by Malka Older
Roz dredges up a smile for him. “Yes, although I woke up early from the heat. Will you sit?” And, when he has nodded and pushed his flowing robes forward to seat himself: “Where did you learn Kiswahili?” In Doha, Roz keeps her translator set to English, because although the working language is Arabic, many people still use English, and she likes to get her communications as directly as possible. When she’s in the field somewhere without a lot of English speakers, she changes it back to Kiswahili.
“I’ve been to Kiswahili areas a few times,” he answers, waving to the boy for his own coffee. Roz waits to sip hers, although now that she’s aware of it, the smell is intense and seductive. “Once to Nairobi for a peace conference, once to Lokichoggio. It seemed useful. But I’m afraid my Kiswahili is still very rudimentary. I don’t get much opportunity to practice.”
“You’re welcome to practice with me all you want.” And even as Roz smiles, she wonders if it sounds inappropriate, too forward, as if there is something dangerously intimate about practicing one’s native language with a foreign speaker. But he nods without comment, and takes a sip from his newly arrived coffee. It’s probably only his physical attractiveness that makes her feel fumbling and flushed.
“I was also in Tanganyika once,” he goes on. “Near Mwanza.”
Roz studies him. “I’m from close to there,” she says. “But you already know that.”
“I am afraid I searched Information about you,” he says, looking down. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all public Information; there’s nothing to be sorry about,” Roz says, genuinely confused by the apology.
“But you probably don’t want to talk about it.”
She doesn’t, but she’s gotten used to it. “I wasn’t there when it happened—I was already working far from home, in Durban at the time. And I didn’t lose anyone close to me. So, I’m among the lucky ones.”
“Al-hamdu lillāh,” he responds.
She looks down at her hands. “Honestly, we’re all lucky that we didn’t lose more. We could have lost the whole lake.” It is sectioned off now, with booms and filters and nets, but after several intensive cleaning efforts and the invention of new purification techniques, the bulk of Victoria survived.
“I cannot imagine what it’s like not to be able to go home.”
“Hasn’t it happened to quite a few people here?”
“Many people here have been displaced. Al-Jabali’s family, as you know, spent decades in Djabal. But those people always remained in the region, and they always hoped to return. For you, in a case where your home is no longer habitable…”
“It’s terrible,” Roz says. “But it’s manageable. It’s all in the mind games.”
He raises his eyebrows; her gesture translator tells her this is interrogation, not affirmation.
“As I said, I was already an expatriate. I try to forget that now I’m an exile.”
“An exile.” Suleyman considers that. “And the other part of it? You must be so angry at the people who did this to your home, at the companies that profited off of it, at the government that allowed it.”
Roz takes a deep breath, then finds she needs to take another. “Yes. I am.”
Suleyman nods. He lets the moment pass. “I heard you were at the funeral yesterday,” he says. “Thank you; it was kind of you to attend.”
“Kindness had nothing to do with it,” Roz says. “As sorry as I am for your loss”—and she is, both because he seems legitimately sad and because of the terrible stresses it is placing on this government—“I was there in a professional capacity.”
He nods. “I’m sure you will inform me when you can about the progress of your investigation.”
“As you know, our staff will be working quite closely with your militia, so I’m sure you will hear of any breakthroughs in the field as soon as we do. As far as our forensics and other back-office functions, we will share with you as soon as we can.”
“But the investigation isn’t all you are doing. You arrived before the—explosion.” The sheikh pauses, then raises his dark eyes to hers. “Why are you here?”
Roz considers which of her stock answers to use. “Micro-democracy is difficult,” she begins. “Often, the availability of Information isn’t enough to help voters participate in the system and keep it running smoothly. SVAT teams are highly trained—”
“I understand the theory,” Suleyman interrupts gently. He places a fingertip on his eyelid, a gesture implying, in this context, that if he has looked up Roz, he has certainly done his research on her organization. “I’m asking why you were deployed here.”
