by Malka Older
“Fine,” Ken says. “Doing great. You’re looking well.”
Suzuki brushes that off with a pleased smile. “And how’s your baby?”
Ken always feels a twitch of annoyance when people he hasn’t seen in a long time ask him about Sayaka. He didn’t tell Suzuki about having a baby; he didn’t have to. Mishima rocketed into unsought superstardom due to an almost-but-not-quite-perfect spy mission, and her pregnancy was impossible to keep private. “She’s terrific,” he says, forcing a smile and convincing himself that he would want Suzuki to know anyway. “So, what’s going on?” When Suzuki contacted him two days ago he claimed he was just taking advantage of a coincidental overlap in Surabaya, but Ken has lived with Mishima far too long to buy that.
Suzuki flexes his fingers and dives in. “This election is crucial; I don’t have to tell you that. More crucial than the last one, even. If we lose now—if Heritage wins, or even one of the other big corporates—they will say policy-based governments can’t cut it. That we talk big ideas but we can’t run things. It will be an excuse for anyone who is ever tempted by the easy promises of corporates when their better instincts tell them to vote based on policy. We need to win this one.”
All true, but why is he saying “we”? The scandal that enveloped Suzuki was indelible and defining, complete with amusing vid clips. There’s no way they’d give him a leadership role, especially during an election, and Ken doesn’t see Suzuki accepting anything less.
“I’ve set up a consulting firm to support Policy1st’s campaign, and I’d like you to join me.”
Ah. The popular “not staff but still important” consultancy. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m running Free2B’s campaign.” Ken says it with mingled pride and regret: yes, he’s in charge, but Policy1st is the defending global Supermajority and Free2B is miniscule. They are only contesting five new centenals, and two of those only because Ken is ambitious.
“Come on, Ken!” Suzuki says. “I appreciate your loyalty, but we need you! You were always my right-hand man.”
“Thanks but no thanks,” Ken says, more decisively. Being Suzuki’s right-hand man was rocket fuel for his early career, but it’s not where he wants to end up. He still feels guilty, though. “Maybe we can set up some joint events or something.”
“No, you’re right; you should concentrate on your own priorities.” Suzuki couples it with a paternal pat on the shoulder as he rises, but Ken’s not sure if his former mentor is refusing out of spite or because joint campaigning is likely to be more valuable for Free2B than for the Supermajority. “But stay in touch, and please let me know if you change your mind. Remember”—he locks Ken’s eyes—“how high the stakes are.” And then he’s gone.
CHAPTER 4
The Berlin site management headquarters for the 888 mantle tunnel construction project is a temporary building so luxurious it makes Roz itch, although she tries to comfort herself with the idea that most of the gold plating is nano-layer ormolu. The domed room is spanned by a 1:1000 scale projection of the proposed tunnel. Enlarged sections at either end show the planned areas around the entrances at each terminus—a climate-controlled pleasure garden in Berlin, a covered shopping area in Istanbul—complete with animated, multicultural customers, a constant flow of them stepping into the model capsules that depart along the tunnel every half hour. A separate, smaller display along one wall linked to geophysical sensors for real-time updates shows the current status: a shovelful of dirt missing on each end, along with a filament that has been threaded along the proposed route for data collection and micro-mapping purposes.
Even that tiny alteration to the Earth’s mantle makes Roz nervous. Sure, it’s not a tunnel, just an underground cable like so many before it. But it’s very deep, and she can’t stop remembering the horrifying vids of the Kanto earthquake five years ago, which might have been caused by early-stage mantle tunnel excavation. She doesn’t broach her concerns, because that’s not why she’s here, but she’s relieved when someone else raises the question of whether the scanning filament could cause problems. She’s less relieved by the environmental engineer’s airy response: “It’s a tiny, tiny cable. Believe me, that is the least of our worries.”
