Грег Иган - Distress

"Here for the Einstein Conference?"

"Why else?"

I shrugged. "There must be other things happening on Stateless." Ve didn’t reply.

Walsh had moved on, and her cheer squad were dispersing. I glanced down at my notepad and said, "Transport map."

Kuwale said, "The hotel’s only two kilometers away. Unless that suitcase is heavier than it looks… it would be just as easy to walk, wouldn’t it?"

Ve had no luggage, no backpack, nothing; ve must have arrived earlier, and returned to the airport… to meet me? I had a serious need to be horizontal, and I couldn’t imagine what ve wanted to tell me that couldn’t wait until morning—and couldn’t be said on a tram—but that was probably all the more reason to hear it.

I said, "Good idea. I could use some fresh air."

Kuwale seemed to know where ve was going, so I put my notepad away and followed along. It was a warm, humid night, but there was a steady breeze which took the edge off the oppressiveness. Stateless was no closer to the tropics than Sydney; overall, it was probably cooler.

The layout of the center of the island reminded me of Sturt, an inland South Australian neopolis built at about the time Stateless was seeded. There were broad, paved streets and low buildings, most of them small blocks of apartments above shopfronts, six storeys high at the most. Everything in sight was made from reef-rock: a form of limestone, strengthened and sealed by organic polymers, which was "farmed" from the self-replenishing quarries of the inner reefs. None of the buildings was bleached-coral white, though; trace minerals produced all the colors of marble: rich grays, greens and browns, and more rarely dark crimson, shading to black.

The people around us seemed relaxed and unhurried, as if they were all out for leisurely strolls with no particular destination in mind. I saw no cycles at all, but there’d have to be a few on the island; tram lines stretched less than halfway to the points of the star, fifty kilometers from the center.

Kuwale said, "Sarah Knight was a great admirer of Violet Mosala. I think she would have done a good job. Careful. Thorough." That threw me. "You know Sarah?" "We’ve been in touch." I laughed wearily. "What is this? Sarah Knight is a big fan of Mosala… and I’m not. So what? I’m not some Ignorance Cult member here to do a hatchet job; I’ll still treat her fairly."

"That’s not the issue."

"It’s the only issue I’m willing to discuss with you. Why do you imagine it’s any of your business how this documentary’s made?"

Kuwale said calmly, "I don’t. The documentary’s not important."

"Right. Thanks."

"No offense. But it’s not what I’m talking about."

We walked on a few meters, in silence. I waited to see if keeping my mouth shut and feigning indifference would prompt a sudden revelatory outburst. It didn’t.

I said, "So… what exactly are you doing here? Are you a journalist, a physicist… or what? A sociologist?" I’d almost said: A cultist— but even a member of a rival group like Mystical Renaissance or Culture First would never have mocked the deep wisdom of Janet Walsh.

"I’m an interested observer."

"Yeah? That explains everything."

Ve grinned appreciatively, as if I’d made a joke. I could see the curved facade of the hotel in the distance, straight ahead now; I recognized it from the conference organizers' AV.

Kuwale became serious. "You’ll be with Violet Mosala… a lot, over the next two weeks. Maybe more than any other person. We’ve tried to get messages through to her, but you know she doesn’t take us seriously. So… would you at least be willing to keep your eyes open?"

"For what?"

Ve frowned, then looked around nervously. "Do I have to spell it out? I’m AC. Mainstream AC. We don’t want to see her hurt. And I don’t know how sympathetic you are, or how far you’re prepared to go to help us, but all you’d have to do is—"

I held up a hand to stop ver. "What are you talking about? You don’t want to see her hurt? "

Kuwale looked dismayed, then suddenly wary. I said, "Mainstream AC ? Is that supposed to mean something to me?" Ve didn’t reply. "And if Violet Mosala doesn’t take you seriously, why should anyone else?"

Kuwale was clearly having grave second thoughts about me. I still wanted to know what the first ones had been. Ve said derisively, "Sarah Knight never agreed to anything—not in so many words—but at least she understood what was going on. What kind of journalist are you? Do you ever go looking for information? Or do you just grab an electronic teat and see what comes out when you suck? "

Ve broke away, and headed down a side street. I called out, "I’m not a mind-reader! Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?"

I stood and watched ver disappear into the crowd. I could have followed, demanding answers, but I was already beginning to suspect that I could guess the truth. Kuwale was a fan of Mosala’s, affronted by the planeloads of cultists who’d come to mock vis idol. And though it wasn’t, literally, impossible that an even more disturbed member of Humble Science! or Mystical Renaissance meant Violet Mosala harm… most likely it was all just Kuwale’s elaborate fantasy.

I’d call Sarah Knight in the morning; she’d probably had a dozen weird messages from Kuwale, and finally fobbed ver off by replying: Its not even my job anymore. Go pick on the arsehole who stole it from me, Andrew Worth. Here’s a recent picture. I could hardly blame her; it was a small enough act of revenge.

I continued on toward the hotel. I was dead on my feet, sleepwalking.

I asked Sisyphus,"So what does AC stand for?"

"In what context?"

"Any context. Besides alternating current."

There was a long pause. I glanced up at the sky, and spotted the faint row of evenly spaced dots, drifting slowly eastward against the stars, which still bound me to the world I knew.

"There are five thousand and seventeen other meanings, including specialist jargon, subcultural slang, and registered businesses, charities, and political organizations."

"Then… anything which might fit the way it was used by Akili Kuwale a few minutes ago." My notepad kept twenty-four hours of audio in memory. I added, "Kuwale is probably asex."

Sisyphusdigested the conversation, rescanned its list, and said, "The thirty most plausible meanings are: Absolute Control, a Fijian security consultancy who work throughout the South Pacific; Asex Catholique, a Paris-based group which advocates reform of the policies of the Roman Catholic Church toward asex gender migrants; Advanced Cartography, a South African satellite data reduction firm…" I listened to all thirty, then thirty more, but the connections were all so ludicrous as to amount to nothing but noise.

"So what’s the meaning which makes perfect sense—but isn’t listed in any respectable database? What’s the one answer I can’t get out of my favorite electronic teat?"

Sisyphusdidn’t dignify that with a reply.

I nearly apologized, but I caught myself in time.

I woke at six-thirty, a few seconds before my alarm sounded. I caught fragments of a retreating dream: images of waves crashing against disintegrating coral and limestone—but if the mood had been threatening, it was rapidly dispelled. Sunlight filled the room, shining off the smooth silver-gray walls of polished reef-rock. There were people talking on the street below; I couldn’t make out any words, but the tone sounded relaxed, amiable, civilized. If this was anarchy, it beat waking up to police sirens in Shanghai or New York. I felt more refreshed and optimistic than I had for a very long time.