Yeah. And Sarah Knight was dead.
I approached slowly, scanning the ground nervously, wishing I hadn't told Sisyphus fourteen years before to lose all junk mail from weapons manufacturers looking for technophile journalists to provide free publicity for their glamorous new anti-personnel mines. Then again… there'd probably been no helpful tips in those media releases for avoiding being on the receiving end—short of spending fifty thousand dollars on the matching sweepers.
The interior of the building was pitch black, but the floodlights outside bleached the reef-rock white. I squinted into the maw of the entrance, wishing I had Witness to rejig my retinas. The camera on my right shoulder was virtually weightless, but it still made me feel skewed and misshapen—about as comfortable, centered, and functional as if my genitals had migrated to one kneecap. And—irrationally or not—the invisible nerve taps and RAM had always made me feel shielded, protected. When my own eyes and ears had captured everything for the digital record, I'd been a privileged observer right up to the moment of being disemboweled or blinded. This machine could be brushed off like a speck of dandruff.
I'd never felt so naked in my life.
I stopped ten meters from the empty doorway, arms stretched out and hands raised. I yelled into the darkness: "I'm a journalist! I want to talk!"
I waited. I could still hear the crowds of the city behind me, but the airport exuded silence. I shouted again. And waited. I was almost ready to give up fear for embarrassment; maybe the passenger terminal was abandoned, the mercenaries had set up camp on the farthest corner of the runway, and I was standing here making a fool of myself to no one.
Then I felt a gentle stirring of the humid air, and the blackness of the entrance disgorged a machine.
I flinched, but stood my ground; if it had wanted me dead, I would never have seen it coming. The thing betrayed a flickering succession of partial outlines as it moved—faint but consistent distortions of the light which the eye seized upon as edges—but once it halted, I was left staring at nothing but afterimages and guesswork. A six-legged robot, three meters high? Actively computing my view of its surroundings, and programming an optically active sheath to match luminosities? No—more than that. It stood protruding halfway into the floodlit forecourt, without even casting a shadow—which meant it was realtime holographing the blocked light sources, its polymer skin lasing out a perfectly matched substitute beam, wavefront by wavefront. I had a sudden, sickening realization of what the people of Stateless were facing. This was alpha military tech, costing millions. EnGeneUity weren't messing around with cheap aggravation, this time. They wanted their intellectual property back, product reputation unscathed—and anything which stood above the reef-rock would be cut down if it got in the way.
The insect said, "We've already chosen the journalists' pool, Andrew Worth. You're not on the invasion hit parade." It spoke English, perfectly inflected right down to a hint of amusement, but with an unnerving geographical neutrality. Whether its speech was autonomous, or whether I was talking real-time to the mercenaries—or their PR people—I had no idea.
"I don't want to cover the war. I'm here to offer you a chance to avoid some… undesirable publicity."
The insect scuttled forward angrily, delicate moire patterns of interference fringes blossoming and fading on its camouflaged surface. I stayed rooted to the spot; my instinct was to flee, but my muscles felt like jelly. The thing came to a halt, two or three meters away—and vanished from sight again. I didn't doubt that, at the very least, it could have raised its forelegs and decapitated me in an instant.
I steadied myself, and addressed the solid air. "There's a woman on this island who's going to die if she's not evacuated in a matter of hours. And if that happens… SeeNet are ready to broadcast a documentary called Violet Mosala: Martyr to Technoliberation." It was the truth—although Lydia had put up some resistance, at first. I'd sent her faked footage of Mosala talking about the reasons for her planned emigration—all more-or-less what had really been said, although I hadn't actually filmed it. Three SeeNet newsroom editors were hard at work incorporating that—and some of the genuine material I'd filed—into an up-to-date obituary. I'd neglected to include anything about the Anthrocosmologists, though. Mosala had been about to become the figurehead for a major challenge to the boycott—and now she was infected with a viral weapon, and Stateless was occupied. Lydia had drawn her own conclusions, and the editors would have been instructed accordingly.
The insect was silent for several long minutes. I remained frozen, my hands still in the air. I imagined the blackmail threat being passed up the chain of command. Maybe the biotech alliance were exploring the option of buying SeeNet and killing the story? But then they'd have to lean on other networks, too; they'd have to keep on paying to ensure the right spin. They could get what they wanted for free, if they let her live.
I said, "If Mosala survives, you can stop her from returning. But if she dies here… she'll be linked in the public imagination to Stateless for the next hundred years."
I felt a stinging sensation on my shoulder. I glanced down at the camera; it had been incinerated, and the ashes were tumbling away from a tiny charred patch on my shirt.