Roz is supposed to be monitoring the institutional structures around the groundbreaking of the tunnel, but 1) it’s five degrees below freezing out there, so 1.1) most of the institutional partners are inside the temporary building; 2) as far as Roz is concerned, a hole in the ground is a hole in the ground; 3) this is a highly premature and symbolic groundbreaking, with at least twenty-six pending legal challenges to settle before they can dig more than ten meters. Also, though she hates to put it on the official list, being six months pregnant is more exhausting than she expected, and a comfortable seat in this cozy warmth is hard to pass up.
Thanks to 1.1, she is able to do her work inside. She’s currently watching the project’s chief environmental engineer, one Ana Djukic, run through an infographic-illustrated projection on major concerns and how they are addressing them. To her right are several representatives from centenals above the projected route; on her left sits Veena Rasmussen. The former co-head of state of the Policy1st Supermajority government left her post a year ago to concentrate full-time on stopping the mantle tunnel projects. Quixotic, yes, but probably less so than Policy1st’s global rule. In any case, she’s an utter nightmare for Djukic.
“Your cost-benefit analysis fails to take in externalities,” Rasmussen interrupts early on, then: “That methodology for testing seismic interference is highly debatable; it’s only been examined in a handful of studies,” and finally: “What about all the risks you haven’t thought of?”
Roz keeps quiet, in part because she’s not here as an environmental crusader, even if she would like to be, and in part because she’s already surprised at how openly critical Djukic’s presentation is. If Veena would let her finish, she might learn something useful to one of the dozen lawsuits she’s supporting. Roz is not completely convinced, of course: it’s probably a subtle form of greenwashing. See how honest we are about all the environmental dangers? Surely if we’re responsible enough to tell you about the concerns, you can trust our judgment that we should go through with our risky and poorly understood plan to conquer the world.
Djukic, who started with the “questions at the end, please” tactic and quickly realized that wasn’t going to cut it, has moved on to smiling agreement and deflection. “Thanks for that question; I was just getting to it,” and “Excellent point.” By the time she finishes, her smiles are more grimaces, but she got through the presentation, which Roz grudgingly admits is a win, for her and for the tunnel. The audience sighs and disperses, some to poke at the controls of the large projection model, others choosing another of the ongoing presentations to join. Veena has moved forward to take on the environmental engineer one-on-one; Roz hasn’t yet convinced herself to stand up.
“Can I interest any of you in a snack?” A young man from the project PR staff slides by, gesturing at the trays of charcuterie being brought in from the cold and deposited on a table against one wall.
“Um.” Roz wishes she hadn’t left her microbiome scanner in the crow. “Um.” She’s too embarrassed to go get it, but this hurts: she doesn’t get pork very often. “Thanks, I’m fine.”
Rasmussen says nothing, but the word vegetarian doubles in size and starts flashing in her public Information. It’s not the politest way to get her point across, but Roz sympathizes: she must be in this situation constantly.
“Oh—uh, there are some crackers over there.”
Veena waves her hand: she’s fine. Roz, on the other hand, levers herself out of her chair and drifts toward the table with the crackers on it.
“Amazing thing, isn’t it?”
Roz looks up, mouth full of her fourth and fifth crackers.
The centenal rep—his public Information shows he’s from a EuropeanUnion centenal not far from Budapest—nods at the model. “This kind of transportation sp
eed and efficiency—and practically energy-neutral!”
Roz swallows the crackers. “The construction process is not energy-neutral.” She’s surprised by this guy’s enthusiasm; it’s not like the tunnel will have a stop near Budapest so he can get on.
He waves his hands. “That will be quickly offset in the energy savings as people forgo other types of transportation.”
“Energy use isn’t the only measure of environmental damage,” Roz adds, searching the cracker selection for something more exciting. They have some pâtés and vegetable spreads, but she doesn’t dare touch any of them without her scanner.
“You heard the woman—their tests have found no indication of substantial environmental degradation.”
Roz wished she didn’t care enough to educate this guy, but out of both personal inclination and professional training, she can’t let that half-truth slide. “The environmental engineer said ‘so far.’ The testing up to this point is extremely limited compared to the impact of the full tunnel.”
