by Malka Older
“I think they were a little distracted by the explosives and plastic guns.”
“Hmph. My point is, there is not enough data to draw a solid conclusion about what they are hoping to achieve or how to stop them. However, I do have some suggestions.” Taskeen sits at the computer and busies herself pulling up some diagrams. “So why did you move to La Habana?”
Maryam glances at her sharply. “You accessed Information!”
Taskeen winks. “I told you I keep my mind active. Why did you move? I know La Habana is gaining influence under Batún, but the Doha Hub is still far more powerful.”
“Why did I leave?” Because my boss, whom I like and respect, and my ex-girlfriend, who dumped me, are circling each other in a struggle for world domination. There is no way that works out well for me. “It was a personal decision,” she says, reminding herself that this elderly, once-powerful woman wants to show she’s still linked in to the inner politics of Information. No reason to imagine an alternative motive for the gossip.
“I see,” Taskeen says, suddenly absorbed with her computer screen. “Here, take a look at this.” She looks over her shoulder. “You’ll have to come over here; it doesn’t project up, remember?”
Maryam stands and leans closer. The glowing screen is filled with lines of code. Maryam has to stare for a few seconds before she can parse them through the antiquated two-dimensional representation of data and the dorky fonts. “Wow, you went right to the bricks of it.”
“We built it brick by brick. That’s the part I can help you with. It’s the fancy casings and bells and whistles you people shellacked over it that I don’t understand.” Taskeen scrolls through the endless pages of code, pausing occasionally to dive deeper into subprograms. “I’ve found a couple of weaknesses, I’m sorry to say. But you know, it was a different time: these would have been difficult to exploit with the technology we had then.”
“Oh?”
“Crash, yes. That wasn’t so hard, so we had a lot of redundancies and hardware protections. But meaningfully exploiting the system, piggybacking on it in the way you’re talking about?” Taskeen shakes her head. “That requires a more current level of computing and algorithmic power. Of course, I don’t know that they’re doing it at this level. If they’re dealing with the superstructure, I can’t do much for you.” She scrolls some more.
Protesting too much? Maryam wonders. “By the way,” she says. “What does this mean?” When Taskeen looks up at her she repeats the gesture the man made to her in the bar last night.
Taskeen blinks at her, accessing memory. “Stingy,” she says, and turns back to the computer screen.
Maryam wonders if the gesture was a snide comment on her unwillingness to buy the product, or if the vendor uses the same examples on everyone. The latter seems more likely; he would have to know beforehand that the localism isn’t covered on Information. Maryam checks quickly, and there is no reference for it, although apparently a similar gesture has recently evolved to mean something moderately rude along certain trade routes of West Africa.
“Okay,” Taskeen says, finally finding the section she was looking for. “Now, I can’t say for sure that this is what they’re trying to do, not based on what you’ve given me, but this is what I would be after if it were me.”
And what, Maryam thinks as she leans forward, if it was you?
CHAPTER 2
Maryam’s flight back to Doha is delayed for four hours by dense fog, a once-seasonal irritation made unpredictable by climate volatility. Wandering the dispiriting airport, which hasn’t been updated since (Information tells her) the fifties, she wishes for an office crow. Her errand is important enough to justify one, but the hope is that by flying commercially, she can stay under the radar. Yes, anyone who takes the trouble to look for it can find her travel itinerary, but it will appear less important, possibly personal.
After the rough landing (through a dust storm, because it’s just that kind of a travel day) Maryam takes public transportation to the Information building and goes straight to the office of Nejime, director of the Doha Hub. Though she is no longer Maryam’s direct boss, she’s leading the investigation into the attacks.
“And?” Nejime asks without preamble when Maryam has been ushered in and the door closed behind her. The director’s expansive office is spare, mostly devoted to seating arrangements, in various configurations, for meetings; Nejime’s large workspace is configured to auto-hide all open projects whenever she moves away from it.
