by Malka Older
“You are a security expert, with long experience in the field,” Mourad comments, her pace suggesting that she’s reading the prepared question from an eye-level projection.
Mishima feels her face go hot: not neutral at all. The lead-in will remind the audience of her highly public, widely publicized fight a few years ago.
“We have recently seen renewed threats against our way of life,” Mourad continues. Mishima’s anger flares again, because this will bring back her gaffe during the null-state debate. “How do you see Information’s role in ensuring the security of the micro-democratic system?”
This question is predictable enough that Mishima has the skeleton of an answer memorized. Maybe, she thinks as she starts talking, Mourad’s giving her an opportunity to recover from that error. Maybe Mourad thinks she’s on Mishima’s side—or maybe she thinks giving Mishima an opportunity for bonus points is in the interest of fairness. As she considers these possibilities, Mishima can hear her own voice, deliberate and calm, using all the correct honorifics and exalted grammar, skating through the answer, but when it’s over she can’t remember what she said. Her recollection is so blank that she considers playing back the audio, but she’s afraid to miss something in real time. Besides, the audience shows no sign of shock or surprise, so whatever she got out must have been reasonable.
Mourad turns her attention to Nougaz. “What about you, Director? How do you see Information’s role with regards to security?” There’s a mild flicker of interest across the audience: everyone knows the key face-off here is Mishima versus Nougaz, and security is a prime arena.
Nougaz gives it a moment before she answers, letting the attention build and focus. “Micro-democracy is, as you say, under threat from many different sources,” Nougaz says, her voice carrying easily. “On our borders, the null states are growing in strength. Within, destructive and senseless organizations like Anarchy take shots at our institutions whenever they can. The latest attack, which disrupted an event much like this one, shows the grave risk we are facing: our enemies want to destroy your connection to Information itself.” She pauses to let that sink in. “Corrupting or disrupting Information for even a brief period would have a terrifying effect on the economy, on those who depend on Information for their livelihoods or their lives—as some of us remember all too well.” A reference to the events of the last election. Nougaz’s role in the response to that outage is well known; Mishima’s much less so. “That is why,” Nougaz continues, her tone shifting from portentous to energizing, “I propose to strengthen Information’s infrastructure, security protocols, and mandate. Individual governments—including and perhaps especially the Supermajority—cannot be expected to safeguard your access to the independent data you need. It is imperative, therefore, that we do.”
“Speaking of internal and external threats,” Mourad says, realigning herself toward Mishima, “we’ve all been following the Williams trial, which raises questions about the power of Information staffers to affect election outcomes. How would you deal with such incidents?”
Mishima, who has faked out more mental-emotional scans than she can remember, hears her heart thudding as soon as Mourad says Williams.
“I can’t speak about that investigation,” she says, her voice overloud in her own ears. “I’m not privy to the details, and in any event it would be inappropriate to discuss a trial in progress.”
“Of course,” Mourad says in an eminently reasonable tone. “But in this kind of trial…”
Fuck presumed neutrality. The moderator is definitely, no question about it, against her. “A hypothetical?” Mishima asks, trying to regain ground, but knowing it will be played as an evasion. “Each case is different. I’m not going to rush to judgment on a hypothetical.”
She’s expecting more pushback, and thereby a chance to expand on the point, maybe think of something to say, but instead Mourad turns to Nougaz. “Director?”
“I have so much respect for the women and men who collect, collate, and distribute data for us. They make the world go around.” Nougaz doesn’t sound warm, exactly, but for her, it’s not a bad approximation. “While we must be vigilant to avoid bias and influence, Nakia Williams’s is a particularly difficult, nuanced case. As my colleague quite correctly noted, we shouldn’t discuss the details of an ongoing case, but as Hub Director, I’ve done everything I could to support my staff. As Information representative to the Secretariat, I hope I would do the same.”
Mishima had been planning to jump in again when Nougaz finished, regardless of whether the moderator turned to her, but she’s so surprised, she misses the (miniscule) window, and Mourad takes her question to the other candidates. The worst of it, Mishima thinks, is that she really shouldn’t have been shocked, because it’s true: Nougaz goes to the mat for her people. She pushed hard for her deputy Abendou to get his own directorship and supported Garza during that incident with the Starlight liaison. When did she start thinking of Nougaz as a bad person?
CHAPTER 16
When Maryam gets back to La Habana, the apartment is empty. Núria is in a SavePlanet centenal in the Amazon for three days, something about resource protection. She left the apartment on their usual timed-and-primed away settings, so it is neither dark nor musty nor sweltering when Maryam arrives. It still feels quiet, but at least there are no camaradas to contend with or difficult questions to answer, and Maryam tries to savor the prospect of a quiet night. She goes to bed early but lies long awake, running over the events and conversations of the last few days.
Without Núria, there’s little appeal in going out for breakfast, and Maryam slurps some coffee, eats three-day-old bread, and hurries in to work, the colorful striped cloth from Oaxaca covering her head. At the Hub, she grabs a colada and settles down to work.
