Distress

The insect scuttled forward angrily, delicate moire 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 Technoliberation." 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."