“She’s willing to help and certainly competent enough to at least try.” Maryam describes the sanatorium and her impressions of Khan.
Nejime laughs, unexpectedly. “I’d heard of temporal therapy, but I must admit I never took it seriously. Perhaps I should look into it.”
“You’re far too young to think of such things,” Maryam offers in her politest voice, tacking on a ma’am for extra points, and Nejime laughs again.
“Flattery noted. So, explain her technical conclusions to me as best as you can.”
“She thinks it’s more likely they are trying to take control of the system than planning to knock it out by torpedoing a lot of data transfer stations at once—I’ll spare you her technical rationale, but I also think she’s focusing on the more challenging problem.”
“The greater threat to us, as well,” Nejime commented. “We’ve been shut down before. You reboot, you apologize, you move on. But someone else taking over our, so to speak, airwaves would sow doubt about the legitimacy of everything we provide.”
Maryam waits a beat to acknowledge the truth of the statement and the unusual tension in Nejime’s voice. “Taking that goal as the premise, she had a few suggestions for how they might go about it. I’ll warn you, none of them has an easy fix.” Maryam developed a metaphorical infographic on the flight, working at eyeball level so it was invisible to other passengers. She projects it out now, superimposed over a slowly rotating globe: a network of lines and symbols representing the entire patchwork of conduits, cables, broadcasters, storage sites, and other infrastructure constructed in asymmetrical waves over the past quarter-century.
“Is that all of our hardware?” Nejime asks, eyeing the globe with interest.
“An approximation,” Maryam corrects quickly. “A single flight, no matter how boring, isn’t nearly enough time to map our entire infrastructure. Also, remember that we don’t keep tabs on all of it in real time, because governments bear responsibility for maintenance within their territories.”
Nejime grumbles an acknowledgement and Maryam goes on. “Taskeen believes that their plan will require a hardware as well as a software hack—otherwise, it’s unlikely they would take the risk of attacking the transfer stations, although it’s possible they are using that experience to pinpoint a software weakness. Assuming hardware is involved, the most obvious loophole would be a power cut. You’ll notice that was an element of every attack so far.”
“We don’t have backup power?”
“Some, but not enough, especially if multiple stations are attacked simultaneously. And, of course, we don’t maintain or secure power grids, which are a matter for governments.”
“I knew we should have put electricity under our mandate,” Nejime mutters.
Maryam isn’t sure whether she’s joking, so she ignores it and walks her through simplified versions of Taskeen’s other scenarios.
“Takeover would be difficult, but it’s a legitimate possibility,” she finishes, “and we don’t have enough data to prepare for it.”
“I want you to continue to work on this. It takes priority over election prep—I’ll talk to Batún for you.” Nejime pauses. “Do you think Khan would be an asset, if we could figure out a way for you to work with her?”
Maryam’s first thought is I can’t move to Dhaka. Her second is more professionally palatable, so she voices that instead. “Are you sure we can trust her?”
Nejime frowns. “No. Did she do something suspicious?”
“
Nothing in particular, just … hard to figure.”
“She always was,” Nejime says, and dismisses the issue with a hand wave. “We’ll leave her out of it for now.”
The meeting could be over at this point, but Maryam doesn’t leave. “What do we know about the people who left?”
It is unusual, within Information culture, to ask a researchable question, particularly of someone higher in the hierarchy. If you’re not canny enough to find what you need in the all-encompassing data trough, you probably aren’t qualified to know. “You seem to be taking the threat very seriously,” Maryam amended.
But Nejime looks at her with surprise and what might be approval.
“We know at least two of them are disposed to violence,” Nejime answers.
“Did you know them?” Maryam asks.
“No. Pemberton was based in Brasilia and Moushian in Dushanbe. Three people deserted from Doha…”
“Jensen, Ahmad Gibrail, and Alescio,” Maryam says automatically. It was an enormous scandal at the time, the most shocking thing to happen since … probably since Maryam’s own love life had intruded on her professional world. But when nothing happened—no arrest, no explanation, no sudden collapse—the fascination dissipated.
