Distress

“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 bums, 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, eyeing 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.”

I threw my arms around De Groot, lifted her off her feet and spun around until I was giddy with joy. The guards looked on, grinning like children. Maybe it was a microscopic victory in the face of the invasion—but it still seemed like the first good thing that had happened for a very long time.

De Groot said gently, “That’s enough.” I stopped, and we disengaged. She said, “The plane lands at three a.m. Fifteen kilometers west of the airport.”

I caught my breath. “Does she know?”

De Groot shook her head. “I haven’t told her anything yet. She’s sleeping now; the fever’s still high, but it’s been stable for a while. And the doctors can’t say what the virus will do next, but they can carry a selection of drugs in the ambulance to cover the most likely emergencies.”

I said soberly, “Only one thing really worries me, now.”

“What?”

“Knowing Violet… when she finds out we’ve gone behind her back, she’ll probably refuse to leave—out of sheer stubbornness.”

De Groot gave me an odd look, as if she was trying to decide whether I was joking or not.

She said, “If you really believe that, then you don’t know Violet at all.”

26

I told De Groot I’d catch some sleep and be back by 2:30. I wanted to bid Mosala bon voyage.

I went looking for Akili to tell ver the good news, but ve’d been discharged. I sent ver a message, then returned to the hotel, washed my face, changed my laser-singed shirt. My bums were numb, absent; the local anesthetic had magicked them away. I felt battered, but triumphant—and too wired to stand still, let alone sleep. It was almost eleven, but the shops were still open; I went out and bought myself another shoulder camera, then wandered the city, filming everything in sight. The last night of peace on Stateless? The mood on the streets was nothing like the atmosphere of siege among the physicists and journalists inside the hotel, but there was an edge of nervous anticipation, like Los Angeles during a quake risk alert (I’d been through one, a false alarm). When people met my gaze they seemed curious—even suspicious—but they showed no sign of hostility. It was as if they thought I might, conceivably, be a spy for the mercenaries—but if I was, that was merely an exotic trait which they had no intention of holding against me.

I stopped in the middle of a brightly lit square, and checked the news nets. Buzzo had given no press conference admitting his error, but with Mosala now showing symptoms, perhaps he’d take the risk of the extremists seriously, and reconsider. Coverage of the situation on Stateless stank, uniformly—but SeeNet would soon scoop everyone by announcing the real reasons for the occupation. And even with Mosala alive, the truth might come out badly for the pro-boycott alliance.

The air was humid, but cold. I stared up at the satellites which bridged the planet, and tried to make sense of the fact that I was standing on an artificial South Pacific island, on the eve of a war.

Was my whole life encoded in this moment—the memories I possessed, the circumstances I found myself in? Taking this much and no more as given… could I have reconstructed all the rest?

It didn’t feel that way. My childhood in Sydney was unimaginable, as remote and hypothetical as the Big Bang—and even the time I’d spent in the hold on the fishing boat, and the encounter with the robot at the airport, had receded like fragments of a dream.

I’d never had cholera. I possessed no internal organs.

The stars glinted icily.

At one in the morning, the streets were still crowded, shops and restaurants still trading. Nobody seemed as somber as they should have been; maybe they still believed that they were facing nothing more than the kind of harassment they’d survived before.

There was a group of young men standing around a fountain in the square, joking and laughing. I asked them if they thought the militia would attack the airport soon. I couldn’t imagine why else they’d be in such high spirits; maybe they’d be taking part, and were psyching themselves up for it.

They stared at me in disbelief. “Attack the airport? And get slaughtered?”

“It might be your only chance.”

They exchanged amused glances. One of them put a hand on my shoulder and said solicitously, “Everything’s going to be fine. Just keep an ear to the ground, and hang on tight.”

I wondered what kind of drugs they were on-When I returned to the hospital, De Groot said, “Violet’s awake. She wants to talk to you.”

I went in alone. The room was dimly lit; a monitor near the head of the bed glowed with green and orange data. Mosala’s voice was weak, but she was lucid.

“Will you ride in the ambulance with me?”