by Malka Older
“Good evening,” Nejime says, and Maryam remembers that it’s very late—or, rather, very early—in Doha. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine. Really.” Or she will be. “I’m glad you called; I was just looking at the data from the attack.” She gives Nejime the chance to cut her off with results from some of the other experts who have been working on it, but the older woman is silent. “They were testing transmission paths, running contingency after contingency—if such and such a node was out, how would the data get from A to B, and millions of permutations thereof.”
“What does that mean?”
“Probably that you’re right: They’re investigating how to disable and co-opt our infrastructure.” She hesitates again, this time because of the weight of what she’s about to suggest. “Have you considered leaving the transfer stations that have been attacked offline?”
“They’ve all been checked for malware…”
“I know, but if those are their most up-to-date data points in the network, they may become the entry points.”
“I’ll look into it,” Nejime says. The network will function without those nodes, but taking the transfer stations offline means reassigning or putting on leave thousands of workers, a logistical nightmare that will only be exacerbated by the campaign season.
“I’m sorry I didn’t learn anything more useful.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Nejime says. “I appreciate your insight, but we’ve also got a whole InfoSec team looking into it. What I need from you is intel from the ground. How up are you on the Independentistas?”
Maryam has a panicked moment wondering whether Nejime saw how often she opened feeds off the Independentista border last week. “I … am familiar with the basics.” She wonders if Nejime has put together why she was watching that border.
“We’re seeing some unusual data along their frontiers; that is to say, data not sourced from Information.”
Maryam’s pulse quickens. “Don’t they have their own intel-gathering mechanism?”
“Yes, but this seems unusually sophisticated. It’s unclear whether they are deliberately broadcasting it into micro-democratic territory, or whether it seeped across the physical border unintentionally, but I’d like someone to take a look. And just in case it is related to the ex-staffers, I’d like it to be you.”
“You think they might be based there?”
“We’ve been focusing on the null states, but the Independentistas, for all their connections with micro-democracy, don’t have an extradition treaty with us. Knowingly or not, they may have become a staging base for attacks on our system.”
“That sounds…” Dangerous. Active. Non-techie. “Serious.”
“For now, we just want to get a sense for their data infrastructure. Hassan thinks that even if the ex-staffers aren’t there, looking at a completely different system might be helpful in thinking about our problem.”
“To get ideas about how Exformation—sorry, the ex-staffers—could be piggybacking on our connections,” Maryam says, intrigued.
“You will have to go there,” Nejime adds. “We don’t have access to their intel processes.”
“And they will grant me on-site access?” Maryam asks, uncertain.
“No,” Nejime says, annoyance putting some bite into it. “You will hack in once you’re there.”
There’s an awkward pause while Maryam tries to figure out what to say to that, whether to base her concerns on technical or ethical grounds.
“You can go as a tourist. There are very high tourism rates from La Habana. Take three or four days, hack in to get a sense for the infrastructure, look around for any evidence of organized opposition to Information. If you have any concerns about your safety, leave immediately and we’ll send someone else in to deal with it, but I don’t expect that. Think of it as a research trip.”
“If you really think…”
Nejime sighs emphatically. “You are close by, you are working on this issue, and you are best qualified to deal with the technical issues. We need to know and we need to know soon.” After a pause during which Maryam wrestles with herself, Nejime adds, “The sooner you get back out there, the better.”
Twenty-two days until the election, and the data from the transfer station attack didn’t tell them much. Maryam would prefer to stay in her safe Hub office for the duration, but at least nobody has attacked the Independentistas. And if anything does happen, at least she knows there’s a YourArmy deployment along one of the borders. “I suppose it’s better than going to Russia.”
Nejime laughs in surprise. “Yes,” she says. “Yes, I’m confident that it is. I’m sending you contact links to the local staff around Independentista territory. We do not have any permanent staff within their jurisdiction, although that’s something we’re working for in exchange for a foreign rep seat for them on the Secretariat. However, all of their borders except the one with Liberty are completely open. Stay in the urban area, and if you sense any threat, which I don’t anticipate, get into micro-democratic territory as quickly as possible. Good?”
Maryam nods and Nejime cuts the connection before she has time to change her mind.
Maryam spends forty-nine minutes researching the Independentistas and their tiny nation, and downloading additional intel to store on her handheld for later. Then she grabs her bag and leaves the office. If she’s about to travel again, she’s going to spend every moment she can with Núria before she does. Even if it means an evening with the camaradas.
* * *
Roz sifts through endless satellite imagery of the areas they suspect as likely termini of the nunnel, one in Moscow and the other in a rural area of the null state of Switzerland, but she finds nothing suspicious, even after cross-referencing with the pictures of the initial illegal mantle tunnel Heritage started in Tokyo five years ago and the two currently in legal stasis. The images of Moscow trigger a fascination with the unknown and forbidden: that strange, overdeveloped city that she has almost no data about and has never seen except from 200 miles directly overhead. The blocks of massive buildings give her an idea: surely, there’s enough space inside some of those to hide a dig site.
“Certainly possible,” Djukic answers her carefully worded query over projection. “It’s what I would do.”