"The plane can land. And you can leave with her. Once she's out of danger, file a new story from Cape Town on her plans to emigrate—and what became of them." It was the same voice as before—but the power behind the words came from far beyond the island.
There was no need to add: If the spin is right, you'll be rewarded.
I bowed my head in assent. "I'll do that."
The insect hesitated. "Will you? I don't think so." A searing pain slashed my abdomen; I cried out and sank to my knees. "She'll return alone. You can stay on Stateless and document the fall." I glanced up to see a faint hint of green and violet shimmering in the air as the thing retreated, like a glint of sunlight through half-closed eyes.
It took me a while to rise to my feet. The laser flash had burned a horizontal welt right across my stomach—but the beam had lingered for whole microseconds on the existing wound; the carbohydrate polymer had been caramelized, and a brown watery fluid was leaking out of my navel. I muttered abuse at the empty doorway, then started hobbling away.
When I was back among the crowds, two teenagers approached me and asked if I needed help. I accepted gratefully. They held me up as I limped toward the hospital.
I called De Groot from casualty. I said, "They were very civilized. We have clearance to land."
De Groot looked haggard, but she beamed at me. "That's fantastic!"
"Any news about the flight?"
"Nothing yet, but I spoke to Wendy a few minutes ago, and she was waiting for a call from the President, no less." She hesitated. "Violet's developed a fever. It's not dangerous yet, but…"
But the weapon had triggered. We'd be racing the virus every step of the way, now. What had I expected, though? Another timing error? Or magical immunity for the Keystone? "You're with her?"
"Yes."
"I'll meet you there in half an hour."
The same medic treated me as before. She'd had a long day; she said irritably, "I don't want to hear your excuse this time. The last one was bad enough."
I surveyed the pristine cubicle, the orderly cabinets of drugs and instruments, and I was gripped by despair. Even if Mosala was evacuated in time… there were one million people on Stateless, with nowhere to flee. I said, "What will you do, when the war starts?"
"There won't be a war."
I tried to imagine the machines being assembled, the fate being prepared for these people, deep inside the airport. I said gently, "I don't think you're going to have a choice about that."
The medic stopped applying cream to my bums, and glared at me as if I'd said something unforgivably offensive and belittling. "You're a stranger here. You don't have the slightest idea what our choices are. What do you think? We've spent the last twenty years in some kind of… blissful Utopian stupor, content in the knowledge that our positive karmic energy would repel all invaders?" She started dispensing the cream again, roughly.
I was bemused. "No. I expect you're fully prepared to defend yourselves. But this time, I think you're going to be outgunned. Badly."
She unrolled a length of bandage, eyeing me sharply. "Listen, because I'm only going to say this once. When the time comes, you'd better trust us."
"To do what?"
"To know better than you."
I laughed grimly. "That's not asking much."
When I turned into the corridor which led to Mosala's room, I saw De Groot talking—in hushed tones, but with obvious excitement—to the two security guards. She spotted me and waved. I quickened my step.
When I reached them, De Groot silently held up her notepad and hit a key. A newsreader appeared.
"In the latest developments on the renegade island of Stateless, the violent anarchist splinter group occupying the airport have just acceded to a request from South African diplomats to allow the urgent evacuation of Violet Mosala, the twenty-seven-year-old Nobel laureate who has been attending the controversial Einstein Centenary Conference." In the background, a stylized world globe spun beneath an image of Mosala, the view zooming in on Stateless, and then South Africa, on cue. "With the primitive healthcare facilities on the island, local doctors have been unable to provide an accurate diagnosis, but Mosala's condition is believed to be life-threatening. Sources in Mandela say that President Nchabaleng herself sent a personal appeal to the anarchists, and received their reply just minutes ago."
I threw my arms around De Groot, lifted her off her feet and spun around until I was giddy with joy. The guards looked on, grinning like children. Maybe it was a microscopic victory in the face of the invasion—but it still seemed like the first good thing that had happened for a very long time.
De Groot said gently, "That's enough." I stopped, and we disengaged. She said, "The plane lands at three a.m. Fifteen kilometers west of the airport."
I caught my breath. "Does she know?"
De Groot shook her head. "I haven't told her anything yet. She's sleeping now; the fever's still high, but it's been stable for a while. And the doctors can't say what the virus will do next, but they can carry a selection of drugs in the ambulance to cover the most likely emergencies."
I said soberly, "Only one thing really worries me, now."
"What?"
"Knowing Violet… when she finds out we've gone behind her back, she'll probably refuse to leave—out of sheer stubbornness."
De Groot gave me an odd look, as if she was trying to decide whether I was joking or not.