“Did you know them?” Nejime asks sharply.
“Only Gibrail, and him only to nod at in the canteen.” Jensen and Alescio had been translators, six and a half hours a day smoothing and correcting machine translation. Maryam had always expected that if there were a revolution, it would come from the translator bay, although she’d been expecting a work stoppage, not a violent coup. Gibrail had been an analyst, not much higher up the hierarchy than a translator but more likely to come in contact with techies as he refined search algorithms.
“The sheer number of them,” Nejime says, “the simultaneity of their departure—they must have communicated somehow beyond word of mouth, and now these attacks—”
“What happened after they left?” The usual answer, They went to the null states, is used like They lived happily ever after or Exit, pursued by a bear, as if the null states are unknowable wastelands where nothing further could occur, but that can’t be true. People live their whole lives in the null states, even if their lives aren’t minutely documented the way micro-democratic lives are. And now Exformation is returning, having presumably outwitted the bear, to attack data transfer stations and wreak havoc.
“As far as we know, Pemberton ended up in Vladivostok and Moushian in Crimea. We believe other groups found their ways to Chongqing, the Baltics, and perhaps Saudi. Up until now, our intel from these places has been extremely scant.”
“Up until now?”
“We have a new source which suggests that they remain scattered and dangerous, and are receiving some support from Russia. Also, there’s the timing.”
“You think they’ll make an attempt on the election?”
“It’s the joint in our armor, the weakest point in our high and impenetrable wall,” Nejime says. “As the last election made abundantly clear.” Two different kinds of sabotage, a recount, and a revote triggered confusion and distrust that took years to clean up. “We have to assume they’ve learned from that: from the tactics used against us and from our response.”
“You think they’ll try to start a war?” Maryam feels a remembered chill as she says it. Five years ago, Maryam was young and mired in her own romantic melodrama; when she found out how close they had come to war, it had been as shocking as if she were told that the bubonic plague was sweeping the world again. She has heard enough real-world conflict stories from her friend Roz’s SVAT work since then to feel jaded, but the word war still resonates with danger.
Nejime strides over to the sun-shielded windows. “I would like to believe that war is an expensive anachronism and that we should be worried about a subtler means of taking and holding power. But if there is a war, Maryam, remember: the militias will not necessarily be on our side.
“They’re coming for us, though, that I am sure of.” She turns back into the room. “One way or another, these petty, violent fools are going to try to take down the system we’ve spent decades trying to balance and counterbalance with careful featherweights of policy increments and procedural nuances. Despite all this hope and effort and intelligence we’ve expended to improve the conditions of democracy, all Exformation have to do is get people to trust us a little less, make them hate us a little more. And they will try it, Maryam, on Election Day or before.” Nejime takes a deep breath, and Maryam can see her banking her fires, submerging into the calm aloofness that has been her trademark as a director. “It almost makes me glad that the term was shortened to five years. Peaceful transfers of power, that’s the game. If we can just get through the election … if this new structure adds legitimacy, gives dissenters an additional outlet … we might survive.”
“If they’re trying to take over,” Maryam says, trying to make her tone steady and comforting, “they need to use our infrastructure, at least to start.” That’s what Taskeen said. “They can’t build an infrastructure at that scale without us noticing.”
“In that case,” Nejime says, “let’s make sure we’re paying attention.”
* * *
While she’s in Doha, Maryam finalizes the sale of her old apartment. She could have done it remotely, but this seemed like a good opportunity to wipe out any trace of regret. When Maryam moved to La Habana six months ago, she kept her Doha apartment out of hesitation to cut her moorings. Now, with the benefit of distance, she is happy enough to let it go. It’s good to be back for a visit, but the flavor of Doha has gained the complicated, bitter taste of misguided love affairs.
With her apartment finally gone, she stays with her friend Roz. Roz’s husband, Suleyman, greets her warmly at the door and then tactfully retreats, leaving them to catch up. They spend the evening out on the terrace, Roz’s ankles propped up on the railing.
