Null States

by Malka Older

  Deepal was close to breaking even before she left; they could tap him with a feather, threaten his parking privileges, and he’d give her up. Mishima paces, kneads her guilt, considers various courses of action, but before she can decide on anything, Syl calls her back.

  “He messaged me!” If anything, they’re hyperventilating more than before. “Deepal, he got in touch!”

  “Is he all right?”

  “I don’t know. The message is for you.”

  Mishima’s stops pacing, hands icy.

  “The message says, ‘Tell Kei she should go to the Governor’s Ball ready.’”

  Ready. That’s not a problem. “But where is he? Where did he send the message from?”

  “I don’t know,” Syl says, frustrated. “He hasn’t been back to his office. The message came through the Inner Channel. What can it mean? Why would you go to the Governor’s Ball?”

  “It’s a code we worked out before,” Mishima says absently. “Don’t worry. But…” She swallows her questions. She’s still not ready to let Syl know she has no idea how this Inner Channel works. “Thank you, Syl. Keep your head down.” Mishima signs off and calls Nejime. Four hours and one intense shopping session later, she’s on a flight for Bamako, the site of this year’s Governor’s Ball.

  CHAPTER 25

  The Governor’s Ball is a ceremony to honor centenal governors who have won awards for their achievements, but it’s also a shiny gala that gets lots of attention from the news compilers. The heads of state from major governments typically attend, while those from smaller ones angle for invitations. Roz watches for the clothes and out of a twitch of professional curiosity about how world leaders use these partly social, largely performative events to further their goals. Seeing what groups people huddle into can be quite illuminating. But mainly, she watches for the clothes, and because she’s slightly embarrassed about this, she holes up in her stifling hut to do so.

  One of the first couples she sees is the last one she wants to be reminded of. Vera is wearing a blue-and-yellow dress printed with a traditional motif that, Information notes, is an adaptation of a popular pattern originating in a Policy1st centenal in what was formerly the Central African Republic, not far from Vera’s birthplace in Kivu. Nougaz, thin and elongated in a way Roz has never found attractive, makes the most of it with a long, trailing black skirt, a strapless white top with a black bow at her breastbone, and a black drape flowing from one shoulder: a play on a tuxedo. She looks pretty great. Roz thinks she’s going to gag.

  Everyone in Roz’s circle has known that Vera and Nougaz are together for at least three months, but this is the first time they’ve appeared together in public. Information grunts are working overtime to make sure to link every vid of them to the elaborate “Transparency Measures” document Nougaz has been circulating. It begins: “To protect against the appearance of impropriety…” and Roz actually did gag the first time she read it. She spends too much time trying to figure out whether she would be as angry about this if it didn’t involve her friend getting dumped. Not as angry, obviously, but she’s pretty sure she would still hate it. Most of the world seems to think they are the perfect power couple.

  “She’s too old for you,” Roz says, and sends the message to Maryam. She would be worried about bringing it back up, but she’s positive Maryam is watching the gala.

  There’s a buzz of excitement, and the projection cuts quickly to Jalyna Ness, a vedette and minor minister for StarLight, a celebrity-based government inexplicably in the top thirty. Her skimpy one-shoulder dress is a wrinkly patchwork of multicolored flesh swatches—no, it’s completely made up of animatronic hands, gripping her breasts, rubbing her hips, tapping her ribs, stroking her thighs. Roz squints, unwillingly fascinated in her attempt to figure out whether the hands are attached at the wrists to some sort of shift or free-flowing under a minimum-coverage algorithm. Jalyna strikes a pose, the crowd applauds, and two tiny hands perched like wings on the clasped-finger shoulder strap clap along.

  As the coverage continues, Roz sees the other glamorous global power couple: Halliday and her husband, whatshisname. Funny that they would show up so soon after Pressman’s arrest—it looks a bit like gloating. Halliday must be trying to normalize the situation. It’s close, but Roz decides she prefers Nougaz and Vera.

