Distress

But Lydia was stony-faced, cold with anger. "Your 'obituary' of Violet Mosala had a whole scene cooked up out of thin air. And it said nothing about the cult which killed Yasuko Nishide—and now Henry Buzzo. I've seen your deposition to the security firm, about the cholera, about the fishing boat. So what are you playing at?"

I clutched at excuses, trying to find the right ones, knowing that Mosala would have died if I hadn't used you was not good enough. I said, "Everything I faked, she really said. Off the record. Ask her."

Lydia was unmoved. "It's still unacceptable, it still violates all the guidelines. And we can't ask her anything. She's comatose."

I didn't want to hear that; if Mosala was brain-damaged, it had all been for nothing. I said, "I couldn't tell you the rest… because I couldn't tip off the Anthrocosmologists by broadcasting everything." I was ranting; the ACs had already known exactly how much I would have told the authorities.

Lydia's expression softened—as if I was clearly so far gone, now, that I deserved to be pitied, not rebuked. "Look, I hope you find a way to get home safely. But the documentary's canceled—you've broken the terms of the contract and News isn't interested in your coverage of the political problems on the island."

"Political problems? I'm in the middle of a war being funded by the biggest biotech company on the planet. I'm the only journalist on the island who seems to have a clue what's going on. And I'm SeeNet's only journalist, period. So how can they not be interested?"

"We're negotiating coverage from someone else."

"Yeah? Who? Janet Walsh?"

"It's none of your business."

"I don't believe you! EnGeneUity are slaughtering people, and—"

Lydia held up a hand to silence me. "I don't want to hear any more of your… propaganda. Okay? I'm sorry you've been through so much unpleasantness. I'm sorry the anarchists are killing each other." She spoke with genuine sadness, I think. "But if you've taken sides, and you want to churn out… polemics against the boycott and the patent laws, full of forged material… then that's your problem. I can't help you. Be careful, Andrew. Goodbye."

As dusk fell, I wandered through the camp, filming, transmitting the signal in real-time to my console at home—guaranteeing a record of everything, for what it was worth.

The model refugee village was still intact, the pumps still working, the sanitation impeccable. Lights shone everywhere, haloed with orange and green through the fabric, and the aroma of cooking wafted out of every second doorway. The tents' stored photovoltaic electricity would last for hours, yet. No great damage had been done—no source of physical comfort had been lost.

But the people I passed were tense, fearful, silent. The robot could return at any time, night or day, and kill one more person—or a thousand.

By sending the robots out of the city to strike at random, the mercenaries could rapidly undermine morale and drive people even further away, closer to the coast. Greenhouse refugees forced to cling to the shoreline, waiting for the next big storm—the fate they'd come to Stateless to avoid—might be ready to abandon the island altogether.

I couldn't imagine what had happened to the so-called militia—maybe they'd all been slaughtered already, in some brave idiotic stand back in the city. I scanned the local nets; there were bleak reports of dozens of attacks like the one I'd witnessed, but little else. I didn't expect the anarchists to broadcast all their military secrets on the nets, but I found the absence of blustering propaganda, of morale-boosting claims of imminent victory, strangely chilling. Maybe the silence meant something, but if it did, I couldn't decipher it.

It was growing cold. I was reluctant to ask for shelter in a stranger's tent—I wasn't afraid of being turned away, but I still felt too much like an outsider, despite all my feeble gestures of solidarity. These people were under siege, and they had no reason to trust me.

So I sat in the restaurant, drinking hot thin soup. The other customers talked among themselves, keeping their voices low, glancing at me more with measured caution than open hostility, but excluding me nonetheless.

I'd destroyed my career—for Mosala, for technoliberation—but I'd achieved nothing. Mosala was in a coma. Stateless was on the verge of a long and bloody decline.

I felt numb, and paranoid, and useless.

Then a message arrived from Akili. Ve'd escaped the city unharmed, and was in another camp, less than a kilometer away.

28

"Sit down. Anywhere that looks comfortable."