#
I went back to the electrical shop and bought myself another notepad. I called De Groot from the street; she seemed upset, but she didn’t want to talk on the net.
We met at the hotel, in Mosala’s suite. De Groot ushered me in, in silence. “Is Violet – ?” Dust motes swam beneath the skylight; when I spoke, the room sounded hollow.
“She’s been admitted. I wanted to stay at the hospital, but she sent me away.” De Groot stood opposite me, hands clasped in front of her, eyes downcast. She said quietly, “You know, we’ve had crank mail from just about everyone. Every cult, every lunatic on the planet wanted to let Violet in on their amazing cosmic revelations – or let her know that she was desecrating their precious mythology, and would burn in Hell for it … or drive away all the Buddha-nature … or crush the world’s great civilizations into nihilistic rubble, with her male Western reductionist hubris. The Anthrocosmologists were just … one more voice shouting noise.” She looked at me squarely. “Would you have picked them as the threat? Not the fundamentalists. Not the racists. Not the psychotics who gave detailed descriptions of what they planned to do to her corpse. People who sent us long dissertations on information theory – and P.S., we’d be happy to see you create the universe, but certain other parties may try to stop you.”
I said, “No one could have picked them.”
De Groot ran a hand across her temple, then stood in silence, shielding her eyes.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded, and laughed humorlessly. “Headache, that’s all.” She inhaled deeply, visibly steeling herself to push on. “They found traces of foreign proteins in her bloodstream, bone marrow, and lymph nodes. They can’t resolve the molecular structures, though – and she’s showing no symptoms, so far. So they’ve put her on a mixture of strong antiviral drugs – and until something happens, all they can do is watch her.”
“Is security—?”
“She’s under guard. For what that’s worth now.”
“And Buzzo?”
“Apparently his scan was clear.” De Groot snorted, angry and bewildered. “He’s unmoved by … all of this. He believes that Nishide simply died of natural causes, Violet has some harmless pollutant in her body, and your cholera analysis was some kind of forgery for the sake of a media beat-up. The only thing he seems worried about is how he’s going to get home at the end of the conference if the airport is still closed.”
“But he has bodyguards—?”
“I don’t know; you’d have to ask him that. Oh – and Violet asked him to give a media conference himself, announcing the flaw in his TOE. The antiviral drugs are debilitating; she’s so nauseous that she can barely speak. Buzzo made some vague promise to her – but then he muttered something to me about looking at the issues more closely before he retracted anything. So I don’t know what he’ll do.”
I felt a stab of anger and frustration – but I said, “He’s heard all the evidence, it’s his decision.” I didn’t much want to think about Buzzo’s enemies, myself. Sarah Knight’s body hadn’t even been found yet – but the possibility that her killer was on Stateless unnerved me more than anything else. The moderates had let me walk free, once they’d reasoned that they could still get what they wanted. The extremists had nearly killed me, once already – and they hadn’t even been trying.
I said, “Even if this weapon is about to go off at any moment … there’s nothing anyone can do on Stateless that couldn’t be done in an air ambulance. Right? And … surely your government would be willing to send a fully equipped military hospital jet—”
De Groot gave a hollow laugh. “Yeah? You make it sound so easy. Violet has some friends in high places – and some sworn enemies … but most of all, a lot of fucking pragmatists who’ll happily use her in whatever way they see fit. It would take a small miracle for them to weigh up the pros and cons, take sides, battle it out, and make a decision, all in one day – even if Stateless was at peace, and the jet could land right at the airport.”
“Come on! The whole island’s as flat as a runway! Okay, it’s soft at the edges, but there must be a … twenty kilometer radius in which the ground is hard enough.”
“All within reach of a missile from the airport.”
“Yeah – but why should the mercenaries care about a medical evacuation? They must be expecting foreign navies to start moving in soon to take their nationals off the island. This is no different; it’s just faster.”
