by Malka Older
“Nothing new. They’re playing close to the chest. But they’ll go for it. This is too big a hit for them to take.”
“I’m almost hoping they don’t agree. We have a lot of momentum behind independence now, I don’t think we should waste it.”
“Are you crazy? How exactly do you think this is going to work? We’d lose our trading partners and tourist dollars immediately, and you can bet that those ivory-encased bastards”—another common epithet—“will find other ways to harass us. Besides, have you seen the economic projections?”
Five floors down, Mishima smiles and puts an extra flourish of pessimism on the latest analysis Kei is working on.
“You really think other governments are going to sanction our corporations just because Encyclopedia Boring tells them to?”
“You don’t have to look any farther than Switzerland,” someone else points out.
Scoffing. “Switzerland is one pathetic nation-state that wasn’t even that integrated before the first election. We’re talking about thousands of centenals, scattered all over the world, with virtually no trade barriers until now.” Heritage has very loose border controls; as corporates, they make a lot of their revenue through exports and through luring visitors to buy on their territory. “You think all our neighbors, all over the world, are going to stop going to dinner in the restaurants they’ve used their whole lives, visiting the theme parks they went to as kids, buying the products they’ve always loved?”
“Even if the end state is something we can handle, it’s going to be a shock, and shocks are never good for economies.”
“It will be less of a shock for us than for them, thanks to our comms pipeline.”
Mishima frowns and flags the reference to an unknown communications procedure.
“Not to mention the external inte—”
“That is not up for discussion!” The sharp voice is Halliday’s, Mishima is almost positive, and she plants an urgent flag this time, wondering what Halliday is trying to hide. She doesn’t have much time to think about it: the head of state is still talking.
“Leaving this speculation aside for a moment, I think we should consider our position if they come back with a negotiation, rather than an outright yes or no.”
Silence for a moment as the conversation reorients.
“We don’t even seem to be able to agree whether we want to push them toward a yes or a no.”
“Let’s aim for a yes. I think if we definitively want a no, it will be easy enough to get.”
Again, a silence. Mishima has the sense that there is some unspoken agreement and everyone is deciding whether they want to be the first to put it into words, into recorded, immutable history. All the rooms in the headquarters are equipped with auto-stenos, and anyone or everyone in there might be recording the meeting.
“Do we think that amnesty for Pressman is a sticking point?” someone asks. “Because in my perspective, that sort of specific case is far less important than the systemic changes we need.”
A murmur from people who agree but don’t want to attach their names to the record.
“We need our corporate earnings to contribute to our campaigns; that’s nonnegotiable.”
“The five-year Supermajority term should be a deal-breaker.”
“That could come back and bite us in the ass next time we win.”
“I would hope we can make five years work for us, at this point. If not, we’ll just change it back once we get in.”
* * *
Roz puts an X through the projection of the sheikh from Mukjar who is running (far behind, according to their limited polls) for the head of state position: after a little footwork to fill in the gaps in the data, they have managed to confirm that he has never been in the same place as the flying murder weapon. “Sure, he could have hired someone,” Maria admits, “but let’s try to keep this simple.”
“One down. How many suspects does that leave us?”
“Four candidates and 600,000 citizens from the six centenals the tsubame has stopped in over the past three months.”
“But no one from Information.” Roz has ruled out the entirety of Information staff, other than Amran and local stringers, by doing a similar search for geographic overlap between them and the tsubame over the past two months. She figures she’s fulfilled her promise to Fatima with that alone, but for peace of mind, she pulled out the files on the SVAT team and went over them meticulously, sweating in the late-night heat of her hut. Nothing to tie any of them to Al-Jabali.
Amran is putting together the public service vid for tonight, Maria is doing background research and interviews with some of the head of state candidates, and Minzhe is at the militia station. Charles has checked in from Djabal: he’s been meeting individually with the sheikhs on the council but so far hasn’t gotten them to spill anything new, other than some salacious, unconfirmed rumors about Al-Jabali’s mistress in Kas. He’s going to visit the infrastructure projects over the next two days and then, unless anything else comes up, try to catch a ride back.
Roz spends another hour staring at the location cross-reference, hoping to knock off another suspect or two. But she is antsy. The Heritage deadline is drawing close, lending a seductively urgent lack of restraint to Information intranet discussions on the subject. Roz wishes she was working on that instead of staring at the gaps in this intel desert. The stale air in the office feels too hot to breathe, and she’s tired of sitting still. After lunch, which is leftover goat with sorghum crêpes, Roz asks the local stringer Khadija to take her out to the sites of some of the battles.
Khadija is willing, especially when Roz volunteers the office SunCruiser. Solar charged and adapted for the sandy environment, the lightweight vehicle powers them out of town in a few minutes. The huts disappear and all they see is sand and scrub trees, reddish pebbles, the occasional low rocky hill range. It’s still hot, but at least the movement generates a breeze. They cross the wadi, the SunCruiser skiffing over the ripples of soft sand, and climb up the other side. Khadija consults a locator. “Over there,” she says, pointing, and Roz turns the wheel and accelerates.
