. He doesn’t stop sobbing.

MUM
I’m proud of you, son. There are many ways of being strong. This is one of them. And there are many ways mothers save their children. This, also, is one of them. When you wake up from your dream, you must remember that you’re also Zeus the infant. And that knowledge will make you strong again. Okay?

TOPAZ nods. Blackout.

Answer: Zeus

21. X

Question: Here did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure-dome decree

After the events at the precinct house, Dr. Alado had gone straight home. He excused himself from work and shut down his kiwi and cut off all communication with the outside world. But by the late afternoon of the next day, he began craving the darkness of the innermost umbra and the bright lights of Omphalos Square. He picked up his hat. The time away from home would be useful. He would spend it reflecting on the next steps he would be taking to secure freedom for Topaz.

When he arrived at Omphalos Square, Dr. Alado looked around, puzzled. Something was off. The benches were empty and, in the spaces between them, the picnic mats were gone. The buskers were missing, and the beggars were absent, and the peddlers of gaudy trinkets had vanished. On the media wall at the far end of the square, the fluxing figures of temperature and humidity and stock prices and all whatnot that should have been scrolling past had ceased, and instead, a newsflash was in progress. A crowd was gathered in front of the media wall, transfixed by the newsflash. In the crowd were the people that should have been sitting on the benches and lounging on the picnic mats and peddling the trinkets and busking with gusto and begging for handouts. Never before had Dr. Alado seen the square in that state. Rather than going to sit in solitude on one of the empty benches, he walked towards the crowd and joined up with it. Some individuals in the crowd had their heads hung down. A few had tears streaming down their faces. And a freckled lady was bawling like a baby.

The media wall grabbed Dr. Alado’s attention. The images and sounds coming from it were various and confusing. A cloud of matter floating in darkness. The constituent elements of that cloud drifting apart from one another. Someone talking about the person from Porlock phenomenon. The earth and the moon. The sun and the planets and the stars. Workers of the Megapolis Council bringing down buntings and other colorful decorations. The fiery face of the sun. An official of the Megapolis Council saying that the next day would still be a workfree one. The logo of the Xanadu Cloud Project. Faces of weeping Carbos. The spokesperson of the Xanadu Cloud Project talking about the person from Porlock phenomenon. Faces of smiling Semms. A guest expert saying that the person from Porlock phenomenon remains a mystery. The glum faces of the engineers in the control room of the Xanadu Cloud Project. Another guest expert saying that the person from Porlock phenomenon is not explained by current physics and could not have been predicted by it. And then the newsflash presenter saying, This is what we know. A strange force at the Lagrange point is driving apart the small masses that have been gathered in its vicinity for the launch of the Xanadu Cloud Project. Experts have had to scramble for a name to give that hypothetical force. The person from Porlock phenomenon, that’s what they’re calling it. A Lagrange point should be a parking lot for small masses in space, but now, the small masses that should have remained parked there are drifting apart from one another. And they are spinning out, in a decaying orbit, towards their final doom in the sun. The spokesperson of the Xanadu Cloud Project has admitted that they have no way of reversing that drift. With that confirmation, we can now conclude that the Xanadu Cloud Project has irretrievably failed.

Voices in the crowd began discussing the newsflash. Dr. Alado turned his attention to their chatter. The Semms caused the failure, not any strange force, shouted a man wearing a patterned hat. Beside him was an old woman holding a boy by the hand. Of course, she said, every Semm is the person from Porlock, don’t we all know that? And the boy asked her, Tomorrow is marchday, Grandma, isn’t it? The freckled lady that had been bawling was now more composed, but her eyes were still red. Tomorrow must be hot for those keyboard babies, she said, dabbing at her cheeks with a handkerchief. Deep in the crowd, away from Dr. Alado’s view, a masculine voice growled, Those depraved monsters must pay for this! And another man said, Yes, all of them, monsters like that groundeater terminal assaulter they’re pampering at the precinct house near the Ghost River bridge. And someone else said, That was how they assaulted Lazarus Ironroot to death and lied that it was a female Semm that killed him. A voice shouted, All matter is mortal! On hearing that familiar call, the eyes of many in the crowd lit up, and then, at full voice, they began chanting the standard response to the call, Down with the Semms! Down with the Semms!

