Distress

People were wailing and shouting—and trying to force their way out of the crowd. I resisted too long, transfixed with horror, and I was shoved to my knees. I covered my head and crouched down, but I was still an obstacle to the stampede. Someone heavy tripped on me, jabbing me with knees and elbows, then leaning on me to regain his balance, almost crushing my spine. I cowered on the ground as the buffeting continued, wishing I could rise to my feet, but certain that any attempt would only see me knocked flat on my back and trampled in the face. The man's desperate pleading was like a second rain of blows; I tucked my head deeper into my arms, trying to blot out the sound. Somewhere nearby, a tent wall collapsed gently to the ground.

Long seconds passed, and no one else collided with me. I raised my head; the square was deserted. The man was still alive, but his eyes were rolling up into his skull intermittently, his jaw working feebly. Both his legs had been shattered now. Blood trickled down onto his invisible torturer—each droplet halting in mid fall and spreading out for a moment, hinting at a tangible surface before vanishing into the hidden carapace. I searched the ground for my camera, emitting soft angry choking noises. My throat was knotted, my chest constricted; every breath, every movement felt like a punishment. I found the camera and attached it, then rose shakily to my feet and began recording.

The man stared at me in disbelief. He looked me in the eye and said, "Help me."

I stretched a hand in his direction, impotently. The insect ignored me—and I knew I was in no danger, it wanted this to be seen—but I was giddy with rage and frustration, sweating cold stinking rivulets down my face and chest.

A delicate sheen of interference fringes raced over the robot's form as it raised the man higher. The camera followed my gaze upward, until I knew it was framing only the broken body and the uncaring sky.

I heard myself bellowing, "Where's the fucking militia now? Where are your weapons? Where are your bombs? Do something!"

The man's head lolled; I hoped he'd lost consciousness. Invisible pincers snapped his spine, then flung him aside. I heard the corpse thud against the marquee above the water pumps, then slide to the ground.

The whole camp of ten thousand seemed to be wailing in my skull, and I was screaming incoherently, but I kept my eyes locked on the place where the robot had to be.

There was a loud scrabbling sound from the space in front of me. A sickening hush descended in the alleys around the square. The insect played with the light, sketching its own outline for us, in reef-rock gray against the heavens, in sky blue against the rock. The body hanging from its six upturned-V legs was long and segmented; a blunt restless head at each end swiveled curiously, sniffing the air. Four lithe tentacles slithered in and out of sheaths in the carapace, tipped with sharp claws.

I stood swaying in the silence, waiting for something to happen—for someone with a jacket full of plastic explosives to burst out of an alley and run straight at the machine in the hope of a kamikaze embrace… though ve would not have come within ten meters before being blasted back into the crowd to incinerate a dozen friends, instead.

The thing arched its body and raised a pair of limbs, spreading them wide in a gesture of triumph.

Then it lurched toward a gap between the tents, sending people tripping into the walls and frantically clawing at the fabric, trying to tear a way out of its path.

It raced down the alley and disappeared, heading south, back toward the city.

* * *

Huddled on the ground behind the latrines, not ready to face the demoralized people of the camp, I dispatched the footage of the murder to SeeNet. I tried to compose some narration to go with it, but I was still in shock, I couldn't concentrate. I thought: War correspondents see much worse, day after day. How long will it be, before I'm inured to this?

I scanned the international coverage. Everyone was still talking about "rival anarchists"—including SeeNet, who'd broadcast nothing I'd sent them.

I spent five minutes trying to calm myself, then called Lydia. It took me half an hour to get through to her in person. All I could hear around me was people sobbing with grief. What would it be like, after the tenth attack? The hundredth? I closed my eyes and fantasized about Cape Town, Sydney, Manchester. Anywhere.

When Lydia answered, I said, "I'm here, I'm covering this—so what's happening to my footage?" She was not in charge of news, but she was the only person likely to give me a straight answer.