De Groot shook her head sadly; she wanted to be convinced, but I wasn’t making sense to her. “Whatever you and I might think about the risks, it’s just guesswork and wishful thinking. The government is still going to assess the situation from their own point of view – and they’re not going to make a decision in thirty seconds. Tens of thousands of dollars for a mercy flight is one thing. A plane shot down over Stateless is another. And the last thing Violet – or any sane person – would want is three or four innocent people blown out of the sky for no reason.”
I turned away from her, and crossed to the window. From what I could see of the streets below, Stateless was still at peace. But whatever bloody havoc the mercenaries were planning … surely the last thing their employers wanted was a world-famous martyr for technolibération ? That was why EnGeneUity had never really made sense as her would-be assassins: her death would be as bad for them as her highly publicized emigration.
It was a delicate proposition, though. What would they be admitting, if they made an exception for her? And which scenario would they consider most damaging to the anti-boycott push: the cautionary tale of Mosala’s tragic death from a reckless flirtation with renegades – or the heart-warming story of survival when a mercy flight whisked her back into the fold (where every gene belonged to its rightful owner, and every disease had an instant cure)?
As yet, they probably didn’t even know about the difficult choice they were facing. So it was up to whoever broke the news to sell them on the right decision.
I turned to De Groot. “What if the mercenaries could be persuaded to guarantee safe passage for a rescue flight? To make a public statement to that effect? Do you think you could start things moving – on the chance of that?” I clenched my fists, fighting down panic. Did I have any idea what I was saying? Once I’d promised to do this, I couldn’t back out.
But I’d already made a promise to swim faster .
De Groot looked torn. “Violet hasn’t even told Wendy or Makompo yet. And she’s sworn me to silence. Wendy’s on a business trip in Toronto—”
“If she can lobby from Cape Town she can lobby from Toronto. And Violet’s not thinking straight. Tell her mother everything. And her husband. Tell Marian Fox and the whole IUTP if you have to.”
De Groot hesitated, then nodded uncertainly. “It’s worth trying. Anything’s worth trying. But how do you imagine we’re going to get any kind of guarantee from the mercenaries?”
I said, “Plan A is to hope very hard that they’re answering the phones. Because I really don’t want to have to walk into the airport and negotiate in person.”
#
Most of the island’s center still appeared untouched by the invasion – but four streets away from the airport, everything changed. There were no barricades, no warning signs – and no people at all. It was early evening, and the streets behind me were abuzz, with shops and restaurants open for business just five hundred meters from the occupied buildings – but once I’d crossed that invisible line, it was as if Stateless had suddenly given birth to its own Ruins, an imitation in miniature of the dead hearts of the net-slain cities.
There were no bullets flying, this was not a war zone – but I had no experience to guide me, no idea of what to expect. I’d kept away from battlefields; I’d chosen science journalism happy in the knowledge that I’d never be required to film anything more dangerous than a bioethics conference.
The entrance to the passenger terminal was a wide rectangle of blackness. The sliding doors lay ten meters
away, in fragments. Windows had been broken, plants and statues scattered; the walls were strangely scarred, as if something mechanically clawed had scaled them. I’d hoped for a sentry, signs of order, evidence of a coherent command structure. This looked more like a gang of looters were waiting in the darkness for someone to wander in.
I thought: Sarah Knight would have done this – for the story alone.
Yeah. And Sarah Knight was dead.
I approached slowly, scanning the ground nervously, wishing I hadn’t told Sisyphus fourteen years before to lose all junk mail from weapons manufacturers looking for technophile journalists to provide free publicity for their glamorous new anti-personnel mines. Then again … there’d probably been no helpful tips in those media releases for avoiding being on the receiving end – short of spending fifty thousand dollars on the matching sweepers.