Roz remembers he asked her the same thing just before the explosion. “We informed the governor—the head of state—fully as to our mandate. If he didn’t share it with you, I can forward you a copy.” It’s only appropriate, now that he’s the governor. He nods, and she quickly sends it to him and goes on. “To put it briefly, there have been reports of tensions with some of the neighboring governments, and we prefer to smooth these problems before they become harder to deal with.” He still doesn’t respond. “Why was Al-Jabali late to meet us when we arrived?” Roz was not entirely convinced by Malakal’s report from the sheikhs in Djabal.
“I don’t know,” Suleyman says. “I didn’t interfere with governmental affairs beyond this centenal.”
“But you were friends. You must have talked.”
“Yes, sometimes he would mention details to me, but not about yesterday. But his schedule should be available; we can find out easily. We were friends, and I did know him well.” And he doesn’t know Roz at all. “Al-Jabali was a good man. He was ambitious, yes, but most of all, he wanted the best for his people.”
All his people? Roz wonders. Or only the Fur? Or only his clan? Or only the ones who voted for him? Or maybe the problem is not exclusion but enthusiastic inclusion: All the Fur, even those who live under other governments? “That’s all we want, too.”
He studies her face. “If that’s true, you will be the first foreigners to say that honestly.”
Roz, who needs no one’s help to nitpick absolute statements, is immediately plunged into an internal debate over whether it is really all Information wants here, or if her statement works better if the we is limited to the SVAT team members, and obviously the best for any group of people is an impossible concept. By the time she emerges, Suleyman has moved on.
“So, tell me. Now that you have spent a bit more time in our centenal, do you find it any more pleasing?”
Not wanting to obfuscate any more than she already has, Roz takes refuge in the truth right in front of her eyes. “I like that,” she says, nodding at the mural since she can’t be bothered to look up whether this is one of those cultures where pointing at any inanimate object is rude.
“It’s quite impressive, isn’t it?”
“Beyond impressive,” Roz says, happy to have something she can enthuse about. “I was thinking about hiring the artist to do some work for Information.”
“Artists,” he corrects her. “The panels are done by children and youths.”
Roz leans back, takes another look. “You’re telling me that all of these were done by kids? Different kids? No way.” There’s too much similarity in style, in sensibility.
“Well, they do all have the same teacher,” the sheikh admits.
Roz jumps, as though the ground has shaken beneath her. A sudden sharp tingle runs through her fingertips, and her eyes water. The sensation is similar to a mild electric shock, but completely simulated. “Excuse me for a moment,” she says, blinking rapidly. “I’m sorry; something urgent just came through that I need to check.” Not waiting for his nod, she projects the five-alarm message from her boss at eye level: HERITAGE THREATENING TO SECEDE.
CHAPTER 10
“They said secede?” Roz hastily excused herself from Suleyman at the café, and is now holding a whispered conversation with Nejime as she tries to walk herself back to the compound with one eye on projections
and the other on the donkey- and pedestrian-filled road.
“They said ‘secede,’” Nejime confirms. “Not just that. They made it clear that this is an attack against the system. Blackmail to get us to reduce the sanctions.”
Roz is doing some rapid calculations. Even after their fall from grace, the former Supermajority is still the eighth largest government on the planet, holding—
“3,481 centenals worldwide,” Nejime says, anticipating her. “Nearly five percent of the total. And extremely well dispersed, although there wouldn’t be much impact in East Asia.” Part of Heritage’s sin—the root of it, in some ways—was their secret attempt to gouge a mantle tunnel from Tokyo to Taipei, an unapproved effort of engineering that many blame for the devastating Kanto earthquake two years ago.
Roz has made it through the market. On the less-busy stretch of road to the compound, she opens up a globe, still at eye level, and watches it spin, Heritage centenals dotted bright red. “It would be huge,” she says at last.