They clamber out of the high vehicle at the spot Khadija indicated. Roz holds her hand above her eyes to block the headachy sun, but with or without it, she doesn’t see anything special. What did she think she was going to find out here, clues?
“Where’s the border, exactly?” she asks. She could look it up herself, but she wants to get a sense for how aware of it the locals are.
Not at all, as it turns out; Khadija has to check on the locator. These are new borders, written by Malakal and his team only two years ago.
“And this was a battle with…”
“The NomadCowmen.” This, Khadija is sure of; the battles are already part of general knowledge, something she doesn’t have to think about.
“Tell me about them,” Roz says. She is still looking around, but all she sees are sand, soil, dry branches, and the huge sky, jagged at the edge where it meets one of the low hills. She knows there are no active feeds, but she catches herself looking for the telltale glint of a camera anyway. Nothing. No pop-up advids, no projections, no houses, no streets. Why would anyone fight over this place?
“They travel seasonally with their herds. Sometimes, they come into town to sell milk or cows. Of course, the shift to centenals has been hard on them.”
How did they even win one? Roz wonders. “Do they hold that centenal there?” Pointing over the border.
“No,” Khadija says, surprised that someone as educated and worldly as Roz wouldn’t know this. “Their centenal is…” She pulls up a map projection from the locator, flicks it around, and points. “Over here.” The border is a good thirty kilometers away, across a stretch of DarMasalit territory. Leaning over Khadija’s shoulder to resize, Roz gets an idea of how the nomads won a centenal: their territory is huge and sprawling, curling around towns and cities to cover seemingly unoccupied area. Solidly done, Malakal, Roz thinks.
&nb
sp; “Do they fight in DarMasalit territory, too?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” Khadija says. “If they did, we might not have heard.”
Of course not. Roz walks over to one of the stunted shrubs, attracted by a discoloration where the trunk is blackened. A flamethrower? she wonders. She runs her fingers along its trunk and finds a splintery pitting big enough for two fingers to the first knuckle. “Do the NomadCowmen use plastic guns?” she asks, trying to look Khadija in the eye.
“I don’t know,” Khadija says, staring at the tree. Roz puts that down as a yes.
* * *
Roz and Khadija pass through the market on their way back to the compound, and as they trundle through the clothing section, Roz turns her head sharply. Yes, that is the straight-backed, turbaned figure of the new governor she sees walking away from them. “I’ll walk back from here,” she tells Khadija, opening the door to a furnace blast of air and swinging down. “I want to ask the governor about something.”
Khadija nods without comment, and it is only when Roz has already taken a few steps that she realizes she doesn’t actually have something specific to ask the governor. She has to make sure he wasn’t offended when she left so quickly the other morning; that’s why she had it in her head she wanted to see him. She glances back over her shoulder in time to see the SunCruiser wobbling around the corner, and wonders if Khadija has ever learned to drive one. Seems unlikely, now that she’s thinking about it, but SunCruisers are highly intuitive, auto-safetied up to their solar panels, and not very fast, so it’s hard to actually hurt someone with them.
Roz hurries through the flux of white-robed and colorful figures, catching up with Suleyman at the next cross street. At least, she hopes it’s really him—and yes, as she calls a polite “Salaam wa aleikum,” he turns and she sees the governor’s hovering smile.
“Aleikum salaam, and how nice to see you, I hope you are well,” he replies, the translator smoothing the traditional barrage of greetings. “I hope your work is continuing without any difficulties? I’ve missed you at coffee in the mornings.”
Perfect opening, thinks Roz. “We’ve been very busy with the election.” He smiles obligingly. “And I wanted to tell you how sorry I was about leaving so quickly the other day; something urgent came up.”
“Please,” the governor says, hands spread gracefully. “Don’t mention it.” They are still standing where she stopped him, and though Roz tries to ignore it, she can feel the sun pressing down on her scalp, the heat like a persistent tickle of pain. She looks longingly at the thin band of shade his cloud-white turban leaves on his face and shifts her weight.
The governor notices. “Would you like to join me for a cup of tea?”
Roz hesitates. “I should get back.”
“Please,” he says, and she relents: after all, cultivating the elites is part of her job. Suleyman leads her down a side street to a lean-to teashop. There is no fan, not even a heat reflector, but at least there is shade. Suleyman settles into one of the chairs, woven string on a metal frame, with a wide recline angle, and tips a finger at a boy hovering in the back (Are all waiters here underage? Roz wonders). The kid darts away and is at their elbows seconds later with two small cups of reddish-brown, steaming tea, so intensely sweet she can smell the sugar.
“Thank you for taking the time,” the governor says as they wait for the drink to cool enough to sip. “Actually, there is something I wanted to talk to you about.” From the hesitation in his tone, Roz can guess that it’s a topic that’s not pleasant for him to speak about, and she leans forward, wondering if he’s ready to confide something about the assassination.
“I understand…” His fingers are playing along the arm of his chair. “I have heard that you … cited Abdullah for lying?”
“Abdullah?” Roz races through recent faces, trying to attach that name to one of them.