The interior of the building was pitch black, but the floodlights outside bleached the reef-rock white. I squinted into the maw of the entrance, wishing I had Witness to rejig my retinas. The camera on my right shoulder was virtually weightless, but it still made me feel skewed and misshapen – about as comfortable, centered, and functional as if my genitals had migrated to one kneecap. And – irrationally or not – the invisible nerve taps and RAM had always made me feel shielded, protected. When my own eyes and ears had captured everything for the digital record, I’d been a privileged observer right up to the moment of being disemboweled or blinded. This machine could be brushed off like a speck of dandruff.
I’d never felt so naked in my life.
I stopped ten meters from the empty doorway, arms stretched out and hands raised. I yelled into the darkness: “I’m a journalist! I want to talk!”
I waited. I could still hear the crowds of the city behind me, but the airport exuded silence. I shouted again. And waited. I was almost ready to give up fear for embarrassment; maybe the passenger terminal was abandoned, the mercenaries had set up camp on the farthest corner of the runway, and I was standing here making a fool of myself to no one.
Then I felt a gentle stirring of the humid air, and the blackness of the entrance disgorged a machine.
I flinched, but stood my ground; if it had wanted me dead, I would never have seen it coming. The thing betrayed a flickering succession of partial outlines as it moved – faint but consistent distortions of the light which the eye seized upon as edges – but once it halted, I was left staring at nothing but afterimages and guesswork. A six-legged robot, three meters high? Actively computing my view of its surroundings, and programming an optically active sheath to match luminosities? No – more than that . It stood protruding halfway into the floodlit forecourt, without even casting a shadow – which meant it was realtime holographing the blocked light sources, its polymer skin lasing out a perfectly matched substitute beam, wavefront by wavefront. I had a sudden, sickening realization of what the people of Stateless were facing. This was alpha military tech, costing millions. EnGeneUity weren’t messing around with cheap aggravation, this time. They wanted their intellectual property back, product reputation unscathed – and anything which stood above the reef-rock would be cut down if it got in the way.
The insect said, “We’ve already chosen the journalists’ pool, Andrew Worth. You’re not on the invasion hit parade.” It spoke English, perfectly inflected right down to a hint of amusement, but with an unnerving geographical neutrality. Whether its speech was autonomous, or whether I was talking realtime to the mercenaries – or their PR people – I had no idea.
“I don’t want to cover the war. I’m here to offer you a chance to avoid some … undesirable publicity.”
The insect scuttled forward angrily, delicate moiré patterns of interference fringes blossoming and fading on its camouflaged surface. I stayed rooted to the spot; my instinct was to flee, but my muscles felt like jelly. The thing came to a halt, two or three meters away – and vanished from sight again. I didn’t doubt that, at the very least, it could have raised its forelegs and decapitated me in an instant.
I steadied myself, and addressed the solid air. “There’s a woman on this island who’s going to die if she’s not evacuated in a matter of hours. And if that happens … SeeNet are ready to broadcast a documentary called Violet Mosala: Martyr to Technolibération .” It was the truth – although Lydia had put up some resistance, at first. I’d sent her faked footage of Mosala talking about the reasons for her planned emigration – all more-or-less what had really been said, although I hadn’t actually filmed it. Three SeeNet newsroom editors were hard at work incorporating that – and some of the genuine material I’d filed – into an up-to-date obituary. I’d neglected to include anything about the Anthrocosmologists, though. Mosala had been about to become the figurehead for a major challenge to the boycott – and now she was infected with a viral weapon, and Stateless was occupied. Lydia had drawn her own conclusions, and the editors would have been instructed accordingly.
The insect was silent for several long minutes. I remained frozen, my hands still in the air. I imagined the blackmail threat being passed up the chain of command. Maybe the biotech alliance were exploring the option of buying SeeNet and killing the story? But then they’d have to lean on other networks, too; they’d have to keep on paying to ensure the right spin. They could get what they wanted for free, if they let her live.
I said, “If Mosala survives, you can stop her from returning. But if she dies here … she’ll be linked in the public imagination to Stateless for the next hundred years.”