Nejime’s right. The number of centenals is bad enough, but this would open up holes all through micro-democratic territory. Information likes to present themselves and their system as beyond the confines of geography, but the unwieldy structure of thousands of governments is greased by the ease of traveling across neighboring centenals, the bedrock of common principles and minimal coexistence standards. If this many centenals end up next door to an openly hostile outsider, it will be a huge blow to morale and daily function, and a constant threat that Heritage can ratchet up, little by little or all at once, in any number of ways.
Roz has more questions. “What about their citizens? Are they going to vote for this?”
“I don’t think it’ll be put to a vote,” Nejime says. “If they leave micro-democracy, they don’t have to abide by our rules, either.”
“What’s the time frame?”
“One week.”
“They’re bluffing,” Roz says, as strongly as she can. It’s a gut reaction and she’s not totally sure, but unless she sounds like she is, she’s not going to convince anyone.
“It’s a distinct possibility,” Nejime says. “The question is, can we risk it?” There’s a pause and Nejime’s eyes unfocus, looking at something or someone else, then she comes back to Roz. “Mishima’s calling in. I left a message for her earlier.” Roz is about to offer to call again later (ideally after she’s had the chance to use the bathroom and grab a jug of water), when Nejime says, “Would you stay on? I’d like to discuss this with both of you.”
Roz barely has time to nod before Mishima’s face appears beside Nejime’s.
“This—oh, hi Roz, I’m glad you’re here,” Mishima says. She’s got a mouth full of something to say and looks sharp as a ship’s figurehead, cutting through the spray and the bullshit. Back on her game.
“We were just talking about the time frame”—Nejime interrupts whatever Mishima was starting to say—“the potential impact, and likely reactions of their citizens. Any thoughts?”
“The time frame who? What? What are you talking about?”
“Didn’t I explain it in my message?” Nejime blinks and shifts her eyes, looking through her sent folder to confirm.
“I didn’t see any message,” Mishima says. “I’ve been locked off, working. I was calling about—wait, this sounds really urgent. What time frame? What impact on what populations?”
Nejime runs through it, concisely. While she’s talking, Roz slips into the compound. She makes it to her hut without seeing anyone, although she can hear the shower running.
“They’re bluffing,” Mishima says, her tone an almost exact echo of Roz’s. Roz’s and Nejime’s eyes meet through their projections.
“Why?” Nejime asks.
“If they’d said three days, then they’d want us to miss the deadline so that they could go ahead with it. A week gives us time to accede to their demands; it also gives them time to figure out an alternative if we call their bluff.”
“It could also give them time to prepare for the transition,” Nejime points out. “Is it a bigger risk for us or for them?”
There is silence as they think about the question. No one arrives at a definitive or particularly hopeful answer.
“If Heritage leaves, other governments could follow.” Roz breaks the silence. “Especially their main trading partners—and who doesn’t import Heritage products?”
“It’s a security threat as well,” Mishima says. “One of the safeguards of micro-democracy has always been how dispersed we are, but if we end up with an enemy that’s almost as diffuse, they could strategically harass our borders, distract us from other issues, or even grow their territory by taking over neighboring centenals by force—”
“Drawing us into war,” Nejime finishes for her. “Mishima, we need eyes on Heritage, now. I want to embed you. We’ll set it up for them to contract you for a project—we have someone in place who can accomplish that. Where are you?”
“Saigon,” Mishima says. If she leaves now, she’ll miss Ken getting back, which would be fine except for the timing. They both travel so much that it’s hard to coordinate, and she doesn’t want to miss this cycle.
“I’m going to recommend Geneva,” Nejime says, as though she’s already put some thought into it. “Most of the players you’re going to want to get an angle on are there. But we can’t wait to sort things out before you travel. Get on a plane now, and we’ll backfill your cover story.”
“Make it good,” Mishima warns. Maybe Ken can meet her in Geneva. That would be more fun, anyway.
“Roz, I’m going to pull you out so you can be full-time on this.”
Roz has been expecting as much: a global crisis definitely outweighs one odd assassination in a tiny government. She is already smiling, her lips opening for a crisp “Where to?” but she’s cut off.
