“For what?”
Ve frowned, then looked around nervously. “Do I have to spell it out? I'm AC. Mainstream AC. We don’t want to see her hurt. And I don’t know how sympathetic you are, or how far you’re prepared to go to help us, but all you’d have to do is—”
I held up a hand to stop ver. “What are you talking about? You don’t want to see her hurt?”
Kuwale looked dismayed, then suddenly wary. I said, “‘Mainstream AC'? Is that supposed to mean something to me?” Ve didn’t reply. “And if Violet Mosala doesn’t take you seriously, why should anyone else?”
Kuwale was clearly having grave second thoughts about me. I still wanted to know what the first ones had been. Ve said derisively, “Sarah Knight never agreed to anything—not in so many words—but at least she understood what was going on. What kind of journalist are you? Do you ever go looking for information? Or do you just grab an electronic teat and see what comes out when you suck?”
Ve broke away, and headed down a side street. I called out, “I'm not a mind-reader! Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
I stood and watched ver disappear into the crowd. I could have followed, demanding answers, but I was already beginning to suspect that I could guess the truth. Kuwale was a fan of Mosala’s, affronted by the planeloads of cultists who’d come to mock vis idol. And though it wasn’t, literally, impossible that an even more disturbed member of Humble Science! or Mystical Renaissance meant Violet Mosala harm… most likely it was all just Kuwale’s elaborate fantasy.
I’d call Sarah Knight in the morning; she’d probably had a dozen weird messages from Kuwale, and finally fobbed ver off by replying: Its not even my job anymore. Go pick on the arsehole who stole it from me, Andrew Worth. Here’s a recent picture. I could hardly blame her; it was a small enough act of revenge.
I continued on toward the hotel. I was dead on my feet, sleepwalking.
I asked Sisyphus, “So what does AC stand for?”
“In what context?”
“Any context. Besides alternating current."
There was a long pause. I glanced up at the sky, and spotted the faint row of evenly spaced dots, drifting slowly eastward against the stars, which still bound me to the world I knew.
“There are five thousand and seventeen other meanings, including specialist jargon, subcultural slang, and registered businesses, charities, and political organizations.”
“Then… anything which might fit the way it was used by Akili Kuwale a few minutes ago.” My notepad kept twenty-four hours of audio in memory. I added, “Kuwale is probably asex.”
Sisyphus digested the conversation, rescanned its list, and said, “The thirty most plausible meanings are: Absolute Control, a Fijian security consultancy who work throughout the South Pacific; Asex Catholique, a Paris-based group which advocates reform of the policies of the Roman Catholic Church toward asex gender migrants; Advanced Cartography, a South African satellite data reduction firm…” I listened to all thirty, then thirty more, but the connections were all so ludicrous as to amount to nothing but noise.
“So what’s the meaning which makes perfect sense—but isn’t listed in any respectable database? What’s the one answer I can’t get out of my favorite electronic teat?”
Sisyphus didn’t dignify that with a reply.
I nearly apologized, but I caught myself in time.
11
I woke at six-thirty, a few seconds before my alarm sounded. I caught fragments of a retreating dream: images of waves crashing against disintegrating coral and limestone—but if the mood had been threatening, it was rapidly dispelled. Sunlight filled the room, shining off the smooth silver-gray walls of polished reef-rock. There were people talking on the street below; I couldn’t make out any words, but the tone sounded relaxed, amiable, civilized. If this was anarchy, it beat waking up to police sirens in Shanghai or New York. I felt more refreshed and optimistic than I had for a very long time.
And I was finally going to meet my subject.
I’d received a message the night before, from Mosala’s assistant, Karin De Groot. Mosala was giving a media conference at eight; after that, she’d be busy for most of the day—starting at nine, when Henry Buzzo from Caltech was delivering a paper which he claimed would cast doubt on a whole class of ATMs. Between the media conference and Buzzo’s paper, though, I’d have a chance to discuss the documentary with her, at last. Although nothing had to be concluded on Stateless—I’d be able to interview her at length back in Cape Town, if necessary—I’d been beginning to wonder if I’d be forced to cover her time here as just another journalist in the pack.
I thought about breakfast, but after forcing myself to eat on the flight from Dili, my appetite still hadn’t returned. So I lay on the bed, reading through Mosala’s biographical notes one more time, and rechecking my tentative shooting schedule for the fortnight ahead. The room was functional, almost ascetic compared to most hotels… but it was clean, modern, bright, and inexpensive, I’d slept in less comfortable beds, in rooms with plusher but gloomier decor, at twice the cost.
It was all too good, by far. Peaceful surroundings and an untraumatic subject—what had I done to deserve this? I’d never even found out who Lydia had sent into the breach to make Distress. Who’d be spending the day in a psychiatric hospital in Miami or Berne, while tranquilizers were withdrawn from one strait-jacketed victim after another, to test the effects of some non-sedative drug on the syndrome, or to obtain scans of the neuropathology unsullied by pharmacological effects?
I brushed the image away, angrily. Distress wasn’t my responsibility; I hadn’t created the disease. And I hadn’t forced anyone to take my place.
Before leaving for the media conference, I reluctantly called Sarah Knight. My curiosity about Kuwale had all but faded—it was sure to be a sad story, with no surprises—and the prospect of facing Sarah for the first time since I’d robbed her of Violet Mosala wasn’t appealing.
I didn’t have to. It was only ten to six in Sydney, and a generic answering system took my call. Relieved, I left a brief message, then headed downstairs.
The main auditorium was packed, buzzing with expectant chatter. I’d had visions of hundreds of protesters from Humble Science! picketing the hotel entrance, or brawling with security guards and physicists in the corridors, but there wasn’t a demonstrator in sight. Standing in the entrance, it took me a while to pick out Janet Walsh in the audience, but once I’d spotted her it was easy to triangulate to Connolly in a forward row—perfectly placed to turn from Walsh to Mosala with a minimum of neck strain.
I took a seat near the back of the room, and invoked Witness. Electronic cameras on the stage would capture the audience, and I could buy the footage from the conference organizers if there was anything worth using.
Marian Fox, president of the International Union of Theoretical Physicists, took the stage and introduced Mosala. She uttered all the words of praise that anyone would have used in her place: respected, inspirational, dedicated, exceptional. I had no doubt that she was perfectly sincere… but the language of achievement always seemed to me to crumble into self-parody. How many people on the planet could be exceptional? How many could be unique? I had no wish to see Violet Mosala portrayed as no different from the most mediocre of her colleagues… but all the laudatory clichés conveyed nothing. They just rendered themselves meaningless.