Bruce Sterling - Islands in the Net

"I don't understand, Gresham. Direct broadcast? That just sounds lunatic."

"You don't know what it's like up there! Wait a minute, you do know-you've lived on a submarine. But see, they've been just burning, ever since little Singapore threw that guy up with the laser launch. Because they've been up there for years, hanging their ass on the edge of the-infinite, and nobody paying attention. Didn't you hear how pathetic Vassily was? Like some ham-radio geezer locked in a basement."

"But they're cosmonauts! They're trained professionals, they do space science. Biology. Astronomy."

"Yeah. Lot of girls and glory in those two. Boy. " Gresham shook his head. "I give it three days at the outside."

"Okay ... what then? If it doesn't work."

"I call 'em again. Threaten to give it to somebody else.

There are other contacts... . And we still have the original tape. We just keep trying, that's all. Till we get through. Or

Vienna nails us. Or till FACT makes a demonstration on a city and makes the news obvious to everyone. Which is what we have to expect, isn't it?"

"My God! What we've just done could cause... worldwide panic.... '

He sneered. "Yeah-I'm sure that's what Vienna has been telling itself while they sat on the truth. For years. And covered up, and protected the people who shot up your house."

A bolt of rage short-circuited her fear. "That's right!"

He grinned at her. "It was one of the least of their crimes, actually. But I figured it'd bring you around.

She thought aloud. "Vienna let them do it. They knew who killed Stubbs and they came into my house and lied to me. Because they were afraid of something worse."

"Worse? I'll say. Think of the political consequences.

Vienna exists to keep order against terrorism, and they've been sucking up to terries for years. They're gonna pay. The hypocrites. "

"But Gresham, what if they start bombing people? Millions could die."

"Millions? Depends on how many warheads they have.

They're not a superpower. Five warheads? Ten? How many launch racks in that submarine?"

"But they could really do it! They could murder whole cities of innocent people while they're sleeping, peacefully....

For no sane reason! Just stupid fascist politics and power mongering-" Her voice caught hoarsely.

"Laura-I'm older than you. I know that situation. I re- member it vividly." He smiled. "I'll tell you how it worked.

We just waited and went on living, that's all. It didn't happen- maybe it'll never happen. In the meantime, what good is this doing you?" He stood up. "We're through here. Come with me, there are things I want you to see."

She followed him unwillingly, feeling wretched, spooked.

The way he talked about it so casually-ten warheads-but for him it was casual, wasn't it? He'd lived through a time where there were thousands of warheads, enough to exterminate all human life.

Responsible for mass death. It filled her with loathing. Her thoughts raced and suddenly she wanted to flee into the desert, vaporize. She never wanted to be near anyone who had ever touched such a thing, who was shadowed by that kind of horror.

And yet they were everywhere, weren't they? People who'd played politics with atomic weapons. Presidents, premiers, generals... little old men out in parks with grandkids and golf clubs. She had seen them, lived among them-

She was one of them.

Her mind went numb.

Gresham slowed, took her elbow. "Look."

It was evening now. A ragged crowd of about a hundred had gathered before one of the domes. The dome had been pulled in half, as a kind of crude amphitheater. The Inadin musicians were playing again, and one of them stood before the crowd, swaying, singing. His song had a wailing meter and many verses. The other Inadin swayed in time, some- times giving a sharp cry of approval. The crowd looked on open-mouthed.

"What's he saying?"

Gresham began speaking again in his television voice. He was reciting poetry.

Listen, people of the Kel Tamashek,

We are the Inadin, the blacksmiths.

We have always wandered among the tribes and clans,

We have always carried your messages.

Our fathers' lives were better than ours,

Our grandfathers' better still..

Once our people traveled everywhere,

Kano, Zanfara, Agadez.

Now we live in the cities and are turned into numbers and letters,

Now we live in the camps and eat magic food from tubes.

Gresham stopped. "Their word for magic is tisma. It means,

`the secret craft of blacksmiths.' "

"Go on," she said.

Our fathers had sweet milk and dates,

We have only nettles and thorns.

Why do we sufffer like this?

Is it the end of the world?

No, because we are not evil men,

No, because now we have tisma.

We are blacksmiths who have secret magic,

We are silversmiths who see the past and future.

In the past this was a rich and green land,

Now it is rock and. dust.

Gresham paused, watching the Tuaregs. Two rose and began dancing, their outstretched arms curling and waving, their sandaled feet stamping in time. It was slow, waltzlike dancing, elegant, elegiac. The singer rose to his feet again.

"Now comes the good part," Gresham said.

But where there is rock, there can be grass,

Where there is grass, the rain comes.

The roots of grass will hold the rain,

The leaves of grass will tame the sandstorm.

But we were the enemies of grass,

That is why we suffer.

What our cows did not eat, the sheep ate.

What the sheep refused, the goats consumed.

What the goats left behind, the camels devoured.

Now we must be the friends of grass,

We must apologize to it and treat it kindly.

Its enemies are our enemies.

We must kill the cow and the sheep,

We must butcher the goat and behead the camel.

For a thousand years we loved our herds,

For a thousand years we must praise the grass.

We will eat the tisma food to live,

We will buy Iron Camels from GoMotion

Unlimited in Santa Clara California.

Gresham folded his arms. The singer continued. "There's a lot more," Gresham said, "but that's the gist of it."

The question was obvious. "Did you write it for them?"

"No," he said proudly. "It's an old song." He paused.

"Retrofitted."

"Yeah.'

"A few of this crowd may join us. A few of the few may stay. It's a hard life in the desert." He looked at her. "I'm gone in the morning."

"Tomorrow? That soon?"

"It has to be that way."

The cruelty of it hurt her badly. Not his cruelty but the pure cruelty of necessity. She knew immediately that she would never see him again. She felt lacerated, relieved, panicky.

"Well, you did it, didn't you?" she said hoarsely. "You rescued me and you saved my friend's life." She tried to embrace him.

He backed off. "No, not out here-not in front of them."

He took her elbow. "Let's go inside."

He led her back into the dome. The guards were still there, patrolling. Against thieves, she thought. They were afraid of thieves and vandals from the camp. Beggars. It seemed so pathetic that she began weeping.

Gresham flicked on the screen of his computer. Amber light flooded the tent. He returned to the door of the dome, spoke to the guards. One of them said something to him in a sharp, high-pitched voice and began laughing. Gresham swung the door shut, sealed it with a clamp.

He saw her tears. "What's all this?"

"You, me. The world. Everything." She wiped her cheek on her sleeve. "Those camp people have nothing. Even though you're trying to help them, they'd steal all this stuff of yours, if they could."

"Ah," Gresham said, lightly. "That's what we high-falutin'

cultural meddlers refer to as `the vital level of corruption.' "