From that, she manages to communicate that Djukic should identify a location in Zurich that will allow them to dig into the nunnel from inside a building. A few days later, she gets a message from Djukic informing her that she and a small team she considers reliable will be setting up shop in Zurich to carry out “those tests we talked about,” in an environment with similar geology far enough away from the planned mantle tunnel so as not to cause problems with the eventual construction. Roz approves with some unease, nervous about agreeing to something discussed in ad hoc code and simultaneously worried that the code is too transparent.
Roz doesn’t plan to fly out until the enhanced electronic surveillance tool she assumes they’re using makes contact with the shell of the mystery tunnel. It’s not just that she’s seven months pregnant; she also has better things to do than wait for a flexible cable to bore twenty-five kilometers into the ground. She has to keep up with the Wall, for one thing. Also, none of this secret drama has affected the processes on the sanctioned mantle tunnels in the least (with the exception of Djukic’s temporary removal from the 888 team), and she needs to keep up to date on all the legal and engineering challenges. Besides, her presence would risk drawing attention to the operation.
The first attempt turns up blank.
“What do you mean, you didn’t find it?” Roz asks, distracted from a ticklish discussion about a particularly sensitive Wall panel proposition when Djukic appears in her office. “And what are you doing here?”
“I didn’t want to explain over Information,” Djukic says, as if it were obvious. Roz whispers a quick excuse to the Wall team and closes all her projections.
“So,” she says, trying to focus. “How is that pos
sible?”
Djukic has thrown up a sketched projection of their project. Apparently, they are digging in the basement of the massive leisure, entertainment, and sports complex that was once the Zurich Hauptbahnhof. “We always knew we were guessing about the termini.” Djukic is phlegmatic about the whole thing; Roz wonders how often her engineering calculations go totally wrong in practice. “We are probably correct in assuming that there are no sharp turns, but even slight bends will have a significant effect over a distance. We’re going to retract the cable slowly, running spherical geolocation scans in a fifteen-meter radius every ten meters. Hopefully we find it. If not, we’ll have to reassess the hypothetical trajectory. And find another large building willing to let us play under their roof.” Djukic turns to leave, then turns back. “By the way, we should figure out a secure communications channel.”
“Oh, right,” Roz says. “I’ll—” She is about to say I’ll ask Maryam when she remembers that now also requires secured communications. “I’ll look into it, but for the moment, if you need me to come out there, send me a message about new environmental problems that you think I’d want to see, or something like that.”
“In Zurich?” Djukic smirks. “All right, I’ll think of some excuse.”
“If they’ve been looking for this sort of thing, they’ve probably found us by now,” Roz says, wondering who the most likely they are in this scenario. “But yes, let’s try not to raise any more flags than we have to.”
* * *
Maryam usually feels like she and Núria are doing reasonably well, with their two government incomes and the manageable cost of living in 888 in La Habana. She saves a little every month, doesn’t feel bad about the occasional indulgence, and can afford to buy environmentally neutral products. Maryam’s father is always offering to send her money if she ever needs it, but she’s been independent for years.
Magdalena works for YouPengYou, one of the world’s largest social-capital investment firms and a member of the 888 consortium. Maryam knew this, in some highly judgey corner of her mind where she reluctantly stores basic facts about the camaradas, but she had assumed it was some kind of middle-management job or below. Seeing Magdalena’s place makes her reevaluate. She lives in a mansion, and not a small one; when the public transport crow drops her off by the half-circle driveway, Information tells her it used to be an embassy. Maryam looks Magdalena up, and there it is: VP of Scalability. That would do it.
The elaborate ironwork gate glides open before Maryam reaches it—onto a courtyard with a three-level fountain and an extraordinary mural depicting obreros, global data flows, and the crossed flags of Cuba and Catalunya. As Maryam passes close to the mural on her way to the open door to the interior, she sees that it is actually a micro-mosaic. Magdalena’s not just rich; she’s ridiculously rich. And she still has the nerve to put socialist and accessist motifs in her mural.
Maryam lets her semi-hypocritical outrage carry her into the daunting situation: a party; that has already started; in a mansion screaming chic yet socially conscious wealth; featuring the five radical Catalá glintelligentsia nemeses who fascinate her girlfriend.
Magdalena greets her at the door, hair in a classic wave-back reminiscent of the 2050s, body encased in a silvery robe that molds to her figure in constant piling waves. “Maryam! I’m so glad you could make it.” She leans in for a cheek kiss. Maryam reciprocates but pulls back after the first, Cuban-style, making it awkward when she has to go back in for the second peton. “We don’t see you often enough,” Magdalena goes on, leading Maryam back into the house once they’ve cleared the kerfuffle.
“So glad you could get away.” Núria is waiting for them at the door of what must be the sala (or one of them). She’s wearing her fluttery red sleeveless jumpsuit, one of Maryam’s favorites, and Maryam hopes her glow is because she’s shown up and not for somebody else here. With her, there’s just the one kiss on the mouth, and Núria links her arm through Maryam’s to walk in together. Maryam wonders if Núria has realized how nervous these women make her.