He gestures directionally. “New Waves restaurant.”
Roz is still drawing a blank.
“The menu?”
Oh, the stock photos. “Well, they were lying.”
“But everyone knows that already. There was no need to…”
“If everyone knows, then no one will care when they see actual photos.” Roz is puzzled. “It’s one of four restaurants in town”—generously including Zeinab’s café in the definition of restaurant—“I don’t think anyone’s making the decision to eat there based on the projections in the menu.” Suleyman is still staring at her, like she’s completely missed the point. “I’m saying, it’s not going to affect their bottom line.”
“It’s not about the bottom line.” She has completely missed the point. “Abdullah feels like he’s been accused of something.”
“I—It’s not a big deal. We know it takes people time to get used to having Information everywhere.” Now Roz feels accused. “And it’s not public—I mean, of course it’s there for anyone who looks, but it’s not like I put a big projection up in front of the restaurant saying they lied. They change the photos, that’s all.”
Suleyman waits, then nods once. “I suppose he is being sensitive.” He hesitates. “Maybe it feels too much like having the government back again.”
“The government?”
“The Sudanese government, I mean.”
During her career with Information Roz has heard the organization compared to a lot of uncomplimentary things, but this hurts. Cultivating the elites, she thinks grimly. “Is there any way I could smooth this over with—Abdullah? It truly isn’t a personal criticism or even a remotely serious offense. It’s just … part of the process.”
Suleyman takes a considering sip of tea. “I will speak with him, insh’allah. And perhaps next time you go, you might say something.”
“Of course,” Roz says. Another difficult conversation to look forward to. She decides she should get something out of this one, at least. “We’ve been hearing reports of occasional fighting along your borders.” His eyes, heavy-lidded, tell her nothing. “I wonder if any of those conflicts could have led to the assassination.”
He sips again, thinks, sips, thinks some more. “It is not impossible,” he says at last, “but I think it highly doubtful. Those small fights are about showing prowess and courage. The assassination was an act of cowardice.”
If you say so. “Still, it seems that this centenal has enemies.”
He smiles serenely. “How did you put it? ‘It takes people time to get used to Information.’”
Right, like there were no conflicts here before Information showed up.
A sustained note from the mosque located a few streets over starts the call to prayer. Almost simultaneously, Roz hears a faint tinny echo; Suleyman must have the call piped into his earpiece in case he’s out of earshot. “Excuse me for a moment, please,” he says, and stands without waiting for her nod. Along with the proprietor and two other customers, he washes with a small jug of water by the entrance to the tea shop. They arrange themselves, Suleyman standing a few steps in front of the other three to lead the prayer. Roz watches as they rise and bend, her hands folded in what she hopes is a respectful manner. She feels itchy just sitting there, but leaving before they’re finished seems rude. When the governor walks back to her, she stands to meet him.
“I should be getting back.” She swallows what’s left of her tea. “If you do think of anyone else who might have intel on the assassination, please let us know.”
“Of course,” he says, but Roz is not optimistic. “And sorry to keep you so long. But I hope to see you again one of these mornings. I usually take my coffee by the wall before work.”
Roz looks up, surprised, and feels a flush of warmth entirely distinct from the climate as she meets his eyes. Is it possible he’s flirting with her? No, she decides, it isn’t. His expression is both sincere and utterly lacking in suggestiveness. Besides, why would he? It must be either hospitality or a desire to keep an eye on Information. Still, she smiles as she answers. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Kei makes a show of working late, and although Deepal seems nervous about leaving her alone, at seven thirty he gives in and wishes her good night. Mishima has already picked up five of her recorders during bathroom or coffee breaks, but she still has a dozen to reclaim, and the cleaners have already started their rounds. Their schedule was one of her snooping targets during the first evening she worked late, and so she can visualize the optimal pattern for the retrievals, as if she had the cheat sheet for an interactive in front of her. Hell, she could see it in front of her eyes if she wanted to take the time to put an interface on the data she’s using.
It wouldn’t make a bad game, Mishima thinks, as she takes the stairs silently up to the fifth floor, removes three recorders from offices in the south wing while the cleaners do the north, and then descends one flight to collect one from a large conference room between two departments. There’s a time factor beyond the cleaning teams: the building lights remain on, with that eerie sense of well-lit emptiness, until eight, and then switch to motion-activated, which will give her away pretty quickly if anyone’s watching. And there’s always the extra risk of surprises, like the locked office door she picks open on the tenth floor, checking over her shoulder so often, she almost wishes the motion sensors were already on.
She is slipping down a corridor on the twelfth floor to pick up the last three recorders, all in rooms where Halliday had meetings during the day, seven minutes to go before lights-off, when the elevator doors open at the opposite end. Mishima dives through the first door she sees, which happens to be one of the rooms she bugged. She slides under the table, plucking off the disk on her way, and scoots to the far side of the room. A second later, she hears a door open, and her stiletto is in her hand before she realizes the sound came from one of her recorders. It is followed by footsteps, echoing in her ears from somewhere down the hall.
“I was sure I left it here.”
“Maybe in the other conference room?”