Dr. Alado shuddered. He knew what was coming. The voice of the people is sometimes the voice of the devil. It was too late to see Lord Meru or the precinct chief that day, but he would try to book appointments with them for the next morning. He would let them know he had changed his mind. He was now ready to sign the bogus truth test report without delay.

Answer: Xanadu

22. C

Question: The collective name for a group of Patriots

Dr. Alado left his apartment in good time for his appointment at Lord Meru’s office. He got to the Patriots’ headquarters and couldn’t help gawping when he saw the star power in attendance. Parliamentarians and industrialists, company executives and military brass, officials of the Megapolis Council and even the Mayor himself. With their secretaries and assistants and security details buzzing around them like flies, those bigwigs thronged the reception area of the Archpatriot’s office and loitered around on the corridor outside, as if in anxious wait for the pronouncement of a grand assize. Every now and then, they stepped aside in twos and threes to hold brief convos in hushed tones. And through their social smiles and mutual backslapping and gushing pleasantries, Dr. Alado saw only one thing on their faces. Fear.

Lord Meru’s secretary came out of the inner office. He regarded Dr. Alado with awe. His Eminence must hold you in the highest esteem, the secretary said. Because today’s not just a marchday, it’s a special marchday, as you can see. Yet, His Eminence has directed me to place you on priority. You’ll still have to wait a while before you can see him, though.

An hour would pass before the secretary returned. He directed Dr. Alado to Lord Meru’s private office. On the swivel chair there, Lord Meru was swinging left and right, as if without a care in the world. His smile was bright and his face radiant and his gestures playful. The joyfulness of his whole demeanor was like that of a celebrant bound for a festive occasion. As he welcomed Dr. Alado to his office, Lord Meru picked up a morsel from the platter on his desk and chomped away at it with relish, licking his fingers in the process and flicking off a fallen crumb with his other hand from the expansive lapel of his ceremonial attire.

Dr. Alado wasted no time in tabling his offer. He would sign the truth test report, in concession to Lord Meru’s wishes, but only on the condition that Topaz was moved out of the precinct house before the day’s march began and taken to any of the penitentiaries beyond the perimeters of the megapolis.

Lord Meru shook his head. You saw the worry on the faces of those dignitaries outside, didn’t you, he said. They’re all here for one reason. They know that only the Patriots can save the day. The failure of the Xanadu Cloud Project has raised tensions in the megapolis. We’re on the brink of social breakdown. Between one Semm and a whole megapolis, the choice is clear. Your Semm now belongs to Azalel.

But that would be most unfair, Dr. Alado replied. Topaz knows nothing about the person from Porlock phenomenon. You can’t just go ahead and scapegoat him.

People need to vent out their frustrations, Lord Meru said. Once they get a chance to do that, everything will be fine. And you very well know that now, unlike in the good old days, those Vashti Brigade scoundrels have made crossing over to Ghost River Barrio difficult. But your Semm is at arm’s reach. He should be happy, Gus. The megapolis needs him. He is now both villain and hero.

So roses can be both red and blue, and violets both blue and red?

The question startled Lord Meru. He jerked up in his chair and stopped swiveling around and gave Dr. Alado a sharp look. The Archpatriot was silent for some seconds, and then he laughed. You’re smart, Gus, he said. But not smart enough not to misunderstand me. People may call a gathering of Patriots a crudity, but we know what we’re doing. Our position is simple. The reality of roses and violets is whatever we declare it to be, nothing more.

Then why don’t you declare my offer acceptable?

Because reality is single and indivisible, Gus. Before the person from Porlock came into the picture, your Semm was a piece of small-mass matter locked in place at our Lagrange point. But now, we have set him adrift in space, and he is hurtling towards an inevitable rendezvous with the sun. That is reality, Gus. And there is no reality but the reality of reality.

The secretary appeared at the door. The time allocated to Dr. Alado was up. He took his leave. For a while, he wandered without direction through the avenues of the megapolis, lost on his next course of action as he agonized over whether there was any point in keeping the appointment that he had booked with the precinct chief. He made up his mind and set out for precinct house. There was no harm in trying. Sometimes, with these things, you never could say.

The front counter section of the precinct house was derelict. It seemed it wasn’t the same place that had been vibrant with activity during Dr. Alado’s visit a couple of days earlier. Only a few cops were present. The policewoman with a mole on her face was one of them. She was in mufti, and she was busy putting her personal items in her bag. Dr. Alado approached her. She looked up and scowled. You’re here to waste our time again, aren’t you, she snapped.