  * * *

  Mishima is both impressed by the party and disgusted by the amount of money Information must have spent on it. The venue is a spectacular new floating ballroom that flows past the city on the Niger, open to the warm air. Sheer white cotton curtains floating on graphene nanorods frame the views of a gently shaded sunset over the river and, as they continue downstream, the sand-colored skyscrapers of Bamako. There are two different bands at opposite corners of the barge, the music separated by some sophisticated air-current work that also cools the dance floors, and plates with yassa chicken, fried tilapia, and spicy vegetables pre-cut into bite-sized pieces are arranged on hovering tables.

  A floating, open-air barge presents some difficulty for engineering adequate vid coverage. Mishima, linked in to the security network, plays through their feeds in front of her left eye, and they’re pretty gappy. She dips her glass in the champagne fountain long enough to give the impression that she’s been drinking, and scans the ballroom with her own eyes. She spots Johnny Fabré, the still-head of state for Liberty, hitting on some unfortunately impressionable young women in a corner; a cluster of photographers surrounding the StarLight representative, whose name Mishima refuses to learn; and Gerardo Vasconcielos chatting with Penelope Anoushiravani, the striking head of state for SavePlanet, wearing a dress sewn from fish scales and brilliant green breadfruit leaves.

  The thickest crowd of hangers-on, though, is glomming around Valérie Nougaz and Vera Kubugli. The chusma is packed so densely that Mishima barely gets a glimpse of their contrasting dresses. She keeps her distance; Nougaz certainly has the clearance to know she’s here if she looked, and has the cool not to blow her cover even if she didn’t, but there’s no sense in taking any chances. Mishima’s not here for them.

  Her target is not far away, and attracting a few limpets of her own, although not nearly as many as the Information-Policy1st power coupling. Cynthia Halliday is wearing something pink and froufy, which must appeal to some demographic that doesn’t include Mishima, because she’d surely wear nothing that had not been vetted through at least five focus groups. For the moment, she is standing quietly with her husband and a few Heritage governors, but as Mishima watches, she and her husband step away from them and begin to mingle.

  * * *

  Roz is reading Maryam’s response, “Even Vera’s not old enough for her,” when she hears a knock on the door. Hurriedly she shuts down her projection, the sudden quiet seeming loud after the chatter of the party, and stands up to open it.

  “Sorry to bother you,” Maria says, peering into her hut in confusion. “I thought … I heard you watching the gala, and since I was watching it in my hut, I thought, well, it’s much more fun to watch together…”

  By that point, Roz has ushered her in and popped the projection back up.

  * * *

  Halliday has moved into a cluster that includes both Mighty Vs, Nougaz (another V, now that Mishima thinks about it), a couple of governors (from Bolivia and Sarawak, according to their public Information), and a mid-level Information administrator who was one of the judges this year. Veena Rasmussen has a micro-garden grown on her shaved scalp, trailing vines and flowers over her bare shoulders and down her back. Seems like a lot of work for a global-level politician to manage, but Mishima supposes it speaks to her environmental commitment. Beside her, her husband has a single marigold growing out above his ear.

  Mishima positions herself next to a dessert island that puts Vera’s headdress between her and Halliday, where she can observe most of Halliday’s face without being completely visible herself. For further cover, she selects and starts eating a choux cream, very slowly. She is suddenly distr
acted by something beyond her targets: a face in the crowd, lighting up with recognition. Malakal, and he’s turning to move toward her. Even before she can arrange her face to warn him off, he stops, considers her posture, her solitude in the midst of a ballroom. She shoots him the briefest look of glowering eyebrows, and before her expression has softened back into blandness, he has already turned away to make conversation with the person next to him.

  Mishima also turns, though more subtly in case anyone has noticed their exchange of glances. She refocuses on the group she is observing. Why is Halliday here? Is she trying to renegotiate with Nougaz? She catches a look Nougaz gives Vera; it’s the warmest expression Mishima’s ever seen on the older woman’s face. Mishima has a somewhat more nuanced reaction to Nougaz’s affair with Vera Kubugli than Roz does. Mishima herself initiated a relationship with a government operative while she worked for Information; she can hardly complain that someone else does. Still, both Mishima and Ken quit their jobs pretty soon after hooking up. She imagines this must get awkward sometimes.