“So, you’ll be living in Kas?” Maryam asks.
“It seems so,” Roz says. “At least for the first few years. But only after the birth; I’m not ready to rely on the medical facilities out there.” She picks out another oyster from the cold box, pops it open, and switches the shucking knife for a handheld microbiome scanner to check for contaminants and bacteria. Convinced, she slurps it.
“You’re okay with that?” Maryam sips her fizzy kumquat juice.
Roz shrugs, rubbing her belly. “I’ve gotten fond of the place. And I had trouble thinking of anywhere I’d rather raise a young child, to be honest. Suleyman has promised we can move someplace more cosmopolitan when I get the itch to.”
“It sounds like a good solution,” Maryam says blandly, wondering when she’ll see her friend again. It’s not easy to find an excuse to visit a small town on the eastern edge of the Sahara. She promises herself again that she’ll be better about calling Roz, set up a regular time maybe.
“And how’s La Habana? Looks like you’re loving it there.”
“I am, more than I expected. I needed a fresh start, and it’s a good place for that. But that doesn’t mean it’s perfect.” Roz raises her eyebrows, and Maryam offers an extravagant shrug in response. “It’s good, you know, it’s just that Núria travels so much—okay, we both do.”
The pause draws out. Roz takes another oyster, checks it, hands it to Maryam. “This one’s fine if you’re not pregnant.”
Maryam looks at it skeptically, then shrugs and slurps. She’s definitely not pregnant. Besides, she’ll be back in La Habana tomorrow, with its excellent hospitals. “Do you remember back when you first got together with Suleyman, and you were worried that the two of you were too different?”
Roz nods. “You’re feeling something similar?”
“Well, not as extreme,” Maryam says, although she wonders. “Obviously she’s not as isolated as Suleyman was. But she’s a soldier, Roz! What am I doing with a soldier?”
“You like her.”
“It would be one thing if she were InfoSec,
or something like that.” Maryam goes on as if she hadn’t heard, the spring inside her uncoiling. “But she’s a government soldier! YourArmy, no less.”
“She’s good at her job,” Roz says, around a mouthful of mollusk. She speaks from personal experience; she was working with Núria in the Caucuses when Maryam met her now-girlfriend.
“Yeah.” It does seem like Núria’s career is on the upswing, with all the travel they have her doing. “But it’s—we’re so different. And there are so many things we can’t talk about!”
“That part is tough,” Roz agrees, rubbing circles on her belly. “Although at least it’s both of you, so you both understand the situation.”
“But she acts like—like everything’s fine! Like the relationship is already settled, like it’s decided that we’re together and there’s nothing more to worry about, like she’s not worried about us at all!”
Roz is silent for a long moment; Maryam imagines her piecing together a response that doesn’t point, heavy-handed, at Maryam’s recent bad experiences. “You know,” she says finally. “Suleyman proposed way, way before I was ready. And so I made him wait.”
“I don’t think a proposal’s in the cards,” Maryam says, although her nerves curl at the thought. Would that be enough? Would that prove to me that she really likes me? Or would I find new ways to doubt?
Roz is waiting for more, and Maryam wishes she were more contained, less stressed and emotional about these quirks of private life. Tonight, she decides, she will be. No more whining. “What did you decide to do about work?” she asks instead.
“We’re paring down my responsibilities now. As of next week, I’ll be down to two projects.”
“The Wall?” Maryam guesses, taking an oyster.
“Of course,” Roz says, not hiding her pride. The Wall is a compiler she set up to collect visual and animated interpretations of the news drawn by youth from around the micro-democratic world. Recently she added a training and data-art education component, “a tiny step toward making SVAT work unnecessary,” as she calls it, and while usage is still low by Information standards, it has been growing steadily. “But I’ve been delegating more and more, so that if I do decide to take a lot of time off, the other staff can manage it without me.”