Dr. Alado was stunned by her change in attitude. But aren’t you the same person who received me so warmly the other time?

You shouldn’t be here today, she replied. Not after refusing to sign our truth test report. Left to traitors like you, Carbos would long have gone extinct.

The policewoman hissed and went back to packing her things. Dr. Alado proceeded to the office of the precinct chief. The secretary he saw the last time was there. She rose to greet him, a large smile on her face. Thank you for not signing that dubious truth test report, she said. It’s clear the accused is innocent, but the powers that be are putting pressure on my boss. I thought you were in league with them, but you’ve restored my faith in humanity.

Dr. Alado was humbled. He explained his reason for coming. The secretary became sad. My boss has been briefed about your offer, she said. He won’t be accepting it. The best I can do is to convince him to let you see Topaz. Nevertheless, I would encourage you to still go in and try to convince my boss. But you’ll have to be quick about it. Because we must all be out of here before the crudity of Patriots marching down from Omphalos Square arrives on the street outside.

Answer: Crudity

23. V

Question: The creature of perfection in Question 10: P, after whom a vigilante group was named

Notes Towards the Writing of a Scene That the Author Refuses to Write

The action will take place in a cell. Topaz’s cell. Topaz will be in it, of course. Because a police cell is not your home, which remains yours even if you’ve been away from it for long, nor is it a pied-à-terre, which you can choose to visit only once in a while. Dr. Alado will also be present. Because the secretary to the precinct chief had said she will convince her boss to let Dr. Alado see Topaz. Only Dr. Alado and Topaz will be present. Because another presence will dilute the intensity of the encounter. Two’s company, three’s a crowd, isn’t that how the saying goes?

Topaz will accuse Dr. Alado of being involved in the plot against him. And Dr. Alado will correct the error of that belief. But why include that exchange in the text? Why repeat details that the reader already knows? Better to begin at the point of rising action, isn’t it? In media res, you prefer that term, right? But from what point of view will the encounter be narrated? From the first person or second person or third person? From the viewpoint of Topaz or that of Dr. Alado or that of neither of them? From that of the collective unconscious or that of anima mundi or that of the Unmovable Mover or, perhaps, that of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, wouldn’t that be perfect? Or maybe even from that of the Crawling Spaghetti Demiurge, ha-ha, what the hell’s that, tell me, is that what we’re having for dinner, crawling spaghetti demiurge al dente, sounds delicious, to be frank, anything’s possible if roses can be blue and violets can be red, and if roses can be violets and violets can be roses, isn’t it?

Dr. Alado will tell Topaz that the police plan to abandon their precinct house before Lord Meru and the Patriots arrive. Or Topaz will tell Dr. Alado that the police plan to abandon their precinct house before Lord Meru and the Patriots arrive. Or Dr. Alado and Topaz will skirt around their common knowledge of the plan that the police have to abandon their precinct house before Lord Meru and the Patriots arrive.

Dr. Alado will reveal that he intends to cross the bridge over the Ghost River, in order to urge the vigilantes of the Vashti Brigade at the Ghost River Barrio end of the bridge to dash over and rescue Topaz from the precinct house. Or he will choose to only mention that there will be a window of opportunity in the interval between the abandonment of their station by the police and the arrival there of the Patriots. Or he will also mention that something must be done in that brief window of opportunity, when the precinct house can be breached without resistance. Or he will choose to reveal nothing about his intentions.

Topaz will tell Dr. Alado that he mustn’t dare go to the vigilantes of the Vashti Brigade. Or not only will Topaz tell Dr. Alado that, he will also tell him that the vigilantes have been informed by their commander that Dr. Alado is part of the plot against Topaz. Or Topaz will go even further and tell Dr. Alado that the vigilantes would have already been ordered by their commander to consider Dr. Alado persona non grata in Ghost River Barrio.

Dr. Alado will wave away Topaz’s words and declare that there’s nothing to fear. Or he will also add that not only are the vigilantes his patients, they are also his friends. Or he will say none of those things but nod in agreement with Topaz and say that crossing the bridge would be too risky a venture.

Topaz and Dr. Alado will stand up and smile and bid each other goodbye, demonstrating stoic strength in their suppression of any display of emotion. Or they will hug and weep and comfort each other, revealing vulnerabilities not hitherto evident in their characters. Or they will joke and banter and laugh, masking any anxieties they may have about the outcomes of imminent events.