  Case in point: Halliday is burbling on about one of the honorees and manages to bring the conversation around to the new five-year Supermajority limit. “I’m sure we would have supported it even when we were in charge,” she gushes, turning to her husband for agreement. “Elections bring such energy into politics.”

  Mishima can’t see Vera’s face, but she imagines she’s enough of a politician to keep it unreadable. Halliday’s not done, though. “You know,” she says, turning to the Bolivian, “they’re making it out in the press that we demanded that, but”—with a coquettish glance at Nougaz—“it’s what Information wanted. They get so much relevance from elections. We just gave them a convenient excuse.” She bats her patterned eyelashes, built by a new crystal-forming mascara that knits a swatch of black lace above each eye.

  What is she doing? Mishima wonders. Nougaz is excellent at muting her reactions, but Mishima is very close to her, and that dress isn’t doing her any favors, either. The contrast with the white top makes the flush of red more noticeable as it spreads up her thin chest to her throat. Why would she antagonize Nougaz?

  “Of course,” Halliday goes on. “It’s only right.” A wobbly laugh as though she’s drunk, although Mishima doesn’t think she is. “It should be a short term. It’s unbelievable that you people won it! Only in a perfect storm.”

  The governors pull back, faces frozen in the shock and mortification of watching a social situation go badly wrong. Nougaz looks like she’s searching for words; she must be out of practice with street fights. Vera is unfazed. “A perfect storm of criminal corruption,” she says without ire.

  Halliday throws back her head and laughs, reaches across Nougaz to clap Vera on the shoulder, the furbelows on her dress swinging dangerously close to Nougaz’s drink and appalled face. “Nice one,” she says, still chuckling. “Anyway”—moving back to include the rest of the group—“you can see why I might not trust Information.”

  Something is about to happen. Mishima steps into the outer orbit of the elite group, standing just behind the gap between Halliday and Nougaz, and waits.

  * * *

  Within an hour, Amran and Minzhe are sitting on the floor of Roz’s hut along with Maria, Maryam has given up on the messaging and projected in herself, and the other Maryam, Halima’s servant, is standing in the doorway, refusing all requests to come in and get comfortable. When the assassination attempt occurs, none of them notice a thing.

  * * *

  Even Mishima, who is waiting for it, almost misses it.

  “Oh, sorry!” Halliday jostles half the champagne out of a glass while taking two from the waiter. “How terribly clumsy of me!”

  Mishima’s eyes narrow: apologies and self-deprecation seem out of character.

  “Here, take this one.” She puts the half-empty flute back on the tray, reaches around for another one with her left, nearly dipping herself in the glass in her right hand in the process. “Here you go!” Halliday beams, handing the two flutes to Vera and Nougaz.

  It’s ridiculous, a farce. Doesn’t every woman learn never to drink from something they’ve been handed by anyone they don’t trust with their life? But Vera and Nougaz are exchanging amused glances. Maybe they’re drunk already? Lulled by the setting?

  They didn’t see what Mishima saw: a bit of unidentifiable frippery from Halliday’s dress, a lacy drawstring or decorative bow, dissolving into a champagne glass.

  She is no longer sure which glass it was, although she suspects the one now approaching Nougaz’s mouth. No time for a replay. Mishima steps in authoritatively, says, “Thank you so much,” as she takes the champagne flutes from the startled luminaries, and walks away to outraged clacking.

  Nougaz’s measured tones cut across them: “I’m sure it’s standard procedure for something. Come on, Vera, let’s get another drink.”

  Mishima walks quickly, ready to toss a glass in Halliday’s face if she grabs her from behind, keeping the flutes as even as she can, watching the level so they don’t spill over, watching the stems in case they start to disintegrate on her, watching her path for obstacles and tipsy partygoers.

  She walks straight to Malakal, puts the glasses into his outstretched hands. “Thorough analysis. Probably poison, or acid.” Or she has just made a fool of herself for nothing.

