State Tectonics

by Malka Older

  Mishima hasn’t followed that hand-wringing closely, but from what she’s seeing now the past five years have not been kind to Saaremaa. Withdrawing from micro-democracy crashed its economy, which was largely dependent on tourism. While there has been an uptick in Russian visitors, that was hampered for all but the richest by the need to cross micro-democratic territory or airspace, and tourism overall is way down. Assistance from the null state was apparently not as generous as the secessionists had believed. The economy seems to have stabilized lately, but it’s still not where it was under micro-democracy, and so she’s not surprised that the polls predict the referendum will succeed.

  “We think Russia will let them rejoin?”

  “They wouldn’t let them hold the referendum otherwise,” Nejime points out. She’s more fidgety than usual today, the usual being not at all: her hand taps the frame of a workstation as she answers. “Saaremaa was never more than a symbolic victory for Russia; they aren’t geographically contiguous, which still seems to matter to null states in general and Russia in particular, and they don’t bring in much value in terms of people or resources.”

  Mishima refrains from pointing out that symbolism is value and waits for the point.

  “We recently received some intel.” Nejime has steepled her fingers now. She’s nervous about something. And the phrasing is odd. Information doesn’t “receive intel”; they collect it or analyze it or (on occasion) fabricate it. “… suggesting that Saaremaa has become home to a significant concentration of our former staff.”

  “I would have assumed they’d be buried deep in null-state territory.”

  “The liminal territory has certain advantages for them.”

  Focused on the image of a remote, frigid, rural island, Mishima takes longer than she should to get it. “Information left hardware behind.”

  Nejime nods. “Physical infrastructure for them to practice on.”

  Mishima imagines a squad of former staff running drills in a dark, echoing, defunct data transfer station. “They must be clearing out now, with the referendum about to send the island back under our jurisdiction.”

  “We haven’t seen any sign of it,” Nejime says. “We can’t be sure, but there’s a chance they’ll wait until the vote itself.”

  “In case the referendum fails?” Mishima frowns: polling on this sort of issue is usually pretty accurate.

  “Or because whatever they’re planning will make the election irrelevant.”

  “We knew they were in Russia,” Mishima says. “The theory was that they were working from several different sites, possibly fragmented, possibly in concert. Does the new intel identify the group in Saaremaa as the brain trust?”

  “The new intel suggests that Rajiv Lama is there.”

  Mishima is plunged back into the red fury she felt when she found out about Rajiv’s treachery. How dare he? She had pushed it out of her mind, but knowing that he is alive and well and out of reach brings it slamming back. When she can manage, she says thickly, “I suppose he would be where the power is.”

  “His sacrifice would earn him status,” Nejime agrees. “The election is in two days. They are planning an attack; I am sure of it. I want you to go there and find out what it is. Stop it there if you can, or bring us the intel we need to stop it elsewhere.”

  Another silence, marred by the sound of Mishima’s blood pumping.

  “I can’t go. Everyone knows who I am. They’ll know I’m a threat.”

  “We’ll have to turn that into an advantage. It is so unbelievable that you would go back to spying that they may take you at face value.” The language sets off alarm bells in Mishima’s already clanging brain. “We’ll dress it up as a drastic last-ditch campaign strategy highlighting reintegration as a potential Secretariat issue, coupled with an offer of technical assistance as they move toward the transition. I’ll arrange for the governor to send you an invitation. We can suggest you are laying the groundwork for a post-campaign career. It’s not ideal, but it’s probably good enough.”

  Probably good enough? “But why me? There are plenty of other people who could go.” She grasps for a possible explanation. “Rajiv turning traitor doesn’t mean no one else in the unit is trustworthy.”

  Nejime lets that hang for a moment before she responds. “Your participation was specifically requested by those who passed on the intel.” She waits, her fingers working at the smooth wood of her bracelet, but Mishima is not, not, definitely not going to offer any possibilities herself. “The Chinese.”