And then Dr. Alado must say goodbye to Topaz. Because the Patriots will soon arrive at the precinct house. And because the police must abandon their precinct house before that happens. And because only Topaz must be present in his cell when that happens. And because this story must keep on moving. Because two characters talking in a cell cannot be allowed to bring it to a standstill.

Answer: Vashti

24. B

Question: The author of an ancient futurological primer about how to inherit the earth

The primer says nothing about groundeaters or sunbrellas or the qwerty alphabet order or manhills or the Ghost River or Ghost River Barrio or Lexicon or blue roses or red violets or the umbra or the penumbra or Thetis and Achilles and Zeus, neither does it say anything about the thinning of the stratosphere and the greying of the sky.

The primer says nothing about Semms or Carbos or the Patriots or the Ironists or wormholes or The Garden of Forking Paths or Mothers and Sons or Lazarus Ironroot or Uno or Àtúndá or Pygmalion or Vashti or Incels or Rhea and Cronus and Zeus, neither does it say anything about the melting of the permafrost and the ravages of the Yeti pandemic.

The primer says nothing about manna factories or Maillard flavor machines or Lagrange points or haikus or frost houses or ice jackets or cryotherapy chambers or plasma throwers or gamma-ray widowmakers or truth tests or Omphalos Square or Azalel or the War Against Irony or the Battle of the Roses and the Violets, neither does it say anything about the Xanadu Cloud Project and the person from Porlock phenomenon.

The primer says nothing about Topaz, and nothing about Dr. Gus Remingdale-Alado, and nothing about Lord RNC Meru.

Topaz read the primer and concluded that folks must have been batshit crazy way back then.

Dr. Alado wanted to read the primer but never came across it and concluded that the primer did not exist.

Lord Meru never read the primer but concluded that it was written by a primitive AI ancestor of the algorithm that runs the neural network of Semms.

The primer says nothing about Topaz concluding that folks way back then must have been batshit crazy, and nothing about Dr. Alado concluding that the primer did not exist, and nothing about Lord Meru concluding that the primer was written by a primitive AI ancestor of the algorithm that runs the neural network of Semms.

The primer says nothing, and neither does this sentence say anything, about the fact that the primer in question, Dear Reader, is the primer you’re currently reading.

Answer: Babatunde

25. M

Question: The Patriots do this

How lovely it had been to see Dr. Alado again. How delightful it was to know he had never been in cahoots with Lord Meru. And how unfair it would have been to have kept on believing that was the case. Still basking in the euphoria brought about by Dr. Alado’s visit, Topaz resumed playing Lexicon. Only two letters remained. Topaz liked solving the questions in alphabetical order, but he had been having a tough time finding a solution to the letter n. Time was running out. He skipped to the letter m. Easy-peasy. But he found the word that the game accepted as the right solution irritating. Lousy question. If its expected answer had even been a word as naughty as micturate, it wouldn’t have so absolutely seemed to Topaz as if the game was taking the piss out of him, never mind the pun. Because the Patriots don’t just march. They also maim and maul and menace and molest and mistreat and murder. And those penchants defined them much more than marching.

He went to the window. Below it, the avenue behind the precinct house was not as busy as usual. That must be because it was a workfree day, surely. Everyone couldn’t have gone to join up with the Patriots at Omphalos Square, could they? The manhill that housed the precinct house, like others in the penumbra, was of middling height, so Topaz could make out the features of people walking on the avenue. He recognized a familiar figure, with his distinctive hat and podgy frame and conservative dressing. Where was Dr. Alado going? His apartment was in the umbra, but he was heading in a direction opposite to it. Maybe he wanted to grab a bite in a bistro, or pick up an item from a store, before going home.

Topaz left the window. The door leading to the balcony was open. Having it so must have been important to the precinct chief. After Dr. Alado left, the precinct chief had come himself to ensure that the door was unlocked. Later today, a large crowd will gather in front of the precinct house because of you, the precinct chief had said. I will do you the great favor of leaving this door open. It’s in your best interest to use the opportunity of access to the balcony to appeal to the crowd, okay?

Topaz didn’t reply. He knew the game the precinct chief was playing. For events to unfold as they did in the old days, the mob would have to first mock and taunt their mark. Just like how the ancient dogs in one of the wormholes Topaz stocked in his reality café had to first bark and bay at bears tied to the stake. Yet, the precinct chief wanted him, Topaz, to make the experience more pleasurable for the mob by pleading with them from the balcony? Not in a million years. Rather, the pleasure would be his.

