by Malka Older
When she gets to the tlayuda—alley, she supposes is the right description—it is comfortingly normal: brightly lit by cheap fluoron curls hung across the entrance and along the adjoining walls, not to mention the flames from the fire pit; plenty of people sitting around the makeshift tables, and more in the short line that indicates where she should order; a tambora oaxaqueña version of “Hava Nagila” playing from someone’s amplifier. Maryam has eaten some excellent meals since arriving in the Territorio de la Justicia, but the tlayudas, bubbly and blackened in patches and dripping with cheese and beans, are amazing. Maryam licks her fingers and almost orders a third, but the line has grown while she ate. Instead she sets out for the border to check in, comforting herself with the plan of a return for more tlayudas the following night.
Sated and satisfied, Maryam meditates on the way cheap hole-in-the-wall food can reach a level of appeal that more polished preparations can’t achieve as she meanders toward the closest border, the one with NuevoPRI. As she crosses, she is almost immediately bombarded with campaign pop-ups, reminding her of the advantages to being away from Information, at least during election season. This neighborhood is nothing like the cute touristy area she downloaded in yesterday: instead of little cafés with sunscreen umbrellas and pastel-and-tile two-story houses, there are blocky apartment buildings and no shops. As long as that means none of the junkie ambience of tourists sucking in their Information fix, Maryam is fine with it.
She walks down a long boulevard more or less parallel to the border while she blinks up Information. There is the now-expected meaningless message from Nejime, which she immediately answers with a single Yes so Nejime will know she’s okay and available. Hopefully, she’ll get back to her quickly if there’s anything she wants to talk about. After that, Maryam dusts quickly through her work messages—not urgent, not urgent, annoying but not urgent—and is taking a quick look at headlines and polls when something in one of the pop-ups snags her attention. Maryam blinks away her interface. There, blinking faintly between a campaign ad for Liberty and a promo for the latest Hillbilly Hitman motion novel, shimmers the graceful script of the IntelliGeneration logo.
Maryam’s fingers twitch toward it, but she hesitates mid-gesture. Was it a coincidence that Domaine approached her right before she saw the IntelliGeneration ad? He said he worked on it. She flips her view to check the metadata: the link leads to data situated in the Territorio de la Justicia, but not through the government channel—a completely separate system. Is this the non-Information stream Nejime was looking for? It’s a diffuse network, making it difficult to track the exact physical location. Maryam leaves that for later.
She opens the link. The interface flows around her, tendrils of intricate design surrounding a range of infotainment options. Maryam’s practiced eye assesses the graphics as substanceless, purely cosmetic, but beguiling nonetheless. She is reminded, uncomfortably, of her reaction to the Independentista portal: this is as far ahead of the Information standard as that interface was behind it. It’s not just graphics, although it gives Maryam a disloyal feeling to admit it: there’s a design element that makes the interface appealing to use. Still, anyone can manage something like that if they put enough effort into it. Not without a feeling of apprehension, she chooses a stream of content: series criticism.
She emerges with a sigh ten minutes later, looks around, and realizes she has walked three blocks while reading. The setup was no more immersive than Information, but Maryam has always had a tendency to lose herself. Terrible security practice. She flashes quickly back through surrounding feeds to make sure no one followed her.
As for the content itself: not so different from Information, particularly some of the edgier news compilers and commentators. That’s basically what it is, Maryam thinks, an audience-oriented news analysis compiler, except that the content isn’t (she checks) mined from Information but bespoke. It’s pretty good, too—there was an interpretation of Crowbinders, for example, that she thought was particularly astute—but it’s clearly less professional than Information: a few glitches in the translation, minor editing errors. Maryam can’t decide whether to feel contemptuous, threatened, or intrigued.
While reading Maryam was dimly aware of the pings and buzzes that indicate low-priority messages, search results, and updates. The IntelliGeneration search brought up a handful of hits on Information, but nothing that makes it clear what’s going on: graffiti, unexplained pop-ups of the single neologism, its insertion in plaza discussions in a way that suggests a viral campaign not yet come to fruition. Their effort for name recognition is clear, but as far as she can tell no one has yet clarified what it is for. They are trying attract customers while evading Information scrutiny.