  Mishima has no difficulty keeping her face still and her mouth shut, but she can feel the silence shift and change, like a liquid freezing slowly. The incident in the Lagos airport was the fifth time the Chinese have contacted her over the past three years with quiet recruitment efforts. It gives her gooseflesh to think of them working together with her employer to dictate her assignments.

  “And you think giving them what they want is a good idea?” She asks at last.

  “I’m not worried about your loyalty,” Nejime says, with unusual gentleness.

  That’s not the point! Mishima wants to scream at her, but she lets her silence freeze deeper.

  “Isn’t this what you wanted?” Nejime asks, still gentle. “A return to the field? Undercover?”

  Yes! Yes, but. “What does China get out of it?”

  “They’re concerned about Russia too,” Nejime says. “The Baltic is obviously a little out of their sphere—”

  Mishima can’t let that go by without an expression of disbelief. China has long been working to bring the entire world into their sphere.

  Nejime ignores her. “But they, too, are concerned about our ex-staffers. A group of them was in China for a while, the Yunnan area, I think. China permitted them for a time, hoping to gain some advantage, perhaps some inner knowledge of our workings. Then they expelled them, hunting down any who refused to leave.”

  “And now they’ve told you why?”

  “They were building new intel networks, setting up competition for China’s intranet.”

  “Competition for us.”

  “Presumably that was the intent, but they tested it on the locals first. The Chinese government was not amused.”

  “Saaremaa, on the other hand, would be fertile ground for something to replace Information.” Mishima’s brain is sliding easily into its old mode of professional analysis, when learning about a job meant accepting it. She yanks it back to the less-perfect present. “But why me? You must admit my identity adds risk.”

  “The Chinese believe you’re the best.”

  “The Chinese are the ones who compromised me!”

  “If your concern is based on bitterness, I don’t want to hear it. This is a rare opportunity for us to collaborate toward common objectives, precisely what the Secretariat is meant to facilitate. And if you personally don’t want to deal with China, then don’t! Ignore their involvement. They have already provided us with the critical intel. What matters now is shutting down the threat. Do it for us, not them.”

  “They are manipulating the entire situation! It’s not about me ‘being the best,’” Mishima snarls. “It’s about finding ways to coerce me onto their team.”

  “Surely they wouldn’t go to such trouble if you weren’t the best?”

  “This is not a joke! They are manipulating you, too!”

  “I’ve seen the intel. The campaign ads, the new intel channels, the Nakia Williams problem, probably the tunnel from Heritage, although we haven’t been able to confirm that, it all points to Saaremaa. We can’t—”

  “Wait. The Nakia Williams problem?”

  Nejime studies her. “You haven’t looked at the data?”

  “I went through it after the debate. I didn’t think it was a good idea to look before that.”

  “It wasn’t. What did you see?”

  Mishima shakes her head. “I’ve only skimmed it.” Her narrative impression was of a subtle but disturbing imbalance in the coverage that she does
n’t want to admit to and is already preparing to defend.

  “The complaint has validity,” Nejime says, “but we believe some of the evidence was planted. Our new intel suggests it came from the Saaremaa group.”

  Mishima is caught between relief and anger. “You put her through all this and you knew she was framed?”

  “We don’t know anything. We suspect. And it’s not clear whether the evidence was planted to discredit her or if she was working with them to defeat AmericaTheGreat.”

  Mishima’s mind slides along the different possible interpretations, fractalling out into suspicion after suspicion. “You think she was working with Exformation?”

  “It’s one possible explanation,” Nejime says. “After Rajiv, we have to assume they left other sleepers in place within our organization.”

  “And so the trial is to neutralize her while you investigate.”

  “Information had to look into the complaint; you know that. When the investigators found intel from non-Information data streams, it scared them. They had no idea what to do with it or what it meant about her. And those who did understand the implications were even more terrified. This poses an existential threat for our organization.”

