Bruce Sterling - Islands in the Net

Mbaqane hadn't boiled very vigorously-none of them had. They were civilians thousands of miles from home, and they were exposed, and they were twitchy. They were glad they had their hostage back-one of their own crew-but she hadn't come through government channels and they clearly wondered what it meant.

The Azanian Civil Action Corps seemed to have been assembled for multiracial political correctness. There were a pair of black ("Coloured") orderlies. Briefly, earlier, Laura had met a little slump-shouldered woman in braids and sneak- ers, Dr. Chandrasekhar-but she was now in the clinic, tend- ing to Katje. Laura surmised that little Dr. Chandrasekhar was the life and soul of the place-she was the one who talked fastest and looked most exhausted.

There was also an Afrikaaner named Barnaard, who seemed to be some kind of diplomat or liaison. His hair was brown, but his skin was a glossy, artificial black. Barnaard seemed to have a better grasp of the political situation than the others, which was probably why his breath smelled of whiskey and he stayed close to the paratroop captain. The captain was a Zulu, a bluff, ugly customer who looked like he'd be pretty good in a bar fight.

They were all scared to death. Which was why they kept reassuring her. "You may rest easy, Mrs. Webster," the director told her. "The Bamako regime will not be trying any more adventures! They won't be buzzing this camp again.

Not while the Azanian aircraft carrier Oom Paul is patrolling the Gulf of Guinea."

"She's a good ship," said the paratroop captain.

Barnaard nodded and lit a cigarette. He was smoking Chi- nese "Panda Brand" unfiltereds. "After yesterday's incident,

Niger protested the violation of her airspace in the strongest possible terms. And Niger is a Vienna signatory. We expect

Viennese personnel here, in this very camp, by tomorrow morning. Whatever their quarrel with us, .1 don't believe

Bamako would care to offend the Viennese."

Laura wondered if Barnaard believed what he'd said. The isolationist Azanians seemed to have far more faith in Vienna than people who were more in the swing of things. "You have any of that suntan oil?" Laura asked him.

He looked a bit offended. "Sorry."

"I wanted to see the label.... You know who makes it?"

He brightened. "Surely. A Brazilian concern. Unitika-something."

"Rizome-Unitika."

"Oh, so, they're one of yours, are they?" Barnaard nod- ded at her, as if it explained a lot. "Well, I have nothing against multinationals! Any time you fellows would like to begin your investments again-under proper supervision, of course ...

A printer began chattering. News from home. The others drifted over. Director Mbaqane moved closer to Laura. "I'm not sure I understand the role of this American journalist you mentioned. "

"He was with the Tuaregs."

The director tried not to look confused. "Yes, we do have some so-called Tuaregs here, or rather, Kel Tamashek.... I take it that he wants to assure himself that they are being treated in a fair and equal manner?"

"It's more of a cultural interest," Laura said. "He did mention something about wanting to talk to them."

"Cultural? They're coming along very nicely.... Perhaps

I could send out a deputation of tribal elders-put his mind to rest. We gladly shelter any ethnic group in need-Bambara,

Marka, Songhai... . We have quite a large contingent of

Sarakole, who are not even Nigeran nationals."

He seemed to expect an answer. Laura sipped her orange pop and nodded. Barnaard drifted back-he had quickly as- sessed the message as meaningless. "Oh, no. Not another journo, not now."

The director shut him up with a glance. "As you can see,

Mrs. Webster, we're rather pressed at the moment ... but if you require a tour, I'm sure that Mr. Barnaard would be more than happy to, ah, explain our policies to the international press."

"You're very thoughtful," Laura said. "Unfortunately I have to do an interview myself."

"Well, I can understand that-it must be quite a scoop.

Hostages, freed from the notorious prisons of Bamako." He fiddled with his pipe avuncularly. "It'll certainly be the talk of Azania. One of our own, returned to us from bondage.

Quite a boost for our morale-especially in the midst of this crisis." The director was talking over and through her for the benefit of his own people. It was working, too-he was cheering them up. She felt better about him.

He went on. "I know that you and Dr. Selous must be- are-very close. The sacred bond between those who have struggled together for freedom! But you needn't worry, Mrs.

Webster. Our prayers are with Katje Selous! I am sure she will pull through!"

"I hope so. Take good care of her. She was brave."

"A national heroine! Of course we will. And if there's anything we can do for you ... "

"I thought, maybe a shower."

Mbaqane laughed. "Good heavens. Of course, my dear.

And clothing.... Sara is about your size...."

"I'll keep this, uh, djellaba." She had puzzled him. "I'm going on camera with it, it's a better image."

"Oh, I see-... yes."

Gresham was doing a stand-up at the edge of camp. Laura circled him, careful to stay out of camera range.

She was shocked by the beauty of his face.. He had shaved and put on full video makeup: eyeliner, lip rouge, powder.

His voice had changed: it was mellifluous, each word pro- nounced with an anchorman's precision.

.. the image of a desolate wasteland. But the Sahel was once the home of black Africa's strongest, most prosperous states. The Songhai empire, the empires of Mali and Ghana, the holy city of Timbuktu with its scholars and libraries. To the Moslem world the Sahel was a byword for dazzling wealth, with. gold, ivory, crops of all kinds. Huge caravans crossed the Sahara, fleets of treasure canoes traveled the

Niger River ... "

She walked past him. The rest of his caravan had arrived, and the Tuaregs had set up camp. Not the rags and lean-tos they'd skulked under while raiding, but six large, sturdy- looking shelters. They were prefabricated domes, covered in desert camo-fabric. Inside they were braced with mesh-linked metallic ribs.

From the backs of their skeletal desert cars, the hooded nomads were unrolling long linked tracks that looked like tank treads. In harsh afternoon sunlight the treads gleamed with black silicon. They were long racks of solar-power cells.

They hooked the buggies' wheel hubs to long jumper cables from the power grid. They moved with fluid ease; it was as if they were watering camels. They chatted quietly in

Tamashek.

While one group was recharging their buggies, the others rolled out mats in the shade of one of the domes. They began brewing. tea with an electric heat coil. Laura joined them.

They seemed mildly embarrassed by her presence, but ac- cepted it as an interesting anomaly. One of them pulled a tube of protein from an ancient leather parcel and cracked it_ open over his knee. He offered her a wet handful, bowing. She scraped it from his long fingertips and ate it and thanked him.

Gresham arrived with his cameraman. He was wiping his powdered face with an oiled rag, fastidiously. "How'd it go in camp?"

"I wasn't sure they'd let me back out."

"They don't work that way," Gresham said. "It's the desert that locks people in there...." He sat beside her.

"Did you tell them about the Bomb?"

She shook her head. "I wanted to, but I just couldn't.

They're so jumpy already, and there's commandos with guns... . But Katje will tell them, if she comes around. It's all so confused-I'm confused. I was afraid they'd panic and lock me away. And you, too."

The thought amused him. "What, come out and tangle with us? I don't think so." He patted the camera. "I had a talk with that para captain, when he came out to give us the once-over... . I know how he's thinking. Classic Afrikaaner tactics: he's got his covered wagons- in a circle, every man to the ramparts, ready to repel the Zulus. Of course he's a Zulu himself, but he's read the rule books... . Got a camp full of childlike savage refugees to keep calm and pacified... . He's got us figured for friendlies, though. So far."