by Malka Older
“It undermines us,” Maryam offers.
“People do hate us,” Roz sighs.
There’s another pause. Maryam debates it internally, then line-of-sights Roz some of the ugly commentary she found about the Williams trial. Roz is silent, presumably reading. Then she line-of-sights back the latest decision on the PhilipMorris mantle tunnel proceedings: government sovereignty doesn’t extend as deep as the mantle, and the construction is authorized. It’s not a final go-ahead, as there are other challenges pending, but it’s indicative.
“The Secretariat might solve some of these problems,” Roz says, but she sounds doubtful.
“Do you ever think about what it would be like if there were other sources of intel?” Maryam asks.
“There are, kind of,” Roz argues. “Different compilers present different opinions and perspectives. They’re just not allowed to lie.”
“Lying is subjective.”
“Sometimes! Not always.”
“Okay, but you know what I mean. In those certain cases…”
“To have a more distinct viewpoint? Maybe.” Roz is silent for a while, and then adds, “I think more about privacy.”
“Privacy?”
“You know. Whether fewer feeds would really be such a bad thing.”
Maryam has to think about that for a while, but she still finds it creepier that people are avoiding feeds than that there are feeds everywhere in the first place. “What about competition?”
“Competition?”
“You know. In data management and provision.”
“Theoretically, competition would improve the quality of the information provided,” Roz says, but she sounds skeptical.
“I guess what I’m asking is, are we sure that whatever these people are trying to do is really such a bad idea?”
Even in the darkness, Maryam can tell that Roz has turned to look at her. “You think they’re trying to compete with us?”
“Would it be such a bad thing,” Maryam says into the night. She says it very quietly, without even the inflection of a question to raise her tone.
“Sometimes I wonder,” Roz answers, just as softly.
They don’t speak for some time after that, tasting instead the changed flavor of the silence between them.
* * *
After she came back from Zurich, Roz considered her responsibility on the secret tunnel complete. She handed management of the problem over to the code-breakers and returned her focus to the Wall. She’s less and less eager to travel as her due date approaches: even at the end of the twenty-first century, no one can tell her with any certainty what week her baby will be born, what the first signs of labor will be, or how long she will have to find competent medical care once labor begins.
Fortunately, the mantle tunnel work is at an ebb for the moment: PhilipMorris, encouraged by the ruling in their favor, is trying to push through the additional cases, and 888 is waiting in hopes of useful precedent. All Roz has to do is to keep up with what is going on in the courts, while waiting for any change on the ground.
One of the more frivolous lawsuits, filed by a far less reputable group than Veena Rasmussen’s, claims that the contractors may have already caused irreparable damage through the insertion of the preliminary scanning cable along the proposed route. There’s plenty of literature about how it is impossible to observe without affecting, but almost nothing covering concrete probabilities of environmental impacts. Roz considers calling Djukic to get her thoughts on it. She hasn’t contacted Djukic since getting back; she thought about doing so once or twice, but it seemed weird to revive the friendship, or whatever it was, without the excuse of work. She initiates a call, hesitates, and then shuts it down.
Instead, she goes by Hassan’s office. “Keif?” she asks, leaning in his door. Since her time in Darfur, and getting together with Suleyman, she’s been taking every opportunity to practice Arabic, and they chat through the usual greetings and make small talk for a few minutes.
“Any update on the comms from the tunnel?” Roz asks, lowering her voice automatically.
“Not much,” Hassan says, leaning back in his chair and stretching his arms behind his head. “We haven’t gotten data from all of them yet.” He and Djukic put readers on all the cables, braided them into a single thick strand, and threaded them out through one small hole in the tunnel carapace and up into a newly rented and locked office in the basement of the old train station. “The messages we’ve skimmed are solidly encrypted. What with all the fluster around the attack on Malta, we haven’t been able to put much effort toward breaking the codes.”
“Are any of them the same or…”
“Different encryption on every single one. As far as we can tell, unrelated systems. We’ll get through them, but it will take a while, and we’ll need significantly more data from each one.” He throws up a projection to give her a sense: a long row of silos, some completely empty, others showing different levels of data. As they watch, a few more strings of incomprehensible characters drop into one of them.
“Still in use, then,” Roz comments.
“Most definitely. At least these twelve strands. Haven’t seen anything on the others yet. No sign of vehicular movement in the tunnel.”
Roz leans back against the wall, pondering. “Do you think, hypothetically, is it possible that the scanning cables for the two legitimate mantle tunnel projects could be transmitting comms?”
“No reason why not,” Hassan says. “But wasn’t there oversight when they were scanning?”
“There was,” Roz agrees. “And a lot of press. But it was focused on the process, and the route, and possible environmental issues. I don’t know if anyone outside the government studied the composition of the cables.”
Hassan clucks, appalled at this oversight.
“How hard would it be to check on that now?”
“Not technically difficult,” Hassan answers. “Kind of awkward politically.”
“We couldn’t do it without them noticing?”
“Well, the cables only surface at the excavation points, so it’s either dig another hole or find an excuse for examining them at crowded, guarded, media-heavy construction sites.”