  “If the point was to protect Information, they are going about it the wrong way.” The fury is bleeding through into Mishima’s voice. “The trial is only turning people against us! Look at what happened in my debate!” She wishes she hadn’t said that, because she doesn’t want this to sound personal.

  “Then go to Saaremaa and help us deal with this properly!” Nejime holds her gaze. “Mishima. We need you on this.”

  Justice for a friend. Justice for a traitor. “I’ll leave in the morning,” Mishima says. “That cover story better be ready.” She turns back long enough to receive the briefing file Nejime line-of-sights her. “If you’re lucky, I’ll report back in when I’m done.”

  CHAPTER 19

  “They want you to what?” Ken thought this was over.

  “Look, I know you had that trip planned, but Marguerite can take care of Sayaka—or you could take her with you—it’s doable—”

  “I’m not worried about the trip! You are one of the most recognizable people in the world. How can you be a spy?” He is imagining some elaborate disguise and prepares to shoot it down with a thousand references to bad movies and undone plots.

  “That’s the thing,” Mishima says, unusually subdued. “No one would expect it.”

  This makes no sense. “But they’ll know who you are!”

  “Yes, and that why it works,” Mishima explains, getting slightly more animated. “They’ll never expect—”

  “Of course they will!”

  It’s so rare for Ken to explode that Mishima the steely and unstoppable leans back. Ken feels justified: she must be faltering because she knows he’s right. “The people you’re spying on are going to be on the alert as soon as they see you. No matter what you say or do, they’re going to suspect you’re spying for Information. Nobody trusts Information, and nobody trusts you!”

  Mishima is still regrouping. “You never felt this way before,” she tries.

  “Of course I did! I worried every time you went on a mission! But I never said anything, because I stupidly trusted you. I thought you wouldn’t do anything foolhardy and amateurish, anything so stupid.” Mishima goes hot, remembering numerous missions that could, objectively, be described that way. In her defense, they’ve also worked out fine, and she opens her mouth to say so, but Ken is still talking, which is fortunate because she realizes almost immediately that defense would not have gone over well. “… don’t know if it’s misplaced loyalty to your insidious, Machiavellian excuse for a world government or just your desperate compulsion to be a hero! But for once, you need to think about people other than yourself.”

  “Like you, you mean?” Mishima intends to say it evenly, but her words are wiry with anger.

  “Like Sayaka!” Ken yells. His hands are shaking. “You’re not just risking yourself anymore. It’s not just your sacrifice, your heroism.” He pauses, quiets, moves closer to her. “You and I both know what it’s like growing up without our parents. Why would you do anything, anything, to risk that happening to our daughter?”

  Mishima leaves. She opens the door, walks down the stairs and into the street. And she keeps walking.

  * * *

  The municipality of Guantánamo includes two urban centenals and one that stretches into the surrounding rural areas. Maryam gets a hotel in the ElOriente centenal, because the idea of staying in GuantánamoLibre, where the criminals live, gives her the creeps. It’s silly, really: they’re a minuscule fraction of the population, only twenty-two out of the 99,993 inhabitants. Maybe it’s the skeezy implications of Libre in the centenal name—Hide from the law here, and you’ll be “free” (within centenal borders)! Maryam knows the arrangement is tacitly sanctioned by Information as an easy and cheap way to keep political criminals contained and marginalized, but it still makes her queasy. Especially once she’s walked along the pleasant bayside neighborhood with its walkways, cafés, carefully engineered marshland, and breeze-channeling. She knows that tourist money, driven by the weird desire to spot famous criminals, pays for these amenities for the 99,971 unconvicted citizens, but she can’t help being angry the criminals get to enjoy it too. Attempted assassination should not be rewarded, and megalomaniac criminals shouldn’t get to keep being famous.