“Don’t!” Mishima sputters, looking up from the bag she has already started to stuff clothes into. “That’s why I called you.” She pauses her packing long enough to send a projection to both of them. It’s a timeline, short and scattered: deaths of the heads of small governments over the past five months. One in the highlands of Sri Lanka, killed in a car accident. One in Urumqi, heart attack. One in the Pacific Northwest of North America, drowning. One in Darfur, tsubame explosion.
“You think there’s a pattern here,” Nejime says, and frowns. “A bit thin, isn’t it?”
“I’m not sure yet,” Mishima says. “But I’m suspicious. It’s not just the statistically significant cluster of deaths of political figures; there are similarities in the settings, too. All of these are leaders of new or relatively new governments representing traditionally marginalized groups. I think it’s worth looking into.”
“The one in Urumqi is particularly worrying, given its proximity to the K-stan front,” Roz comments, her mind still running along geopolitical lines.
“True. But the one in Darfur breaks the pattern,” Mishima says. “It’s not an accident.”
“It could have looked like one,” Roz says. “Would we have investigated so closely if it hadn’t happened in front of us?”
“Regardless,” Nejime cuts in. “This is indeed suggestive. All right, Roz, stay where you are. Find out who killed the governor. But be warned: I may call you in to support on Heritage if we need it. I’m worried about a serial assassin,” she tells Mishima, “but a threat to the entire micro-democratic system takes precedence.”
Roz can’t dispute that, but she gets a sudden shiver up her spine. A serial assassin seems like a pretty serious threat to the system to her.
* * *
Mishima keeps a few color wands in the bathroom for occasions such as these, and by the time she gets on the plane, her hair is shiny and uniform black. It’s the best part of having a distinguishing characteristic: people use it as a shortcut for identifying you, and without it, they might miss you altogether.
She also has her new identity before she boards: Hirasawa Kei, following the trend of Ja
panese women removing the child signifier 子 from the ends of their names. Heritage will be in urgent need of data analysis as they plan their next move; both she and Kei are expert in that area. Mishima doesn’t have the rest of the background story yet, but she knows that a team of specialized Information workers will be building it during her flight. It’s almost impossible to lie in your public Information, the data displayed beside your face when you so choose, which makes a falsified profile all the more convincing. When you work for Information, it’s possible; when you spy for Information, it’s required. All Mishima has to do during the flight is lean her newly dark head back against the headrest, close her eyes, and silently repeat her new name to herself. Hirasawa Kei. Kei Hirasawa. Kei-chan! Hirasawa-san. Madame Hirasawa. Maybe Mademoiselle Hirasawa, if they’re trying to flatter or diminish her. She wonders if Ken will recognize her with black hair. Ms. Hirasawa. Hirasawa-sama. Hirasawa Kei-san. Madame Kei, if they’re confused about name order. Kei. Hirasawa. Kei.
CHAPTER 11
When Roz gets into the office, feeling mildly flustered by the morning’s events, Malakal is already there, seated at a makeshift workstation with the chair adjusted as high as it can go and still looking cramped. “Good morning,” he says, his high forehead furrowed. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave earlier than expected.”
“Heritage?” Roz asks, trying not to feel like the ground is sinking farther and farther below her.
Malakal nods. “I haven’t gotten the details yet, but I’ve been asked to babysit some centenals in Nairobi. I’m sorry. I’ll try to back you up as much as I can from there. Did I miss anything last night?”
Trying not to feel envious—she has a sister and some good friends in Nairobi, and certainly the hotels are a lot nicer than a hut here—Roz takes him through the diagrams, which they update with his impressions of the sheikhs in Djabal and a newly announced candidate for DarFur leadership: a sheikh from a centenal in Jebel Marra. “Maria is in the market, doing surveys with Amran”—training her, she does not say—“and Charles is meeting with the council of sheikhs in a few hours to get their take on the assassination.” Roz hesitates before telling him about Mishima’s theory, but Malakal listens gravely.