Topaz crossed to the balcony. The street below was several floors away, but despite that significant distance, it was nowhere as far down as the avenue behind the precinct house, which ran along with the lowest level of the manhill. A crowd had begun assembling on the street. The gathering was diverse. Hefty toughs and dandyish toffs. Giggling teens and wrinkled seniors. Excited kids capering around on the picnic mats their parents had spread out for them. Street musicians were entertaining the gathering. It was as if they had all come to participate in a grand carnival or to witness a great sporting spectacle.

Faces in the crowd looked up and saw Topaz on the balcony. They began booing him. Topaz raised a middle finger to them. The booing became louder. Objects began flying upwards, but none reached Topaz. He stuck out his tongue. The crowd got even more agitated. Topaz laughed and went back into the cell. He looked out of the window again. Dr. Alado was no longer present on the avenue behind the precinct house. Topaz scanned the distance. Perhaps he could catch a glimpse of Dr. Alado as he made his way to his apartment in the umbra. Topaz wasn’t so lucky. But he saw that several avenues away, a huge mass of people was advancing ever closer, marching down like an interminable column of ants from the direction of Omphalos Square. The Patriots were coming. Topaz looked at his fingers. He saw that they were trembling.

Answer: March

26. N

Question: This will inherit the universe

Topaz hadn’t yet resolved the conundrum of the letter n. He felt like banging his head against the wall. What a disappointment it would be if he didn’t finish Lexicon before the Patriots arrive. Not that he didn’t have an idea of the solution. He very well knew that, as the expansion of the universe continued accelerating, everything would stretch so far out that only one thing would reign supreme. And the words that could describe that thing were legion. Nothing and nada and null and nullity and nothingness and nought and naught and nowt and nihility and nil and nihil and nihilum. Must be one of them. Or something similar. But the problem was that the longer options among those words couldn’t sensibly intersect with the solutions to the other questions that Topaz had already entered into Lexicon’s grid. And the game was rejecting the shorter options. Those rejections had depleted his wildcards. He had only two left.

Topaz began pacing around his cell. A brainwave struck him. He could try entering a symbol or a character. The game sometimes had a trick question included. One that didn’t have to be answered with the letters of the alphabet. Maybe this was the one for the current edition. Topaz returned to Lexicon. He entered the mathematical symbol for nothingness. ∅. Phi. The null set in its nutshell. The game rejected it. Topaz hung his head down. But he didn’t blame Lexicon. Because like the symbol for the null set, the one for the golden ratio and for a slew of other things also read as phi. That could have been the reason for its rejection. Topaz had just one wildcard remaining. One last roll of the dice. He took a deep breath and gambled. With another representation of blankness and absence and nothingness. Underscore, repeated in the available space. Lexicon paused for several seconds, mulling over Topaz’s answer, and then the game accepted it. Topaz leapt up with joy. He checked his ranking. First in the megapolis. He had done it. He rushed towards the balcony, laughing and yelling and whooping. The crowd below had gotten larger. Topaz gestured triumphantly at them and did a little jig on the balcony.

I did it, he shouted. I ranked first in Lexicon. In the whole megapolis, no less. Which of you nitwits can do that? A bunch of arsewipes, every one of you. May you wake up praying for death, but may death choose to prolong your misery. Yes, I came first in Lexicon. Try to wrap your empty heads around the significance of that. To hell with you all!

The crowd went mad. That delighted Topaz. He laughed and went back into the cell. From the window, he observed the advance of the marching Patriots. They were now only a couple of avenues away. Topaz turned to face the bridge over the Ghost River. Nothing was moving on the bridge, except for a figure walking towards its far end. It took Topaz a few seconds before he recognized the figure. He began screaming. Get back, Dr. Alado! Don’t go there! The vigilantes would have been ordered to consider you persona non grata! Get back now! He stopped screaming when he realized that Dr. Alado couldn’t hear him from that far off. His fingers tightened around the iron bars of the window. Recoiling from the unspeakable horror he knew was imminent, Topaz turned his face away from the window and shut his eyes.