As of right now, they’ve failed. IntelliGeneration will have to be shut down. It might be tricky to control the source, since it’s located in the Territorio de la Justicia. Maryam isn’t sure what, if anything, their agreement with Information says about this situation. But there must be a way to cut off the transmission into micro-democratic territory.
Still thinking about that technical problem, Maryam opens a newly arrived message and stifles a jolt of dislocation: it’s from Taskeen in Dhaka.
What is she doing, writing to me? Maryam had hoped that no one noticed their contact, that anyone who followed her movements closely enough would have lost her at the sanatorium, leaving her ultimate reason for visiting uncertain. At least the message is oblique.
Dear Maryam,
I hope all is well since our last correspondence. I wanted to let you know that I was able to find some data on your old teacher, even after all this time. Please get in touch so I can pass it on to you in person.
Yours in tech, Taskeen
What is Taskeen doing? Is this the early-twenty-first-century version of wink-wink-nudge-nudge? To Maryam it sounds like a screaming klaxon of clandestinidad. “Old teacher.” She snorts and shakes her head, then frowns when she reaches the last line. “In person.” Surely, she doesn’t mean … Maryam rubs the nape of her neck. She opens a message to Nejime, closes it, opens it again, closes it again. If she flies to Dhaka, it will be as obvious as sending a message. She could try calling Taskeen on a secure channel—if she can even get one into the sanatorium—but the only clear thing in her message is that they have to meet in person.
Undecided, Maryam goes on to the last notification: the results of her search on Domaine. There is some ambiguity; apparently an M-rap star who goes by that moniker emerged a few years ago. But when Maryam reads the Information intranet results all the comfortable assurance of the last few hours melt away. He’s a known agitator, suspected of violence, confirmed to have involvement with a range of militant anti-Information groups. How could she have been so naïve? That couldn’t have been a chance meeting. “You think you don’t stand out?” He must have known she was coming, followed her somehow. Which means he listened in on Nejime’s calls.
Hands shaking, Maryam books a ticket on the next flight to Doha.
CHAPTER 12
Maryam has to wait nineteen minutes before she is ushered into Nejime’s office. It’s not surprising, since she made no appointment and is supposed to be on the other side of an ocean. Her only regret about it is that she doesn’t get to observe Nejime’s reaction when told she is here. Was it annoyance? Anger? Anticipation of some important development?
By the time she walks in, Nejime’s mode is gently teasing. “Have you decided to come back to the Doha Hub, then?”
Maryam laughs along obediently, wondering if Nejime used the nineteen minutes to call Batún, or to update herself on Maryam’s movements. “I’m afraid not,” she says, and projects Taskeen’s message up between them.
Flutters of surprise and irritation cross Nejime’s face as she reads: so, she wasn’t scanning Maryam’s recent comms. Maybe she was in a meeting. “What is this? Did you suggest she contact you in this way?”
“Of course not! It came out of nowhere.”
�
�And so you got on a plane.” Nejime no longer sounds angry, more resigned.
“A crow, actually,” Maryam says, and then hopes it didn’t sound flippant. Nejime doesn’t seem to be paying attention, anyway.
“A little paranoid, no? We have no evidence they’ve been able to break into protected communications. But perhaps it’s warranted. It certainly seems to be going around—”
“It is. Warranted,” Maryam puts in. “Either that, or someone got incredibly lucky.” She tells Nejime about her encounter in the Territorio de la Justicia. When she mentions Domaine’s name Nejime blinks up a file, courteously putting it at workspace rather than eye level. Maryam has seen most of it before, so she waits until Nejime has finished.
“Ah, yes, that one. I thought he sounded familiar. Made some trouble during the last election. Nothing too serious,” she adds, eyeing Maryam, whose hands are shaking again.