She is looking at voter identification protocol updates when she finally gets a ping from Taskeen. It’s a response to the message she left in the plaza, suggesting that they meet “in the regular channel.” Maryam looks at the message for a while, trying to figure out any other way to read it, but it’s clear what Taskeen wants her to do. Maryam has to admit to herself that the secret linkage will be a much easier way to talk than these vague and time-consuming public messages. It’s not technically illegal, probably because no one thought to make it so (something Maryam could remedy, if she felt so inclined). And yet, she can’t deny a deep unease as she programs the hidden path into her communications protocol as a temporary hard mandate.
She’s nervous enough about it to leave the office and walk the eight blocks to El Chismoso. Fortunately it’s not too busy, and she’s able to get a booth for one without a wait. The connection goes through, and Taskeen peers at her. “My, but it’s good to communicate in a more modern fashion! Can you see me all right?”
“You’re a bit flat,” Maryam says drily. Taskeen’s image is two-dimensional, but getting even that from a fifty-year old desktop camera impresses her. “It’ll do. And on your side?”
Taskeen head-waggles. “Good enough. I found conversion software from when three-dimensional projections were starting to catch on. Now, what did you want to talk about?”
“This attack on the null-state event.” Maryam pauses, because Taskeen shows no recognition of what she’s talking about. “You heard about it, right?”
“I’m not encouraged to follow politics. As I’m living in 2008.”
“You are going to vote, though, right?” Maryam hears the shock in her voice and immediately feels naïve.
“It is possible to vote without following every twist and turn of the pre-election novela,” Taskeen says mildly. “In any case. You were saying something about a null state?”
Suddenly cautious, Maryam briefly summarizes the public facts, without saying anything about Hassan’s efforts to figure out how the data paths were corrupted.
“At least no one was hurt” is Taskeen’s response. “Too bad we didn’t implement that program in time to stop them, but…”
“Raji
v was working with them.”
That does get a reaction. “That snake! I knew there was something funny about him and his questions. Did you catch him?”
“He escaped with the rest of them. Taskeen, I think they used a trick like this—like this hidden channel—to keep the data from finding alternate transmission routes.”
“You think they hid the nodes?” Taskeen is silent for seventeen seconds. When she speaks again, her tone is casual. “You must have wondered how Exformation communicated with each other across Hubs. Before they left Information I mean, how they were able to coordinate while they were still working there.”
“Of course we wondered!”
“I think I may have had something to do with that. Before I retired, I noticed difficulties in sharing of experiences and lessons across departments and locations, particularly with people worried about what the upper leadership would think.” Taskeen’s shrug comes across on the two-dimensional image. “So I did something about it, developing the technique we’re using now. It started as just among friends,” she adds hurriedly. “But I believe it spread from there, and continued to gain popularity after my involvement ended. I’m surprised you don’t know about it, actually.”
“Before you went into the sana—time capsule?”
“Naturally.” Taskeen blinks at her. “I could hardly do it from here, could I? Nor was employee satisfaction of any particular interest to me after I retired.”
“So, you’re saying they knew about it even before they left?” Convenient, if Taskeen wants to avoid being accused of working with them. “You gave them the tools they needed to communicate clandestinely.” And the worst of it is there’s no decryption-key equivalent; knowing the technique is of no use at all in finding the channels.
“Well, I could hardly know fifteen years ago that some of our staff would become corrupt, quit, and adapt my techniques to their purposes.”
“You could have told us earlier!”
Taskeen raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you think it’s really Rajiv you’re angry at?”
“Pop psychology went out in the twenties,” Maryam snaps.
“Amateur narrative analysis is no better!” Taskeen retorts. “You are looking for a villain who is suspicious but not too suspicious, unmasked through a key revelation about their history. You should be figuring out what you want the result of this conflict to be and how you’re going to get there. Or at worst what they want the result to be and how to stop them! Come on, Maryam! Something is going to change. We need to make sure that things move in the right direction!”
“Right now,” Maryam says, “all I know is that they’re using your tool to undermine Information. And now you have me using it, too! You built this; you figure out how we can stop them from using it against us!” Maryam cuts the connection.
* * *
Roz and Hassan decided on the Istanbul end of the tunnel because Djukic is still based in Berlin: whether she’s trustworthy or not, Roz doesn’t want her involved in secretly tapping into the legal part of a mantle tunnel project. As they walk around the site, Roz realizes that she’d hoped the Istanbul site would be less orderly and well guarded than the terminus in Berlin: a stupid assumption based on antiquated stereotypes. The tunnel construction site, in a corner of Saraçhane Park, is thoroughly fenced and patrolled.
“How deep would the cable be, say, here?” Roz asks, stomping the pavement when they’ve walked out of sight of the guards along the trajectory of the tunnel.
“Too deep to yank it up without everyone noticing,” Hassan says, rolling his eyes. “Why can’t we just tell them we need to inspect the cable for some other reason?”
“We can try,” Roz says, “but it will make them suspicious. If they realize we’re trying to get to it, we’ll be worse off than if we say nothing and just…”
“Just what, exactly?”