It doesn’t even scratch the surface of his gusto. “There are always risks, but the benefits will be incredible,” he says cheerfully, taking a cracker himself and smearing it liberally with pâté. “Trade, cultural exchange, tourism, all at a previously unimaginable scale. The intangible values are important too.”
Suspicious, Roz pulls up recent EuropeanUnion proposals at eye level and searches by tunnel. It’s the first entry: a route from Budapest to Belgium. “Even if one is harmless, which seems unlikely,” she hears herself say before she can self-censor, “what do you think will happen to Europe when its substratum looks like Swiss cheese?”
Before the guy can respond, Roz hears a voice at her shoulder.
“Excuse me, Ms. Kabwe?” Djukic has finally extricated herself from Veena’s coils and is hovering. “Could I have a moment of your time?”
“Sure,” Roz says, wondering what this is going to be.
The environmental engineer waits until they’ve stepped away from Mr. Mantletunnel and lowers her voice. “There’s something I’d like to show you, if you wouldn’t mind joining me at my workstation?” She nods toward the door.
Roz grabs her jacket and follows Djukic out of the insulated trailer. The project site is as yet untouched by any noticeable digging, but it’s been cleared and the wind is sharp through the desolation. Roz’s heated jacket doesn’t close around her belly anymore. She pulls it as tight as she can and hurries to the environmental section’s pop-up shelter. If this is an attempt to lobby her for Information support on some greenwashing scheme, it is not going well. Or maybe Djukic wants her help promoting an environmental agenda? More appealing but still impossible, given her position.
“What can I do for you?” she asks once they’re sealed into the warmth of the shelter. It’s a small space, divided into three workspaces and littered with models and instruments.
Djukic walks over to what must be her workspace and fires it up. “We found something on the scan of the route.”
That polite deference disappeared fast. “Is it serious?” Roz asks. She’s not sure why they’re coming to her all hush-hush; there are procedures for this.
“It looks serious, but it’s not environmental.” The engineer pulls up a three-dimensional projection of the tunnel route and points at a line that crosses the trajectory several dozen meters closer to the surface.
“What is that? A fault?” On these trips Roz is constantly jumping at every vibration and loud noise, expecting the next mantle tunnel–caused earthquake.
Djukic shakes her head. “It’s straight, so that means it’s human-made.”
“Some kind of infrastructure?” Roz asks, knowing it’s a stupid question even as she does.
“Nothing goes remotely that deep. And if there was, we would have found out about it during the permits-and-research phase.”
“So what—” Roz stops. A deep, clandestine, artificial tunnel. She says something she never expected to say in her career. “Can I ask you to keep this quiet? For now,” she adds, hoping that mitigates her hypocrisy.
Djukic doesn’t seem to care. “Why do you think I called you in here by yourself? I want no part of this.”
“You’re going to be a part of it,” Roz says. “We’re going to need your help to figure out what this is.”
“It’s another tunnel,” Djukic says, standing up and jabbing her finger at it. “Obviously!”
Roz looks her over sharply. “What’s your position title again?”
“Chief environmental engineer. But I’m an independent contractor; I don’t work directly for 888 or for GroundWorks”—the contractor building the tunnel.
“Okay,” Roz rubs her forehead. “So, you’re telling me they don’t know about this yet.”
“That’s right,” Djukic says, annoyed. “If they did, you’d be hearing this from them.”
“A tunnel,” Roz says.
“Or a pipe, maybe,” Djukic points out. “A line of some kind.”
“What does it link?”
“If we assume that it’s built on the principles we’re using, which prohibit curves sharper than five degrees, that gives us an approximate trajectory. But from this fragment, we can’t tell how far it goes.”
“So, even though it’s shallower than this tunnel, that doesn’t mean it’s shorter?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Okay, show me the trajectory. There can’t be that many major cities along it.”
There aren’t.
“Oh, no,” Roz says.
Djukic nods with the slow pleasure of watching someone else put the last ominous puzzle piece into place. “That was my conclusion as well.”