“Still,” Maryam says, a little defensive. “He knew who I was and that I would be there. He must have snooped our conversation.”
“That or he saw your flight reservations and drew his own conclusions.”
Maryam isn’t sure that’s less creepy. “He would still have to know who I am. Unless I really do look that much like an Information worker.”
Nejime chuckles obligingly, then gets back to the point. “You could have drawn his attention any number of ways.”
It’s true; Maryam thinks of her searches about the tourist guides, and the shot about the tlayuda place not being on Information.
“I’m curious as to what he wanted,” Nejime says, “but I don’t think you were in any danger.”
“There’s more,” Maryam says, trying not to sound defensive. IntelliGeneration doesn’t have broadcasting capacity that will allow it to be accessed beyond the immediate vicinity of the Territorio de la Justicia, but she recorded her own brief dip in its data stream, and she projects it up for Nejime. “You don’t get the full experience this way,” she explains, pointing out how the interface works, “but this gives you a taste of it. This is, I think, what you heard about?”
Nejime pages through the recording. Her face looks tighter and colder than usual.
“It’s not so bad,” Maryam says, and then wishes she hadn’t: downplaying this doesn’t do anyone any favors.
“It’s the most daring example of data peddling I’ve seen. They put a lot of resources into this interface for an illegal activity that could be shut down at any point. Although we can’t easily stop them while they’re in Independentista territory.” Nejime frowns. “Is the data stolen?”
“I don’t think so,” Maryam says. “It doesn’t fit the parameters of any of data we’ve identified as missing. But it’s hard to be sure. It’s certainly not on Information anywhere.”
“Hopefully we can block the transmissions, and quickly. They do seem to be coming at us from all sides.” Before Maryam can ask what Nejime means, she brushes her hands together, moving on. “Well. We just have to get through the election. Go on to Dhaka. Find out what Khan wants. Oh, and while you’re at it, keep an eye out for the person who tried to give you the guide, maybe even ask around discreetly.”
“That message could be a trap.” Maryam hopes she sounds cautious rather than shaken.
“Of course it could be,” Nejime says dismissively. “But if they’re already reading your communications and following your movements, why bother with such a ridiculous message? Why not simply approach you in La Habana? No, I suspect this one is all Khan interacting awkwardly with the modern world.” She taps her fingers in quick annoyance, and Maryam wonders if she is reconsidering her interest in time-capsule therapy. “Taskeen was one of the great minds, probably still is. She may have something useful for you. And we owe her the benefit of the doubt, even if she is long retired. But—” Index finger raised, Nejime preempts any opportunity for Maryam to ask about why Taskeen is owed and whether she can be trusted. “I am going to arrange for some training—for both of you—on clandestine operations.”
Maryam is both flustered and flattered. “Spycraft? That’s not really my area.”
“Isn’t it?” Nejime asks with asperity. “You use tech to find things; don’t tell me you’ve never thought about using it to hide them? And we’re not going to make you a spy; it’s election season, and much as we need additional observers right now, it is no time to be training new ones. You’re going to learn some best practices so that you can cultivate this informant in a safe and professional way. And after all this is over, you need to think about taking on more of a leadership role; spycraft is pretty much a requirement for navigating at a higher level.”
“Leadership role?” Maryam asks faintly.
“Of course,” Nejime says, as though it should be obvious, as though they had talked about it before. “The reorganization—assuming we survive long enough to achieve it—is going to lead to all sorts of new opportunities, and you are in an excellent position to take advantage of them.”
Maryam swallows I don’t want to take advantage of them and What would I do in a leadership role? and nods along as Nejime continues. “You have the technical know-how, you understand the wider goals of Information, you have useful extra-Information contacts”—meaning Núria, Maryam supposes—“and whether you like it or not, you possess the bedrock of leadership skills.”
“I don’t even know what that means,” Maryam answers.
“We can talk about it later,” Nejime says. “For now, focus on figuring out what’s going on with Taskeen Khan and learning all you can about these opportunistic datastreams.”