Dr. Alado was about getting to the Ghost River Barrio end of the bridge when brightness flashed around him, accompanied by a loud report. One moment, Dr. Alado was there. But the next, he was not. And the ball of fire that he had become leapt off the bridge and soared into the air, before beginning its fall as it succumbed to the dictates of an inexorable force. And they call it gravity, but isn’t it just the earth sucking you down towards its inevitable fate? Nothingness and naught and null and nada and nihil and nihilum. And that force continued sucking Dr. Alado down towards the Ghost River’s flinty bed and towards the flowing memory of its vanished waters.

On some nights, perhaps he would sight the marvelous creatures that abound in the phantom river’s spectral ecosystem. The stippled fish and the leaping lunkers and the splashing mammals. And maybe he would meet the eel that left an irradicable stink on the angler who had caught it and taken it home with him. And surely, if he could, he would say to the eel, That prank you played on the angler was naughty of you, wasn’t it? And the two of them would laugh like old friends over the matter. And on certain nights, perhaps he would encounter the mermaids accused of using their homicidal music to lure hapless folks into tumbling down to their deaths. And maybe he would hear the mermaids singing, each to each, and maybe they would sing to him. And surely, if he could, he would say to the mermaids, See, you’ve sung for me, yet here I am, I’ve always known it, it wasn’t your dulcet voices that lured those people to their deaths, they were just unfortunate drunks who had lost their footing in the precarious dark. And on other nights, perhaps he would not encounter the mermaids or meet the eel or sight any of the other storied creatures that populate the dead river’s spectral ecosystem. And on those nights, alone under the moonlight, maybe he would be happy. And surely, if he could, he would say to himself, So this is what nothingness is, I’ve always known it, this is what will inherit the earth, because what else is gravity if not the earth sucking us all into the inexorable nothingness that will also inherit the universe?

Topaz opened his eyes. He looked at the bridge. Nothingness had replaced Dr. Alado on it. Topaz unclenched his fingers from the window’s iron bars. He walked to the bed and sat on it. He fixed his gaze straight ahead, staring at nothing. The minutes went past, but for Topaz, a moment and eternity had already become one and the same. He didn’t move when the chanting of the Patriots arrived on the avenue behind the precinct house. And he didn’t move when the chanting went silent as the crudity of marching Patriots streamed into the manhill that housed the precinct house. He continued sitting, still staring straight ahead at nothingness, even when the chanting of the Patriots reemerged on the street that ran across the front of the precinct house. A public address system came alive. Topaz knew the voice coming out of it. Lord Meru had begun addressing the crowd. It was time.

Topaz rose and went to the balcony. He looked down at the street. Lord Meru was gesticulating to drive home his points. The Archpatriot was positioned at a good spot. Close enough to the precinct house, but not directly under the balcony where Topaz stood. Topaz smiled. His chances were good. He only had to believe that the street was a pool and the balcony’s railing a diving board, and everything would be fine.

The arrival of Topaz on the balcony had drawn the attention of people in the crowd. Lord Meru turned round and craned his neck to see what they were looking at. His eyes and those of Topaz locked. In one smooth motion, Topaz lifted himself onto the balcony’s railing, and he jumped. For an instant, everything seemed to stop, Topaz diving headlong into loads and loads of fresh air, the startled faces and upward-pointed fingers of individuals in the crowd, Lord Meru trying to take a step back, the children on the picnic mats continuing with the fun they were having, oblivious of the figure backdropped above them against the grey expanse of the sky, and it was as if all those present were in a scene that had long ago been depicted on a famous canvas, and then that frozen moment lost its battle with gravity, and time, which never stops, swung into motion again, never mind the paradox, and Lord RNC Meru, Archpatriot of the Megapolis, continued accelerating towards Topaz, because on this occasion, Azalel’s scapegoat intends dragging Azalel’s high priest tumbling down the cliffside with it, and along with Lord Meru, the onrushing earth continued hurtling towards Topaz, because they call it gravity, but isn’t it just the earth dragging you down, along with the memory of itself, into the very annals of nothingness, and this is how you inherit the earth and, along with it, the inevitable nothingness that will inherit the universe, because everything will stretch so far out that even the annals of nothingness will also stretch out, along with the very memory of the earth, to nought and null and nothingness, to nada and nowt and nullity, darkness upon darkness and silence upon silence, absence upon absence and nothing upon nothing, nil and naught and nihil and nihilum, now and forever more, and then there was nothing.

Answer: ______

Rotimi Babatunde‘s stories have been variously published and translated. His plays have been staged across continents. He is a recipient of the Caine Prize. He lives in Nigeria.