Bruce Sterling - The Caryatids

“If you libel the state in that fashion, the state will take reprisals against you.”

Montalban sighed. “I am not ‘libeling’ the state. The Chinese state is the world’s most remarkable case study in ubiquitous computing. It’s ‘ubiquity with Chinese national characteristics.’ I don’t consider that machine my enemy. It is not any moral actor, it’s a machine. I don’t condemn it. If the Chinese state committed ‘genocide,’ then the human race has committed ‘geocide.’ The ‘Fossil Fuel Project,’ that was infi­nitely worse. That was the worst and most comprehensive blunder that our species ever committed. Every human being had some share of guilt in that monstrous crime. Am I ‘libeling’ us when I point out that the human race got what it asked for? We blew it with the world’s biggest gamble, and the minor stunt I happen to be pulling right now, that is just another return to the same table with much smaller stakes.”

Lionel offered his brother a canteen. “John’s been running at pretty much full steam for three days straight. I don’t think he’s slept for three hours. Ifhe sounds a little overwrought, you need to cut him some slack.”

Montalban sat down on a patterned carpet; his burst of oratory had drained him. The nomad tent had suddenly grown crowded. While John had passionately ranted, busy tribesmen had carried the pots and kettles from the place and cleared a small arena. A crowd had gathered, sitting cross-legged, chattering and munching snacks. Fried meat of some kind. It smelled like fried rats.

“Hey wow! Entertainment!” said Lionel. At the prospect, he bright­ened so much that he almost seemed to glow.

An overpowering melody came from nowhere, a sourceless wave of powerful, thudding music. A woman strode into the tent, carrying the soundtrack with her.

She wore a spangled golden headdress, a veil, a sequined bra, a span­gled vest, and two thin skirts of overlapping chiffon. Bells chimed around her ankles and golden bangles jingled on both her arms. Her eyes were caked in kohl and her palms were stained red with henna.

She glided into the center of the tent, barefoot on the carpets, bathing in the crowd’s eager, yelping applause.

Her music faded to a steamy, rhythmic clicking. She stamped her slippered feet in time so that her silver anklets jingled, and banged her red palms so that the bracelets clashed.

Then she gazed seductively around her crowd, and saw Sonja. She stopped at once.

“Now we’re in for it,” Lionel groaned.

“I thought I told you to keep Biserka under wraps,” said Montalban. “Where did she get that crazy costume?”

“Downtown Hollywood maybe? She’s so tricky!”

Shivering with rage, the veiled dancer stalked over to confront John Montalban. “You have just completely ruined my best scene.”

“We didn’t know you were having a scene,” said Lionel.

“I especially didn’t know you were stealing Mila Montalban’s best theme music,” said John.

Biserka yanked the veil from her painted lips. “How did she get in here?” Biserka demanded. “You said she’d been killed by airplanes and robots and something.”

“Last night that seemed pretty likely,” John said, “but Sonja’s a trooper.”

Biserka turned to glare at Sonja. She spoke Chinese. “Well: Look around you. I win.”

“Are you speaking to me?”

“What are you, bitch, five years old? I’m telling you that I win! You know that I win. You tried to chase me out of China: well, these are my people here. These are my very special people, the people who love me, the people who are all my good friends.”

“Where did this ragtag find the money to hire you?”

“I did it for love,” Biserka shrieked. “ You’re the one that’s the merce­nary! You whore, just look at them, look at their faces, see how much they love me! I taught them everything! I taught them what the real world is really like! Before me, they were like lost children.”

Lionel intervened. “What’s the name of your big victory dance, Bis­erka? Tell me about your cool new routine.”

Biserka shot him a grateful look. “It’s all about victory! And what hap­pened in outer space! And my mother’s death! And it’s my interpretative dance performance about the world’s bravest, noblest people—my peo­ple! They are going to overthrow all the systems, and cover the Earth in free blackspots, and break the walls of surveillance and haul the oppres­sors out of there… and pile their heads up in pyramids!”

Hands on her hips, Biserka drew a breath. “I choreographed it all by myself! I call it ‘The Seven-Veiled Dance of Shiva, the Goddess of De­struction.’”

“Shiva is a male god,” said Lionel.

“Really?”

“Yeah, Shiva is a male dancer, like I am.”

“Never mind that, Lionel,” said Montalban calmly. “Let Biserka dance. She has an eager public waiting here.”

Biserka pouted. “You’ve gone and spoiled it all. How could you let her come in here? I was really, really happy today, for the first time in my whole life! I was happy for maybe one hour! I can dance! You know I can dance. I learned some hot new moves in Los Angeles, and you were going to love those! Now my timing’s all messed up and it’s all ruined.”

“No problem,” said Lionel, beaming supportively. “Just get ready to run your theme again. When I throw out my hand like this”—he gestured— “that’s your cue.”

Without warning, music blasted from Lionel’s flesh: brassy, insistent, heart-thudding. Lionel strode confidently into the empty performance space, drew himself up with a winning smile, and did three backflips with a half gainer. Then he threw out his hand.

The stunned audience, who had never seen such behavior from any human being, howled in awed delight.

Biserka came to with a sudden start. She began to dance.

It was not that Biserka danced shamelessly. It was much worse than that. Biserka knew what shame was, and she was using their shame as a weapon to titillate them. Biserka danced corruptively. One wanted to hide the eyes of children from the spectacle. Though the children were quite enjoying it.

Sonja knew that it was her duty to put a swift end to this. She would kill Biserka. Killing Biserka would be the crown of her lifetime.

Sonja was stopped short by a hand on her elbow. It was the Badaulet. Lucky put his lips next to her ear, so that she could hear him over the howls and the sticky, slinky music. “Our hosts have been telling me about the Chinese state,” he said.

“They’re lying to you.”

“Well, you are my wife, and I want you to tell me the truth.”

Sonja wrenched her arm free from his grip. “I always tell the truth to my men.” No matter how much it hurt them.

“Are these young men really the Chinese state? They’re the former leaders of the Chinese state, only living in the wilderness?”

“Yes, That is true.”

“But they are bold men like me, and brave like me, and they ride and fight like me. And they do not hide behind Chinese walls because they aim to conquer the world.”

“They won’t succeed.” She pointed. “ He is going to conquer the world. He’s already conquering the world. He’s doing it right now while he’s watching that slut dancing for him.”

The expression on Montalban’s face could have been canned and poured over cereal. He was transfixed by Biserka’s dancing. He was fas­cinated.

Biserka sensed this and was playing to him. Biserka knew that she had him. She had found some aching hole in him, found a stained chink in the white knight’s armor. It wasn’t, after all, that hard to find. That part of him that belonged to her. She was reeling him in.