“How long would it take?”
“To check the composition? Not long. If you want to put a reader on … but then, a reader attached at the surface at the busy excavation site is likely to be noticed.”
“Hm.” It occurs to Roz that if they find evidence of illicit communications, they don’t necessarily have to keep it secret; they could bring charges against the government. They would lose whatever intel they could get from reading the comms, though. And she’d hate to drop a bombshell like that during the election, even if it’s deserved.
“Could you ask your engineer friend to examine the 888 cable?” Hassan asks.
Roz makes a face. “I don’t know if she’s that good a friend.” Djukic came to them with the secret tunnel but hasn’t said anything about what she’d seen of the 888 tunnel. “And if she is, I don’t want to involve her in this. We’ll have to come up with something else.”
* * *
“Explain exactly what it is you want me to do?” Amran is trying to combine skepticism, curiosity, and professionalism in her tone, and is annoyed with herself when she hears the interrogative upward tone anyway. Hopefully it makes her sound suspicious rather than unsure. Mishima told her reluctance would be less suspicious than eagerness, with the added advantage of being able to ask more questions.
“This is the fun part.” Amran’s interlocutor doesn’t seem suspicious at all. Mischievous, rather. Nor does he look like the criminal mastermind or hard-bitten anti-Information fanatic Amran expected. Of course, she tells herself, they would hardly send a mastermind to meet an untested recruit. Vincent—for so he introduced himself, and his public Information claims the same name—looks young, enthusiastic, and friendly. “How did you find this place?”
The meeting location they gave her was a test. Am
ran had been told to go to “the bar where the librarian’s daughter was offered an unusual prize for her artistry near the school of engineering.”
“I asked around,” Amran says, the lie she believes they want to hear. She did ask people about the mysterious clue on her way there, but only for show. Mishima had arranged for different people—Information grunts, Amran supposes, although they could have been people off the street, for all she knows—to look up different parts of the prompt, so that there was no one search history to jump out at anyone keeping tabs. Mishima had wanted to know where Amran would be. There are no feeds in this bar (she wonders if she could have found it just by searching “bar with no feeds in Nairobi”), but Amran is sure the surrounding feeds are well-monitored right now.
“The point,” Vincent says, “is that there are things Information doesn’t know.” Amran nods seriously. “The more local you get, the more specialized the knowledge is.” For emphasis, Vincent throws up a map and dives down to the sidewalk level. “Every neighborhood has layers of microculture. Secrets, argot, history, dynasties, shortcuts, inside jokes. Incredible stuff that someone from the outside would never know about.”
“Isn’t that exactly what Information is for?”
“Sure. But Information isn’t accomplishing it.” Vincent is leaning forward now, small starbursts of numbers projecting as he raises his fingers. “One, they depend too much on algorithms and automated feed searches, and not enough on people. Two, the people they do employ move around too much. They don’t have time to take root in the local culture, and when they use locals, they don’t promote them.” Amran has to bite the inside of her cheek not to respond to that. “But the most important reason, three, people hate them.”
Skeptical, Amran tells herself. It’s okay to be skeptical, but not defensive. “So, people hate them,” she shrugs. “They still have all the feeds, all the staff to sort through them, all the data transmitters, all the … I don’t know, the stuff that lets them do what they do!”
Vincent is nodding. “Exactly! They have all of that and they still can’t pull in the hyperlocal content I’m talking about. Why? Because people hate them. Fairly or unfairly, nobody wants to tell Information anything anymore.”
This isn’t far from the truth. “So, what do you do?”
He grins. “We use people. We recruit the best”—with a small nod at her. “We keep them local. The goal is that someone—you, say—could walk into a neighborhood, a subdivision, a tenement, a prison, an office park, a shopping center, a high street, a village, anywhere in the world and know it as if you, and your parents, and your grandparents had grown up there.”
“When you say know it,” Amran asks, skeptical, “you mean have access to the data about it.”
“Yes, of course,” Vincent concedes. “Although you can turn that into knowledge by learning the data before you go.”
Amran shakes her head. “What’s your real goal?”
Vincent seems pleased by that too, although he pushes back at first. “What do you mean? I told you, the goal is foreign familiarity.”
“No,” Amran says, and reminds herself that her cover identity works in the private sector. “That’s the customer experience. How do you make money?”
“It’s not about the money,” Vincent says, seriously.
“It’s always about the money. Otherwise, how are you going to pay me?”
“Investors,” Vincent says. “But to your other question. Let me ask you: is Information fair?”
“Fair?” Amran wrinkles her nose. “Impossible. Information is transparent, which is as close as you can get.”
Vincent looks startled at that, and Amran realizes she’s just spouted Information boilerplate. Flustered, she doubles down. “Are you telling me you’re going to be more fair?”
“Information claims transparency, based on the idea that they cover everything, that they know everything. And yet, as we’ve just seen, they don’t.”
Amran pretends to consider while privately not conceding the point. “You collect the data Information misses, distribute it, and…”
“And that shows the world how Information manipulates everyone!” Amran catches a brief glimpse of fanaticism before Vincent relaxes again. “Politics, trade, international relations—they are managing it all, and no one even notices.”