  She turns without waiting for his response and walks back, faster this time. The two governors are sharing an uncomfortable laugh, the Information administrator is blinking frantically in an effort to figure out what went wrong, Veena and her husband have taken the hint and wandered off. Mishima scans rapidly, spinning a quarter-circle, and finds Nougaz and Vera, drinkless, in another tight group; as she looks, Nougaz’s cold eyes rise to meet Mishima’s and then return to Vera. Mishima turns, turns again. She doesn’t see Halliday anywhere.

  But wait—something catches her attention. Not what she was looking for, but—she snaps her head back and sees it, him: Halliday’s husband, talking to yet another small group, this one mostly adoring governors from small governments. Mishima edges toward him, taps him on the shoulder.

  “Excuse me, I have an urgent message for the Heritage Head of State,” Mishima tells him. “Do you know where she went?”

  “Restroom,” he says amiably, nodding his head at a narrow corridor along the back of the boat. Mishima sprints through the crowd, dodging trays and outflung elbows, and speeds down the row of doors, pulling open the unlocked ones and tapping at those that are locked.

  “Have any vehicles of any kind left the barge?” she asks the air.

  A brief pause that suggests an unwelcome answer, and then: “A tsubame took off sixty-three seconds ago.”

  “I thought the airspace was closed above this thing!”

  “It was, but…” Fumbling, then the security commander cuts in over the switchboard.

  “We were focused on security threats from outside,” he reports. “We didn’t have a protocol for vessels leaving from within the cordon. As far as we knew, guests could leave any time they wanted.”

  Mishima privately concedes that’s a fair point. “So, she had the tsubame stashed somewhere on the barge? Are you tracking it?”

  “Working on that right now,” the commander says shortly. Mishima shakes her head, then stops, remembering something. She calls Syl, only to learn that the tracker died five minutes earlier. “It’s tied into her head-of-state identity,” Syl tells her. “It looks like she severed all connection with that and is working with her personal passwords.”

  Mishima goes back to the party to interrogate the husband. Looks like he got ditched, so she’s not hoping for much. It will be an annoying interview, if not outright infuriating. She looks forward to catching up with Malakal, because that’s going to be the best part of this ridiculous gala.

  CHAPTER 26

  Mishima is scheduled onto one of the new long-haul public transportation crows for her return to Saigon. There has been a push to use the same principles a
s public transportation—algorithmic optimization of pickups and drop-offs—for distance travel, but it turns out the algorithms are much trickier to make commercially viable. The crow, even kitted for twenty-five passengers, is more comfortable than economy class on an airplane; but then, it has to be, because it’s substantially slower. There are other disadvantages, too. When Nejime decides she wants to see Mishima in Doha before she goes home, she can convince the pilot to drop her off there at minimal inconvenience to the other passengers (who look daggers at Mishima nonetheless).

  “Deepal was released,” Mishima says as soon as she gets in the room with Nejime, not even waiting for the door to close. “Do you have any news on his status?” She hasn’t wanted to contact him directly. He would be perfectly justified in blaming her.

  “He’s fine,” Nejime says. “I don’t think they did much to him, but he certainly wasn’t happy. However, you should know that he denied sending you any message while he was being held.”

  “He denied it?” It didn’t happen? Just for a moment, Mishima questions her memory; it does seem terribly unlikely, that cryptic message from an unwilling operative. Could she have invented it out of guilt and narrative need? But no, she has the recording of the conversation with Syl. “Do you think my informant invented the message?”

  “Either that or it was sent by somebody else, somebody close to Halliday who disagreed with her more drastic methods.” An image of Halliday’s impeccable aide Leticia flashes into Mishima’s mind, emotional backstory already weaving itself, but she pushes it away. She doesn’t want to jump to any narratives right now. “We are trying to find out, but so far, no one will admit to knowing about this comms pipeline. For the moment, we’re trying to crack it from the outside.”

  Mishima nods, still trying to quiet the whirling proto-plots in her head.

  “And thank you for what you did in Bamako.” It’s odd, being thanked for doing her job in a way that happened to save someone’s life. “She should never have been able to get that close.”