“A drink?” Magdalena sways toward the full bar.
“Juice?” Maryam asks.
“Oh, of course. Maracuyá? Or a batido, maybe? Mamey, guayaba, anon?”
“Maracuyá would be great.” Maryam takes her drink and turns back to the room. Alba, Maryam’s favorite of the group because she’s relatively low-key, nods at her from across the room, and LaForet offers a little wave from beside her. There’s music, some kind of pared-down neo-trova; after a few minutes, the tambor and voice pairing ends, and applause and the rumble of conversations are audible before the next song starts. Maryam checks the source—the music is being piped in live from a popular downtown bar.
Magdalena sways away from them, and Núria smiles at Maryam. “I’m glad you could make it,” she says again, pulling her a little closer.
Maryam smiles back, but apologetically. “Something came up,” she explains. “I have to leave tomorrow. Just for a week or so,” she adds, feeling both pleased and guilty about Núria’s disappointed expression. “Routine work became much less important than spending a little more time with you.” Even if she would much rather they were alone.
“Do you want to go home?” Núria asks, and even though she does want to, the unexpected offer gives Maryam the fortitude to shake her head.
“We’re here now; we might as well stay for a little bit.” She opens her mouth to tell her that she is going to be on the opposite side of the border Núria patrolled last week, maybe to ask for some local suggestions, and closes it again. “I don’t mind, really,” she says instead, kissing her on the cheek. “Enjoy yourself, and we’ll go back when you’re ready.”
Fortunately, the tertulia is not as painful as Maryam expected. She is quiet for the first stretch, trying to catch the rhythm, the levels of facetiousness and daring. There are plenty of bons mots, but what intimidates her the most is how relaxed these women are with each other, as though every one of them were at home in her pajamas instead of dressed for a red carpet in a bejeweled mansion. Maryam doesn’t usually think of herself as socially awkward. A mild introvert, perhaps, but she’s always been able to sparkle in small talk. But these women are terrifying.
The conversation has turned to borders: apparently, one of the tiny nationalist states in Europe—not Catalonian in this case, but Tyrolese—has put a referendum on their citizens’ election ballot about the construction of a border wall around their centenal. Other nationalist governments, including at least one Catalonian (Could it be Núria’s? Maryam wonders), have started debating the idea. The camaradas treat it as a joke. Micro-democracy allows every government to decide its own immigration and border policies, but most governments prefer to encourage both immigration, which tends to benefit the incumbent in elections, and casual visits, which tend to boost the economy. The exception are those nationalist governments that care more about “purity” or “cultural protectionism” than growth or power. As Carme puts it, “If they want to shoot themselves in the collons, let them!”
“It’s an ugly precedent, though,” Zipporah says. “And only perpetuates segregation and misunderstanding.”
“It will preserve small and unusual cultures as well,” Magdalena says, and shrugs when they all look at her. “I think it’s worth trying to see both sides.”
“A physical border, though! It’s not like walls keep culture out, not in this world! And so expensive and environmentally harmful.”
“And economically harmful,” Carme adds. “Can you imagine going through a, a—what, a border control?—every time you need to buy something not available in your centenal?”
Núria’s eyes meet Maryam’s from the bar across the room, and it occurs to her that they—the Information techie and the soldier—have far more experience with physical borders than any of these women. For the first time, Maryam wonders whether Núria ever feels out of place among the camaradas too.
“When I was a teenager in Beirut, there was a
physical border between two centenals.” Maryam is almost surprised to hear her own voice: it sounds loud in the room, as though she is forcing herself into the conversation, although she is fairly sure she spoke into a neat pause.
“Just between two?” LaForet asks. “Not around the whole centenal?”
“Just between the two,” Maryam confirms. “It wasn’t intended as isolationism or even to prevent all contact between citizens of those two centenals, because they could easily go around. The idea was to prevent impulsive contact between the two—basically to force people to take a breath before they aimed flamethrowers at each other.”
“How long was this thing up?”
“I don’t know—five years, maybe? It’s gone now.” Maryam shrugs, feeling that her story has fizzled. “The funny thing,” she starts again, “is that there was a border crossing, a gate in this wall. I mean, people could just go around, right? But to save them the … I don’t know, half an hour that might take, they had opened a big, fortified, staffed border crossing.”
“I’m picturing a moat with a portcullis,” Carme says, and they all laugh.
“Not far off,” Maryam admits, when they’ve quieted. “No moat, of course, but it was a heavy metal gate with spikes on top, not one of those easy-up easy-down barriers.” She grins at the camaradas. “Naturally, my friends and I used to find any excuse to go through that gate.”
“And what? They would ask you questions or something?” Magdalena asks.
“There were guards,” Maryam says, “but they got to know us pretty quickly.” She stops, remembering: one of the guards was killed a few years later in a traffic accident. “They would ask strangers to show their public Information, ask them their business, that sort of thing. Again, it wasn’t so much that they were supposed to stop people as make them pause for a few minutes before they rushed into a fight.”
“And did it work?” asks Alba.
“Mostly,” Maryam says, and falls silent, remembering the time it didn’t.