  Since she has to be here, she might as well enjoy it herself. She lingers over café con leche y tostadas on a pontoon chiringuito rocking in the surf before taking the new, beautifully designed tram—more tourist money—to Halliday’s street. She lives in a row of old-fashioned Cuban houses, single-story, pastel-colored, and built to stay cool with awnings reaching out over the windows, upgraded to adjust themselves automatically based on sun exposure. Maryam walks up to number 38, knocks, and waits. She knocks again. And, without much hope, a last time. Not home. Why couldn’t Halliday be under house arrest?

  Maryam wanders back to the main street, debating whether to wait for Halliday to return. She could find her contact details and set up an appointment, but she doesn’t want to let Halliday know she’s coming. She is loitering at the corner, flipping through Information data on Halliday to try to guess at her routines and feeling very stalkery about it, when a tour crow meanders by, 360-degree feed cameras on every surface so the tourists can have a complete record of the experience, including their own reactions. Maryam is about to dismiss it with a sense of disdainful superiority when she notices the banner projection above the crow: GUARANTEED SIGHTINGS OF AT LEAST 18 CELEBRITY PRISONERS OR YOUR MONEY BACK!!

  She immediately hails the crow. Those are good odds.

  * * *

  It’s not that Mishima doesn’t feel fear, but she can time-delay it. She bottles up what she feels in the moment—easier if that moment involves fighting or fleeing—and does what she needs to do. That doesn’t mean the fear evaporates. Two and a half years later, she still wakes up shivering sometimes remembering her interrogation by a Chinese official, enclosed by imaginary walls showing images of violent death. It seems that the bottling process ferments the fear: in exchange for forty minutes of cool negotiation, Mishima has suffered through at least five hours of retroactive terror. It’s worth it: if she had shown fear in the moment, she might never have gotten out.

  Not that it’s a choice.

  She can’t choose to feel fear now as she walks and walks along the streets of Saigon. No butterflies, no anxiety, no hesitation about hunting down her enemies alone in unfriendly, unsurveilled territory. She half-notices that she is abstractedly avoiding any landmark that her five years of living with Ken would make painful (taking a cross street before she passes their favorite breakfast café; the housewares store that furnished the majority of the apartment). Her mind refuses to process the argument with Ken, skipping instead to the logistical details of her mission. She doesn’t even seriously think about not going.
Which means everything he said about her is true. She can’t process that now; she has to pack and get into character—a character that will (as Ken said) be herself, but also not. She’ll be playing someone dejected about her imminent election loss, when in reality she is completely elated to be back to her real job.

  Not that she’s really back, of course; she shouldn’t kid herself into thinking that this type of tailor-made opportunity will come along often.

  All the more reason to grab this one.

  She needs to remember to read up on Saaremaa. She knows next to nothing about it, and there’s nothing recent on Information; once she gets there, she won’t have access to Information anyway, so she’ll have to download everything she can from before they left micro-democracy: geography, recent history, demographics, although those are likely to have changed a lot in the past five years …

  Mishima stops. Inhales. Exhales.

  She finds herself in front of Tân Định, where their evening walks often ended before Sayaka shortened their range. She starts walking again more slowly but realizes her feet, or subconscious, or narrative fucking disorder, are taking her toward the park and her usual route home, and veers away. She’s not ready. She hasn’t decided how she feels or what stance to take, if she’s apologetic or conciliatory or really, really angry.

  She has to go back before she leaves. Packing aside (and Mishima has always considered packing overrated), she has to say goodbye to Sayaka; she can’t leave her without a word. Her anger surges again as she remembers that’s what Ken accused her of doing. She’ll say goodbye and explain to her about her trip, as she always does, even if Sayaka interrupts with unrelated questions and forgets it all immediately. Then Mishima realizes: usually when she’s away, she projects in at least once or twice during the day to say hi to Sayaka, say good night, read her a story. She won’t be able to do that this time, stuck in what is still technically a null state for another two days. Maybe she’ll find some place to send messages, but projection is almost certainly impossible.