The more I thought about it, the less I was prepared to trust anything Kuwale and Conroy had told me—but I knew it could take months to find out what the Anthrocosmologists were really about. Other than Indrani Lee, there was only one person who was likely to hold the answers—and I was sick of remaining ignorant out of sheer dumb pride.
I called Sarah. If she was in Australia, it was broad daylight on the east coast by now… but the same answering system responded as before.
I left another message for her. I couldn't bring myself to come right out and say it in plain English: I abused my position with SeeNet. I stole the project from you, and I didn't deserve it. That was wrong, and I'm sorry. Instead, I offered her participation in Violet Mosala in whatever role now suited her, on whatever terms we could agree were mutually fair.
I signed off, expecting to feel at least some small measure of relief from this belated attempt to make amends. Instead, a powerful sense of unease descended on me. I looked around the brightly lit lobby, staring at the dazzling patches of sunshine on the ornately patterned gold-and-white floor—Stateless-spartan as ever—as if hoping that the light itself might flood in through my eyes and clear the fog of panic from my brain. It didn't.
I sat with my head in my hands, unable to make sense of the dread I felt. Thing's weren't that desperate. I was still in the dark about far too much—but less so than four days ago. I was making progress, wasn't I? I was staying afloat. Barely.
The space around me seemed to expand. The lobby, the sunlit floor, retreated—an infinitesimal shift, but it was impossible to ignore. I glanced down at my notepad clock, light-headed with fear; Mosala's lecture was due to end in three minutes, but the time seemed to stretch out ahead of me, an uncrossable void. I had to make contact with someone, or something.
Before I could change my mind, I had Hermes call Caliban, a front end for a hacking consortium. An androgynous grinning face appeared—mutating and flowing, changing its features second-by-second as it spoke; only the whites of its eyes stayed constant, as if peering out from behind an infinitely malleable mask.
"Bad weather coming down, petitioner. There's ice on the signal wires." Snow began to swirl around the faces; their skin tones favored grays and blues. "Nothing's clear, nothing's easy."
"Spare me the hype." I transmitted Sarah Knight's communications number. "What can you tell me about that, for… one hundred dollars?"
Caliban leered. "The Styx is frozen solid." Frost formed on its various lips and eyelashes.
"A hundred and fifty." Caliban seemed unimpressed—but Hermes flashed up a window showing a credit transfer request; I okayed it, reluctantly.
A screenful of green text, mockingly out-of-focus, appeared to illuminate the software faces. "The number belongs to Sarah Alison Knight, Australian citizen, primary residence 17E Parade Avenue, Lindfield, Sydney. En-fem, date-of-birth April 4th, 2028."
"I know all that, you useless shit. Where is she now—precisely? And when did she last accept a call, in person?"
The green text faded, and Caliban shivered. "Wolves are howling on the steppes. Underground rivers are turning to glaciers."
I restrained myself from wasting more invective. "I'll give you fifty."
"Veins of solid ice beneath the rock. Nothing moves, nothing changes."
I gritted my teeth. "A hundred." My research budget was vanishing fast—and this had nothing to do with Violet Mosola. But I had to know.
Orange symbols danced across gray flesh. Caliban announced, "Our Sarah last accepted a call—in person, on this number—in the central metropolitan footprint for Kyoto, Japan, at 10:23:14 Universal Time, on March 26th, 2055."
"And where is she now?"
"No device has connected to the net under this ID since the stated call." Meaning: she hadn't used her notepad to contact anyone, or to access any service. She hadn't so much as viewed a news bulletin, or downloaded a three-minute music video. Unless…
"Fifty bucks—take it or leave it—for her new communications number."
Caliban took it, and smiled. "Bad guess. She has no new number, no new account."
I said numbly, "That's all. Thank you."
Caliban mimed astonishment at this unwarranted courtesy, and blew me a parting kiss. "Call again. And remember, petitioner: data wants to be free!"