“You’re going to be invading people’s privacy in exactly the same way. Won’t people hate you, too?”
“We’re not the same! We use people, not video and algorithms.” He must know that’s a weak point, because he moves on quickly. “More importantly, we’re not trying to run the world. We don’t force people to understand politics in a certain way or make businesses conform to a certain conception of ‘honesty.’ We’re just trying to tell stories—and yes, make a little money along the way.”
Amran freezes up when he says telling stories, wondering if he’s gotten a whiff of her narrative disorder. Then she remembers he thinks she’s a content developer; “telling stories” is the pitch that’s supposed to snag her.
“It does sound like fun,” she allows.
“It is fun!” Vincent proclaims. “You get to snoop for neighborhood gossip in service of a great cause. And it’s historic; you’ll be a part of the first hyperatlas.”
“What exactly do I need to do?”
“As much or as little as you like—although, of course, if you don’t do much, we may end up hiring another person to help cover your beat. Just give us stuff you find, anything at all related to anywhere at all, as long as it’s not already available on Information—or at least not easily found.”
“But doesn’t—” Amran pretends to squirm. “Doesn’t Information get upset at what you’re doing? Am I going to get in trouble?”
“There’s no law against it. They don’t own this data—in fact, they don’t even know about it! But the best thing to do,” Vincent adds, less reassuringly, “is not to get caught. Since we’re looking for stuff that’s not on Information in the first place, this isn’t hard. Just keep your head down and do your research in person. We’ll set up a drop point and meet periodically as well.”
“But … feeds and all … they’ll notice, won’t they?”
“What’s for them to notice? You talking to people? Us meeting occasionally? Nothing wrong with any of that.”
He sounds defensive, and Amran doesn’t want to push too hard. “How do you distribute this … hyperatlas?”
Vincent winks at her. “That’s the trick, isn’t it? I’m afraid it’s proprietary intel for now, but once you have something in it, I’ll make sure you see the final version.”
Amran pretends to dither a little longer.
“Look,” Vincent says, offering his pay toggle. “Here’s an advance, or maybe I should say an investment. Use this to drink a lot of tea or coffee and listen to people talk. If you learn something, come back to us and tell a story to the world!”
“All right,” she says, with the smile of a won-over skeptic. “I’m in.”
Vincent grins, offers her his palm to slap.
“By the way,” Amran adds, offhand, “what do you call yourselves?”
Vincent’s grin stretches wider. “Opposition Research.”
* * *
There’s an extra buzz around the Secretariat debate after the attack on the null-states event. Mishima can tell they’ve ramped up security for the rich spectators who’ve paid a lot of money to attend the debate in person. Even the candidates are put through an in-person pat-down and mental-emotional scan, in addition to the usual long-distance body scan for weapons. Mishima used to be indifferent to these things, but that was before the whole world knew her for a badass with a penchant for concealed weapons and a severe narrative disorder; now she feels like even the most professional of security staffers are looking to confirm their expectations when they search her.
The Secretariat debates are a side show compared to the mainstage, all-out publicity fest of the government debates. It seems
fair to Mishima: your choice of government is likely to affect your life far more than whom you pick to be on an abstract council no one knows much about yet. Unlike the major governments, which have been discussed and analyzed and measured for decades, no one knows the candidates for this position, either. Of the five candidates on stage, only she and Nougaz have any broad name recognition, and Mishima is the only real celebrity. Her public persona has some disadvantages, though. She doesn’t need the pollsters to tell her not everyone wants a neurodivergent assassin as their representative.
She has always appreciated the audio-only rule on principle, but now she is truly grateful. Nejime offered to set her up with a projection appointment with a stylist, but Mishima couldn’t convince herself that was acceptable behavior for a candidate. She chose a paneled dress that she considers muted but classy. Two podiums over, Nougaz is wearing something bright-colored and angular, Rothko-esque while still somehow looking professional. Watching the sight lines of the audience, Mishima is pretty sure Nougaz is getting most of the attention.
She is beginning to realize that of all the career bureaucrats, diplomats, and spies on this stage, Nougaz is the only one who has been training for politics her whole life.
The debate develops a cavalier flair once it gets started: it is the first time anyone has done this, and there’s still some uncertainty about what exactly the job is. The central moderator, a well-known news compiler (they couldn’t use someone from Information for this one) named Souad Mourad smiles as she stumbles over the explanation for one question. Gerardo Vasconcielos, the first respondent, laughs with the crowd on a casual joke in his answer. Mishima’s life has not, she thinks, prepared her to be so relaxed with strangers whose approval she needs.
It is a debate in only the most recent, specialized sense of the word: rather than an exchange of opinions among the participants (which would, in fairness, be unwieldy with even the truncated list of top governments), it is more of a panel discussion. The moderator takes them through key topics, aiming to create balance among the participants and to draw them into disagreements that throw divergences into relief. Hardly a neutral and transparent process, Mishima notes, as Mourad shifts in her seat to look at her. Mishima can feel herself bracing for the question, even though she knows that is counterproductive.