“Tell no one about this!” Roz no longer feels conflicted. “Above all, no Information communications even hinting at it. You understand?”
“I’m not telling a damn individual,” Djukic says. “Don’t make me regret I told you!”
This woman has clearly seen the films: she knows what happens to scientists who, through innocent rigor in their research, discover something of geopolitical inconvenience. “Okay,” Roz says, starting to pace the tiny confines of the pop-up tent, smaller than the hut she lived in when she first went to DarFur. Djukic pointedly moves out of the way of her belly. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I need you to manufacture some kind of environmental concern.”
Djukic snorts. “No need to manufacture one. I’ve got plenty.”
“Unexpected and serious?”
“Since no one’s been listening to me, I guess it’ll be unexpected.”
Roz has been listening, or at least reading her reports. “Seismic activity or groundwater contamination?” She manages to make herself sound bored, as though she doesn’t lie awake every night, waiting for tremors.
The engineer flashes a toothy grin. “All right, then, something new.” She collapses the scan projection, much to Roz’s relief, and pulls up another one. “Here’s something I’ve been working on.”
The topography in the projection collapses inward, slowly at first and then with gathering speed.
“City-size sinkholes,” Djukic says, with grim satisfaction.
“There’s a nightmare I did not need.”
“Highly speculative,” Djukic says, “but not impossible. 888 is going to be pissed if you stop construction for this, though, especially with PhilipMorris moving forward.”
“The PhilipMorris tunnel isn’t moving anytime soon,” Roz says. She was in Cairo a week ago and didn’t even get near the site, because all the action is in the courtrooms now. “And we’re not going to stop construction. We’re going to do some additional testing.”
“Ah, better. And this is perfect for that, because it will require extensive assessment of the mantle and crust above the planned tunnel.”
“Okay,” says Roz, going back to pacing. “This is what happened. You brought that problem up to me, and I scoffed at it, or at least told you we need more data. I go home tomorrow as planned, and I talk to m
y supervisors. In a couple of days, I send you a message asking you to come to Doha to present your data.”
“Doha?”
“Don’t worry; between us, we’ll figure out a good reason why it’s urgent you come in person. In the meantime, not a word about this to anyone, especially”—Roz groans—“Veena Rasmussen.” The last thing they need is the embattled Supermajority getting wind of this. “Not a breath of it on Information, got it?”
“I got it before you did,” Djukic says. “But … you want me to do the further testing, right?”
“Whatever testing you would do for sinkholes. Don’t make a big deal out of it, but keep an eye out for any further details you can find about this—” Roz waves her hands, too angry to name the combined environmental and political disaster. “Tell us about them in person, in Doha.”
The engineer still looks worried.
“I’ll have a quiet word with the head of security,” Roz says. “Tell them you’ve gotten threats from environmental groups and that they should keep a close eye on you.”
“Make it business interests.” Djukic glares at Roz as she opens the door. “And make it good.”
* * *
The first official polls do not look good for Policy1st, and Vera Kubugli has put out a brave (and irritable) vid statement hammering on the unfairness of the shortened term and minimizing the role of the Supermajority. We are here to focus on the good of each and every Policy1st centenal, and we hope that people vote for us for the improvements we can make for them locally. While we are proud to carry out our responsibilities as Supermajority, we welcome the new structure that we hope will provide an equitable and balanced approach.
Heritage, the previous Supermajority, has been shaken twice in the past five years by massive scandals. Their last head of state, Cynthia Halliday, is currently avoiding prosecution in Guantánamo’s criminal haven after an attempted secession from micro-democracy (the more serious charges against her, that she attempted to poison Valérie Nougaz at a fancy-dress gala, have gone largely unreported, the evidence all but invisible on the feeds of the event). For reasons no one seems to understand, Heritage voters elected her abandoned husband, Tobias Agambire, as their new head of state. Not only is he tainted by questions of his criminal involvement, he lacks his estranged wife’s charisma, and so far has been an indifferent candidate. Heritage has fallen to somewhere between fifth and ninth place in government rankings.