Distress

I'd expected, at least, deserted streets in the center of the island, but at first sight little seemed to have changed. There were no signs of panic— no queues of hoarders, no boarded-up shopfronts. When we passed the hotel, though, I saw that the Mystical Renaissance carnival had gone to ground; I wasn't the only tourist who was suffering from a sudden desire to be invisible. Back on the boat, I'd heard that one woman had been injured slightly when the airport was captured, but most of the staff had simply walked away. Munroe had spoken of a militia on the island, and no doubt they outnumbered the invaders—but how their equipment, training and discipline compared, I had no idea. The mercenaries seemed content, so far, to dig themselves in at the airport—but if the ultimate aim was not to take power, but to bring "anarchy" to Stateless, I had a queasy suspicion that there'd be something a lot less palatable than the bloodless seizure of strategic assets, very soon.

The atmosphere at the hospital was calm. Vunibobo helped me get Kuwale into the building; ve smiled dreamily and tried to limp forward, but it took the two of us to keep ver from falling flat on vis face. Prasad Jwala had sent the scan of Kuwale's bullet wound ahead, and an operating theater was already prepared. I watched ver being wheeled in, trying to convince myself that I felt nothing but the same anxiety that I would have felt for anyone else. Vunibobo bid me farewell.

After waiting my turn in casualty, I was sewn up under local anesthetic. I'd managed to kill the bioengineered graft—which would have accelerated healing and formed a good seal—but the medic who treated me packed the wound with a spongy antibacterial carbohydrate polymer, which would slowly degrade in the presence of the growth factors secreted by the surrounding flesh. She asked what had made the hole. I told her the truth, and she seemed greatly relieved. "I was beginning to wonder if something had eaten its way out."

I stood up carefully, numb at the center, but feeling the pinched absence of skin and muscle tug on every part of me. The medic said, "Try to avoid strenuous bowel movements. And laughter."

I found De Groot and Mosala in the anteroom to the Medical Imaging suite. Mosala looked drawn and nervous, but she greeted me warmly, shaking my hand, clasping my shoulder. "Andrew, are you all right?"

"I'm fine. But the documentary may have a small gap in it."

She managed to smile. "Henry's being scanned right now. They're still processing my data; it could take a while. They're looking for foreign proteins, but there's some doubt as to whether the resolution's up to it. The machine's second-hand, twenty years old." She hugged herself, and tried to laugh. "Listen to me. If I'm planning to live here, I'd better get used to the facilities."

De Groot said, "No one I've spoken to has seen Helen Wu since early last night. Conference security checked out her room; it's empty."

Mosala still seemed stunned by the revelation of Wu's allegiance. "Why would she get involved with the Anthrocosmologists? She's a brilliant theorist in her own right—not some pseudoscientific hanger-on! I can understand how… a certain kind of person might think there's something mystical about working on TOEs, when they find they can't grasp the details, themselves… but Helen understands my work almost better than I do!" I didn't think it was a good time to point out that that was half the problem. "As for these other thugs, who you think killed Yasuko… I'll be giving a media conference this afternoon, outlining the problems with Henry Buzzo's choice of measure and what it means for his TOE. That should concentrate their tiny minds." Her voice was almost calm—but she held her arms crossed in front of her, one hand clasped around the other wrist, trying to mask the faint tremor of rage. "And when I announce my own TOE on Friday morning… they can kiss their transcendence goodbye." "Friday morning?"

"Serge Bischoff's algorithms are working wonders. All my calculations will be finished by tomorrow night."

I said carefully, "If it turns out that you've been infected with a bioweapon—and if you become too sick to work—is there anyone else who could interpret these results, and put the whole thing together?"

Mosala recoiled. "What are you asking me to do? Anoint a successor to be targeted next?"

"No! But if your TOE is completed and announced, the moderates will have to admit that they've been proven wrong—and there's a chance they might hand over the antidote. I'm not asking you to publicize anyone's name! But if you can arrange for someone to put the finishing touches—"

Mosala said icily, "I have nothing to prove to these people. And I'm not risking someone else's life, trying."