* * *
Maryam was hoping to hang out with Roz while she was in Doha, but her friend is out of town—in Zurich, of all places—and cagey about what she’s doing. Maryam hopes it’s just the paranoia Nejime said was going around. Roz tells her she should get in touch with Suleyman and stay at their apartment anyway, but Maryam begs off, explaining that she needs a quiet night. She ends up in the one of the three hotels Information recommends to visiting staff. Built by a Japanese firm angling for business travelers in the middle of the century, it combines the compact, careful aesthetic of an Osakan business hotel with nods to the luxury expected in the Gulf states at the time. Maryam takes a stroll along Al Meena, noting which of the shops she knew have disappeared to be replaced by new ones, and eats a lonely meal at her favorite restaurant, Medeterranée, before returning to the hotel to snuggle into the climate-controlled futon and wish she were home. She tries her usual balm of watching some content, but everything has been taken over by the election, so she ends up examining the polls instead.
Maryam is not a big politics geek—she wouldn’t go so far as to say all governments are the same, but they do fall into a narrow range between horrible and less horrible—but at this stage, the campaign is pleasantly distracting. She looks at the numbers on her centenal in La Habana first. So far, 888 is still in the lead, but HerenciaHatuey and, of all governments, Liberty are in close pursuit.
HerenciaHatuey might be interesting; she generally expects nationalist governments’ focus on ideals and/or unscientific notions of group boundaries distract them from governance, but she’s also found that they’re more idiosyncratic, often finding quirks or tweaks to the citizen experience that the larger governments rarely think of. As their name suggests, their ideology is somewhat militant, but they’ve never expressed any expansionist tendencies and instead focus on emphatic minority and environmental rights programs and proactive solidarity linkages with other small governments that have similar agendas.
Liberty, on the other hand, lost all her sympathy during the last election. Maryam still remembers Roz’s friend Ken’s face after he got beaten up in a Liberty centenal during the blackout. Maryam also spent the better part of six months unsnarling the changes that Liberty made to localized Information disbursement code allowing them to show one reality to their citizens while everyone else saw a different one. Their logo alone is enough to give her a sensory flashback to those
months: gritty eyes, growing horror that eventually shifted to dull irritation, the frustration of picking through someone else’s drastic, uncommented, inelegant hack, and the smell of myrrh in the scent profile of the colleague stationed next to her. She shudders. It is beyond her how anyone can vote for those people, and Maryam spends a few moments considering whether she would be willing to leave her comfortable apartment and pleasant neighborhood just so she wouldn’t have to live in a Liberty centenal. She comes to the conclusion that yes, she would, but of course it depends on Núria, too. They’ve never talked about that hypothetical.
Maryam was not particularly excited about moving to an 888 centenal when they were looking for an apartment, but she has to admit she’s liked it more than she expected. That reminds her to look at the Supermajority stats. She knows most of the people she works with are rooting for Policy1st on principle (or pretending to root for them out of peer pressure), but she’s never understood the appeal. Evidence-based policy is great, but she’s not convinced by Policy1st’s analytics. There’s something a little too planned-economy about their work. She also deducts points for smugness. So, she’s not unhappy to see 888 polling ahead by a little over a thousand centenals, even if it’s too early for it to mean anything. The first debate tomorrow should define the situation better.
* * *
“You … agreed to what, now?”
Amran wasn’t confident enough of her protocol to be sure when she should contact Mishima directly, especially since she now has a new spying gig that Mishima doesn’t know about, so she waited until Mishima called her. As she should have expected, this does not improve Mishima’s mood.
“I was offered a job? And I thought it could be useful, or at least … possibly I might learn something interesting … because after all, the offer came from the subject of the investigation.” Amran pauses, but Mishima says nothing. Maybe she hasn’t figured out what to say yet? Amran hurries on before the silence can lengthen. “So I’ll be sort of … spying, I guess you could say—that’s what they said to me, anyway—for them, but really I’ll be spying for you.”
