The Caryatids

Montalban sighed. "I am not 'libeling' the state. The Chinese state is the world's most remarkable case study in ubiquitous computing. It's 'ubiquity with Chinese national characteristics.' I don't consider that machine my enemy. It is not any moral actor, it's a machine. I don't condemn it. If the Chinese state committed 'genocide,' then the human race has committed 'geocide.' The 'Fossil Fuel Project,' that was infinitely worse. That was the worst and most comprehensive blunder that our species ever committed. Every human being had some share of guilt in that monstrous crime. Am I 'libeling' us when I point out that the human race got what it asked for? We blew it with the world's biggest gamble, and the minor stunt I happen to be pulling right now, that is just another return to the same table with much smaller stakes."

Lionel offered his brother a canteen. "John's been running at pretty much full steam for three days straight. I don't think he's slept for three hours. If he sounds a little overwrought, you need to cut him some slack."

Montalban sat down on a patterned carpet; his burst of oratory had drained him. The nomad tent had suddenly grown crowded. While John had passionately ranted, busy tribesmen had carried the pots and kettles from the place and cleared a small arena. A crowd had gathered, sitting cross-legged, chattering and munching snacks. Fried meat of some kind. It smelled like fried rats.

"Hey wow! Entertainment!" said Lionel. At the prospect, he brightened so much that he almost seemed to glow.

An overpowering melody came from nowhere, a sourceless wave of powerful, thudding music. A woman strode into the tent, carrying the soundtrack with her.

She wore a spangled golden headdress, a veil, a sequined bra, a spangled vest, and two thin skirts of overlapping chiffon. Bells chimed around her ankles and golden bangles jingled on both her arms. Her eyes were caked in kohl and her palms were stained red with henna.

She glided into the center of the tent, barefoot on the carpets, bathing in the crowd's eager, yelping applause.

Her music faded to a steamy, rhythmic clicking. She stamped her slippered feet in time so that her silver anklets jingled, and banged her red palms so that the bracelets clashed.

Then she gazed seductively around her crowd, and saw Sonja. She stopped at once.

"Now we're in for it," Lionel groaned.

"I thought I told you to keep Biserka under wraps," said Montalban. "Where did she get that crazy costume?"

"Downtown Hollywood maybe? She's so tricky!"

Shivering with rage, the veiled dancer stalked over to confront John Montalban. "You have just completely ruined my best scene."

"We didn't know you were having a scene," said Lionel.

"I especially didn't know you were stealing Mila Montalban's best theme music," said John.

Biserka yanked the veil from her painted lips. "How did she get in here?" Biserka demanded. "You said she'd been killed by airplanes and robots and something."

"Last night that seemed pretty likely," John said, "but Sonja's a trooper."

Biserka turned to glare at Sonja. She spoke Chinese. "Well: Look around you. I win."

"Are you speaking to me?"

"What are you, bitch, five years old? I'm telling you that I win ! You know that I win. You tried to chase me out of China: well, these are my people here. These are my very special people, the people who love me, the people who are all my good friends."

"Where did this ragtag find the money to hire you?"

"I did it for love, " Biserka shrieked. " You're the one that's the mercenary! You whore, just look at them, look at their faces, see how much they love me! I taught them everything! I taught them what the real world is really like! Before me, they were like lost children."

Lionel intervened. "What's the name of your big victory dance, Biserka? Tell me about your cool new routine."

Biserka shot him a grateful look. "It's all about victory! And what happened in outer space! And my mother's death! And it's my interpretative dance performance about the world's bravest, noblest people- my people! They are going to overthrow all the systems, and cover the Earth in free blackspots, and break the walls of surveillance and haul the oppressors out of there...and pile their heads up in pyramids!"

Hands on her hips, Biserka drew a breath. "I choreographed it all by myself! I call it 'The Seven-Veiled Dance of Shiva, the Goddess of Destruction.'"

"Shiva is a male god," said Lionel.

"Really?"

"Yeah, Shiva is a male dancer, like I am."

"Never mind that, Lionel," said Montalban calmly. "Let Biserka dance. She has an eager public waiting here."

Biserka pouted. "You've gone and spoiled it all. How could you let her come in here? I was really, really happy today, for the first time in my whole life! I was happy for maybe one hour! I can dance! You know I can dance. I learned some hot new moves in Los Angeles, and you were going to love those! Now my timing's all messed up and it's all ruined."