Why Kyoto? The only connection I could think of was Yasuko Nishide. Meaning what? She'd still planned to cover the Einstein Conference, after all—but with a rival profile of a rival theorist? And the only reason she wasn't yet on Stateless was Nishide's illness?
Why the communications blackout, though? Kuwale's grim unspoken conclusion made no sense. Why would biotech interests want to harm Sarah Knight, if she'd shown every sign of abandoning Violet Mosala for another—thoroughly apolitical—physicist?
People began to cross the lobby, talking excitedly. I looked up. The auditorium down the corridor was emptying. Mosala and Helen Wu emerged together; I met up with them.
Mosala was beaming. "Andrew! You missed all the fun! Serge Bischoff just released a new algorithm which is going to save me days of computer time!"
Wu frowned and corrected her. "Save all of us days, please!"
"Of course." Mosala stage-whispered to me, "Helen still doesn't realize that she's on my side, whether she likes it or not." She added, "I have a summary of the lecture, if you want to see it?"
I said tonelessly, "No." I realized how blunt that sounded, but I felt so spaced out, so disconnected, that I really didn't care. Mosala gave me a curious look, more concerned than angry.
Wu left us. I asked Mosala, "Have you heard any more about Nishide?"
"Ah." She became serious. "It seems he's not going to make it to the conference, after all. His secretary contacted the organizers; he's had to be hospitalized. It's pneumonia again." She added sadly, "If this keeps up… I don't know. He may retire altogether."
I closed my eyes; the floor began to tilt. A distant voice asked, "Are you all right? Andrew?" I pictured my face, glowing white hot.
I opened my eyes. And I thought I finally understood what was happening.
I said, "Can I talk to you? Please?"
"Of course."
Sweat began running down my cheeks. "Don't lose your temper. Just hear me out."
Mosala leant forward, frowning. She hesitated, then put a hand on my forehead. "You're burning up. You need to see a doctor, straight away."
I screamed at her hoarsely, "Just listen! Listen to me!"
People around us were staring. Mosala opened her mouth, outraged, ready to put me in my place—but then she changed her mind. "Go ahead. I'm listening."
"You need blood tests, a full… micropathology report… everything. You're asymptomatic, now, but… however you feel… do it… there's no way of knowing what the incubation period might be." I was dripping sweat, and swaying on my feet; every breath felt like a lungful of fire. "What did you think they were going to do? Send in a hit squad with machine guns? I doubt… I wasn’t meant to get sick… at all… but the thing must have mutated on the way. Keyed to your genome… but the lock fell off, en route." I laughed. "In my blood. In my brain."
I sagged, and dropped to my knees. A convulsion passed through my whole body, like a peristaltic spasm trying to squeeze the flesh right out of my skin. People around me were shouting, but I couldn't make out what they were saying. I struggled to lift my head—but when I succeeded, briefly, black and purple bruises flowered across my vision.
I stopped fighting it. I closed my eyes and lay down on the cool, welcoming tiles.
In the hospital ward, for a long time, I paid no attention to my surroundings. I thrashed about in a knot of sweat-soaked sheets, and let the world remain mercifully out of focus. I sought no information from the people around me; in my delirium, I believed I had all the answers:
Ned Landers was behind everything. When we met, he'd infected me with one of his secret viruses. And now, because I'd traveled so far to escape it… although Helen Wu had proved that the whole world was nothing but a loop, and everything led back to the same point… now I was coming down with Landers' secret weapon against Violet Mosala, Andrew Worth, and all his other enemies.
I was coming down with Distress.
A tall Fijian man dressed in white poked a drip into my elbow. I tried to shake it out; he held me still. I muttered triumphantly, "Don't you know there's no point? There's no cure!" Distress was nowhere near as bad as I'd imagined; I wasn't screaming like the woman in Miami, was I?
I was nauseous and feverish—but I felt sure that I was headed for some form of beautiful, painless oblivion. I smiled up at the man. "I'm gone forever now! I've gone away!"