“Just sneak in and check it out. We can get in to the construction site easily enough in the daytime,” Roz points out. “I have every right to be there, as do you. I’ll come up with some other reason to inspect the site and distract the people in charge long enough for you to check the cable where it emerges. It’s not like they’re going to have separate guards for the cable area within the compound.”
“And if they catch me?”
“You were acting on my orders,” Roz says firmly. “Inspecting the scanning cable was … further down on the agenda for the meeting, and you saw an opportunity to get it done quickly. Any ideas for the rationale for inspecting it?”
Hassan shrugs. “Almost anything. Let’s say: uploading a patch with greater seismic sensitivity. That should distract them.”
They could have stayed in a hotel, but Roz, increasingly nervous about the possibility of going into early labor while traveling, preferred to stay in the crow, and Hassan had no objection. They moor it in the park and go to bed early. The next morning they walk down Şehzadebaşı, looking for some breakfast. The first few shops they pass are still shuttered. Roz, distracted by her efforts to plan for the coming infiltration, doesn’t look up until Hassan says, “What’s going on with that?”
Roz glances in the direction he’s looking, at the storefronts and restaurants lining the street, and shivers. All of the windows and glass doors have blank indigo projections up behind them. “It means there’s about to be a demonstration,” she says. “I’ve seen it before. The shopkeepers and business owners blank the windows so that looters will think twice before breaking them. Blanked windows might hide fewer goods or more guards than they expect.” She starts walking more quickly, looking down the street until she finds a window projection that hosts a gaily fonted slogan her translator interprets as No to the Tunnel! Vote down 888 before they dig up your house!
“They support the demonstrators?”
Roz shrugs. “Or believe supporting them will do more to protect their assets.” She peers up the street nervously. “Look, I support their right to demonstrate”—meaning, as Hassan knows, I support their anti-mantle tunnel stance—“but I don’t want to get caught in the crowd.” Her hand flutters around her belly.
They end up eating energy chews from the crow’s supply cabinet, which Roz feels guilty about too, because she’s been trying to eat real food for the baby, but at least she gets nutrients into herself that way.
The meeting is easier than she hoped. The 888 officials and contractor reps are so used to updating Information on project minutiae that they don’t even notice the conversation is pointless. It’s possible that they are distracted by the demonstration; Roz catches more than the usual update flashes against their eyes, and one of the contractors keeps getting up and going to the window, which is useless since the fence blocks any view of the road. Hassan excuses himself early on, and nobody seems to notice when he doesn’t come back. As soon as Roz gets the ping from him, she winds up the meeting and, after a round of handshakes, extricates herself from the pop-up shelter.
Hassan is not immediately apparent outside the shelter, which is probably a good thing. Roz finds him near the entrance to the site, sitting on a low stone wall with his legs swinging. He’s expressionless, which she guesses means that he found something.
Outside they find ordered chaos, too loud and crowded to talk about anything. The demonstration has swollen to fill the street. Protestors are wearing sunglasses or hats with attachments designed to blur their faces on feeds, and the air above jostles with projected slogans:
STOP THE TUNNEL, SAVE OUR CITY!
PLANET OVER PROFIT!
INFORMATION WON’T SAVE US WE HAVE TO SAVE OURSELVES!
Roz leads them off the road into the park. There are protesters scattered around the grass there too, resting and rehydrating, but they find an empty swath of ground with no feeds close enough to read lips.
“So?” Roz asks.
Hassan nods. “A braid of six.”
Roz whistles. “Did you have enough readers?”
“Just. I thought I was being excessive, bringing tha
t many. We’ll see how long the readers last. There’s no particular reason for anyone to look at the cable, so it might be fine, but anyone who does will see them right away.”
Roz looks back toward the colorful, bobbing mass of protesters. Someone brought a professional-grade projector and is putting up a massive slide show: images and vidloops from the Tokyo earthquake five years ago, interspersed with statistics and infographics on Istanbul’s seismic risk factors. These people believe stopping the tunnel is life or death for them, and they may be right. Roz could stop it today if she wanted to, end their worry and stress just by throwing documentation of the illegal comms cable up on Information.
Hassan reads her thoughts. “We have to keep quiet for now. We need the data.”
“It could take months! Have you decrypted any of the lines from the Heritage tunnel yet?”
“We’ll get there,” he insists. “Besides, the construction is still frozen. They’re not going to dig tomorrow, or next week, or before the election. You can stop it anytime you want to.”
“These people don’t know that.” Roz nods at the avenue.
“And odds are there are other people who are getting screwed over in ways we haven’t even thought of, and we won’t know until we listen in on those cables. Because whatever they’re talking about, for sure it’s nothing good.”
CHAPTER 17
“It was awful,” Mishima says. She managed to snag a privacy booth in the Lagos airport lounge while waiting for her flight out. Perquisites of her candidate status; the charge goes directly to Information. She’s going to miss that, but not much else. “Anyway, I’m toast, so I guess I don’t have to worry about the election anymore.”
“Hardly!” Ken’s attempt at a reassuring tone sounds overly earnest. “It’s true, it didn’t go well…”
