Distress

She shook her head impatiently. "Let me finish. What's running on the supercomputer network, right now, is just brute-force calculations. I wanted the software to leave the honors to me. Double-checking, pulling it all together… writing a paper which set out the results in a way which would make sense to anyone. But those things are trivial. I already know exactly what has to be done with the results, once they're available. And—" She executed a flurry of keystrokes, scrutinized the effects, then put the notepad aside. "All of it has just been automated. My mother gave me a pre-release Kaspar clonelet last week—and it'll probably write up the results more smoothly than I ever could. So whether I'm alive, dead, or somewhere in between… by six a.m. on Friday, that paper will be written—and posted on the nets with toll-free, universal access. Copies will also be sent to every faculty member and every student of the Physics Departments of every university on the planet." She flashed a smile of pure defiant glee. "What are the Anthrocosmologists going to do, now? Kill every physicist on the planet?" I glanced up at De Groot, who was tight-lipped and ashen. Mosala groaned. "Don't look so damn morbid, you two. I'm just covering all contingencies."

She closed her eyes; her breathing was ragged, but she was still smiling. I turned to the monitor; her temperature was 40.9 degrees.

We'd left the city behind; the windows of the ambulance showed nothing but our reflections. The ride was smooth, the engine all but silent. After a while, I thought I could hear the reef-rock itself, exhaling through a distant borehole—but then I realized that it was the whine of the approaching jet.

Mosala had lost consciousness, and no one tried to rouse her. We reached the rendezvous point, and I climbed out quickly to cover the landing—more because of the promise I'd made than out of any real vestige of professionalism. The plane descended vertically, just forty or fifty meters away from us, gray fuselage lit by nothing but moonlight, the VTOL engines blasting a fine caustic dust of limestone out of the matrix of the rock. I wanted to savor this moment of victory—but the sight of the sleek military craft landing in darkness in the middle of nowhere made my heart sink. I imagined it would be the same with the naval evacuation: the outside world was going to tip-toe in, gather up its own people, and leave. The anarchists could take what was coming to them.

The two men who descended first wore officer's uniforms and side arms, but they might have been doctors. They took the medics aside and spoke in a huddle, their voices lost beneath the hum of the jets; air was still being forced through the stationary engines to keep them cool. Then a slender young man in rumpled civilian clothes emerged, looking haggard and disoriented. It took me a few seconds to recognize him; it was Mosala's husband, Makompo.

De Groot met him; they embraced silently. I stayed back as she led him to the ambulance. I turned and looked away across the gray-and-silver reef-rock; threads of scattered trace minerals caught the moonlight, shining like the foam on an impossibly tranquil ocean. When I turned back, the soldiers were carrying Mosala, bound to a stretcher, up into the plane. Makompo and De Groot followed. I suddenly felt very tired.

De Groot came down the steps and approached me, shouting, "Are you coming with us? They say there's plenty of room."

I stared back at her. What was there to keep me here? My contract with SeeNet was to make a profile of Mosala, not to record the fall of Stateless. The invisible insect had forbidden me to join the flight—but would the mercenaries have any way of knowing, if I did? Stupid question: outdoors, military satellites could just about fingerprint people and lip-read their conversations, all in infrared. But would they shoot down the plane—undermining the whole PR exercise, and inviting retribution—just to punish one obscure journalist? No.

I said, "I wish I could. But there's someone here I can't leave behind."

De Groot nodded, needing no further explanation, and shook my| hand, smiling. "Good luck to both of you, then. I hope we'll see you in Cape Town, soon."

"So do I."

The two medics were silent as we rode back to the hospital. I felt certain that they wanted to talk about the war—but not in front of a foreigner. I scanned through the footage I'd taken with the shoulder camera, not yet trusting the unfamiliar technology, then dispatched it to my console at home.