Distress

portraits of the eighteen corporate assassins most likely to be sent to the island? What kind of source, what kind of leak, what kind of data theft could have yielded precisely this much, and no more?

In any case, I had no intention of letting the ACs know if I spotted one of these faces in a crowd—less out of fear that I might be putting myself at risk by siding with radical technoliberateurs against powerful vested interests, than out of a lingering suspicion that Kuwale might yet prove to be entirely off the planet—as paranoid a Mosala fan as I’d first imagined, and more. Without any way of confirming vis story, I could hardly unleash an unknown retribution on some total stranger who happened to stray too close to Violet Mosala. For all I knew, this was a gallery of innocent Ignorance Cultists, snapped as they disembarked from a charter flight. The fact that Mosala had no shortage of potential enemies didn’t prove that Kuwale knew who they were—or that ve’d told me the truth about anything.

Even the version of Anthrocosmology I’d been fed sounded far too reasonable and dispassionate to be true. The Keystone is just another person, honestly—all our concern for Violet Mosala is due to her numerous other good points. Why go to the trouble of inventing a cult which elevates someone to the status of Prime Cause for Everything—and then treat that fact as all but insignificant? Kuwale had protested too much.

By the time I reached the hotel, the ATM software lecture was almost over, so I sat in the lobby to wait for Mosala to emerge.

The more I thought about it, the less I was prepared to trust anything Kuwale and Conroy had told me—but I knew it could take months to find out what the Anthrocosmologists were really about. Other than Indrani Lee, there was only one person who was likely to hold the answers—and I was sick of remaining ignorant out of sheer dumb pride.

I called Sarah. If she was in Australia, it was broad daylight on the east coast by now… but the same answering system responded as before.

I left another message for her. I couldn’t bring myself to come right out and say it in plain English: I abused my position with SeeNet. I stole the project from you, and I didn’t deserve it. That was wrong, and I'm sorry. Instead, I offered her participation in Violet Mosala in whatever role now suited her, on whatever terms we could agree were mutually fair.

I signed off, expecting to feel at least some small measure of relief from this belated attempt to make amends. Instead, a powerful sense of unease descended on me. I looked around the brightly lit lobby, staring at the dazzling patches of sunshine on the ornately patterned gold-and-white floor—Stateless-spartan as ever—as if hoping that the light itself might flood in through my eyes and clear the fog of panic from my brain. It didn’t.

I sat with my head in my hands, unable to make sense of the dread I felt. Thing’s weren’t that desperate. I was still in the dark about far too much—but less so than four days ago. I was making progress, wasn’t I? I was staying afloat. Barely.

The space around me seemed to expand. The lobby, the sunlit floor, retreated—an infinitesimal shift, but it was impossible to ignore. I glanced down at my notepad clock, light-headed with fear; Mosala’s lecture was due to end in three minutes, but the time seemed to stretch out ahead of me, an uncrossable void. I had to make contact with someone, or something.

Before I could change my mind, I had Hermes call Caliban, a front end for a hacking consortium. An androgynous grinning face appeared—mutating and flowing, changing its features second-by-second as it spoke; only the whites of its eyes stayed constant, as if peering out from behind an infinitely malleable mask.

“Bad weather coming down, petitioner. There’s ice on the signal wires.” Snow began to swirl around the faces; their skin tones favored grays and blues. “Nothing’s clear, nothing’s easy.”

“Spare me the hype.” I transmitted Sarah Knight’s communications number. “What can you tell me about that, for… one hundred dollars?”

Caliban leered. “The Styx is frozen solid.” Frost formed on its various lips and eyelashes.

“A hundred and fifty.” Caliban seemed unimpressed—but Hermes flashed up a window showing a credit transfer request; I okayed it, reluctantly.

A screenful of green text, mockingly out-of-focus, appeared to illuminate the software faces. “The number belongs to Sarah Alison Knight, Australian citizen, primary residence 17E Parade Avenue, Lindfield, Sydney. En-fem, date-of-birth April 4th, 2028.”

“I know all that, you useless shit. Where is she now—precisely? And when did she last accept a call, in person?”

The green text faded, and Caliban shivered. “Wolves are howling on the steppes. Underground rivers are turning to glaciers.”

I restrained myself from wasting more invective. “I’ll give you fifty.”

“Veins of solid ice beneath the rock. Nothing moves, nothing changes.”

I gritted my teeth. “A hundred.” My research budget was vanishing fast—and this had nothing to do with Violet Mosola. But I had to know.

Orange symbols danced across gray flesh. Caliban announced, “Our Sarah last accepted a call—in person, on this number—in the central metropolitan footprint for Kyoto, Japan, at 10:23:14 Universal Time, on March 26th, 2055.”

“And where is she now?”

“No device has connected to the net under this ID since the stated call.” Meaning: she hadn’t used her notepad to contact anyone, or to access any service. She hadn’t so much as viewed a news bulletin, or downloaded a three-minute music video. Unless…

“Fifty bucks—take it or leave it—for her new communications number.”

Caliban took it, and smiled. “Bad guess. She has no new number, no new account.”

I said numbly, “That’s all. Thank you.”

Caliban mimed astonishment at this unwarranted courtesy, and blew me a parting kiss. “Call again. And remember, petitioner: data wants to be free!”

Why Kyoto? The only connection I could think of was Yasuko Nishide. Meaning what? She’d still planned to cover the Einstein Conference, after all—but with a rival profile of a rival theorist? And the only reason she wasn’t yet on Stateless was Nishide’s illness?

Why the communications blackout, though? Kuwale’s grim unspoken conclusion made no sense. Why would biotech interests want to harm Sarah Knight, if she’d shown every sign of abandoning Violet Mosala for another—thoroughly apolitical—physicist?

People began to cross the lobby, talking excitedly. I looked up. The auditorium down the corridor was emptying. Mosala and Helen Wu emerged together; I met up with them.

Mosala was beaming. “Andrew! You missed all the fun! Serge Bischoff just released a new algorithm which is going to save me days of computer time!”

Wu frowned and corrected her. “Save all of us days, please!”

“Of course.” Mosala stage-whispered to me, “Helen still doesn’t realize that she’s on my side, whether she likes it or not.” She added, “I have a summary of the lecture, if you want to see it?”

I said tonelessly, “No.” I realized how blunt that sounded, but I felt so spaced out, so disconnected, that I really didn’t care. Mosala gave me a curious look, more concerned than angry.

Wu left us. I asked Mosala, “Have you heard any more about Nishide?”

“Ah.” She became serious. “It seems he’s not going to make it to the conference, after all. His secretary contacted the organizers; he’s had to be hospitalized. It’s pneumonia again.” She added sadly, “If this keeps up… I don’t know. He may retire altogether.”

I closed my eyes; the floor began to tilt. A distant voice asked, “Are you all right? Andrew?” I pictured my face, glowing white hot.

I opened my eyes. And I thought I finally understood what was happening.

I said, “Can I talk to you? Please?”

“Of course.”

Sweat began running down my cheeks. “Don’t lose your temper. Just hear me out.”

Mosala leant forward, frowning. She hesitated, then put a hand on my forehead. “You’re burning up. You