I felt a stinging sensation on my shoulder. I glanced down at the camera; it had been incinerated, and the ashes were tumbling away from a tiny charred patch on my shirt.
“The plane can land. And you can leave with her. Once she’s out of danger, file a new story from Cape Town on her plans to emigrate – and what became of them.” It was the same voice as before – but the power behind the words came from far beyond the island.
There was no need to add: If the spin is right, you’ll be rewarded .
I bowed my head in assent. “I’ll do that.”
The insect hesitated. “Will you? I don’t think so.” A searing pain slashed my abdomen; I cried out and sank to my knees. “She’ll return alone. You can stay on Stateless and document the fall.” I glanced up to see a faint hint of green and violet shimmering in the air as the thing retreated, like a glint of sunlight through half-closed eyes.
It took me a while to rise to my feet. The laser flash had burned a horizontal welt right across my stomach – but the beam had lingered for whole microseconds on the existing wound; the carbohydrate polymer had been caramelized, and a brown watery fluid was leaking out of my navel. I muttered abuse at the empty doorway, then started hobbling away.
When I was back among the crowds, two teenagers approached me and asked if I needed help. I accepted gratefully. They held me up as I limped toward the hospital.
I called De Groot from casualty. I said, “They were very civilized. We have clearance to land.”
De Groot looked haggard, but she beamed at me. “That’s fantastic!”
“Any news about the flight?”
“Nothing yet – but I spoke to Wendy a few minutes ago, and she was waiting for a call from the President, no less.” She hesitated. “Violet’s developed a fever. It’s not dangerous yet, but…”
But the weapon had triggered. We’d be racing the virus every step of the way, now. What had I expected, though? Another timing error? Or magical immunity for the Keystone?
“You’re with her?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll meet you there in half an hour.”
The same medic treated me as before. She’d had a long day; she said irritably, “I don’t want to hear your excuse this time. The last one was bad enough.”
I surveyed the pristine cubicle, the orderly cabinets of drugs and instruments, and I was gripped by despair. Even if Mosala was evacuated in time … there were one million people on Stateless, with nowhere to
flee. I said, “What will you do, when the war starts?”
“There won’t be a war.”
I tried to imagine the machines being assembled, the fate being prepared for these people, deep inside the airport. I said gently, “I don’t think you’re going to have a choice about that.”
The medic stopped applying cream to my burns, and glared at me as if I’d said something unforgivably offensive and belittling. “You’re a stranger here. You don’t have the slightest idea what our choices are. What do you think? We’ve spent the last twenty years in some kind of … blissful Utopian stupor, content in the knowledge that our positive karmic energy would repel all invaders?” She started dispensing the cream again, roughly.
I was bemused. “No. I expect you’re fully prepared to defend yourselves. But this time, I think you’re going to be outgunned. Badly.”
She unrolled a length of bandage, eying me sharply. “ Listen – because I’m only going to say this once. When the time comes, you’d better trust us.”
“To do what?”
“To know better than you.”
I laughed grimly. “That’s not asking much.”
#
When I turned into the corridor which led to Mosala’s room, I saw De Groot talking – in hushed tones, but with obvious excitement – to the two security guards. She spotted me and waved. I quickened my step.
When I reached them, De Groot silently held up her notepad and hit a key. A newsreader appeared.
“In the latest developments on the renegade island of Stateless, the violent anarchist splinter group occupying the airport have just acceded to a request from South African diplomats to allow the urgent evacuation of Violet Mosala, the twenty-seven-year-old Nobel laureate who has been attending the controversial Einstein Centenary Conference.” In the background, a stylized world globe spun beneath an image of Mosala, the view zooming in on Stateless, and then South Africa, on cue. “With the primitive healthcare facilities on the island, local doctors have been unable to provide an accurate diagnosis, but Mosala’s condition is believed to be life-threatening. Sources in Mandela say that President Nchabaleng herself sent a personal appeal to the anarchists, and received their reply just minutes ago—”