Distress

by Greg Egan

  I collected my suitcase and stood by the baggage roundabout, trying to get my bearings. I watched my fellow passengers drift away, some greeted by friends, some going on alone. Most spoke in English or French; there was no official language here, but almost two-thirds of the population had migrated from other Pacific islands. Choosing to live on Stateless might always be a political decision in the end – and some Greenhouse refugees apparently preferred to spend years in Chinese detention camps instead, in the hope of eventually being accepted into that entrepreneurial dreamland – but after seeing your home washed into the ocean, I could imagine that a self-repairing (and currently increasing) landmass might hold a special attraction. Stateless represented a reversal of fortune: sunlight and biotechnology playing the whole disaster movie backward. Better than raging at the storm. Fiji and Samoa were finally growing new islands of their own, but they weren’t yet habitable – and both governments were paying several billion dollars for the privilege, in license fees and consultants’ charges. They’d carry the debt into the twenty-second century.

  In theory, a patent lasted only seventeen years – but biotech companies had perfected the strategy of reapplying for the same coverage from a different angle when the expiration date loomed: first for the DNA sequence of a gene, and all its applications … then for the corresponding amino acid sequence … then for the shape and functionality (irrespective of precise chemical makeup) of the fully assembled protein. I couldn’t bring myself to simply shrug off the theft of knowledge as a victimless crime – I’d always been swayed by the argument that no-one would waste money on R&D if engineered lifeforms couldn’t be patented – but there was something insane about the fact that the most powerful tools against famine, the most powerful tools against environmental damage, the most powerful tools against poverty … were all priced beyond the reach of everyone who needed them the most.

  As I began to cross toward the exit, I saw Janet Walsh heading in the same direction, and I hung back. She was walking with a group of half a dozen men and women – but one man walked a few meters outside the entourage, with a practiced smooth gait and a steady gaze directed straight at Walsh. I recognized the technique at once, and the practitioner a moment later: David Connolly, a photographer with Planet Noise . Walsh needed a second pair of eyes, of course – she would hardly have let them put all that nasty dehumanizing technology inside her own body … and, worse, her own POV would have left her out of every shot. Not much point employing a celebrity journalist if she wasn’t on-screen.

  I followed at a discreet distance. A group of forty or fifty supporters were standing outside in the warm night air, holding up luminescent banners – more telegenic in the relative darkness than they would have been inside – which switched in synch between HUMBLE SCIENCE!, WELCOME JANET! and SAY NO TO TOE! They cheered in unison as Walsh came through the doors. She broke away from her halo of companions to shake hands and receive kisses; Connolly stood back to capture it all.

  Walsh made a short speech, wisps of gray hair blowing in the breeze. I couldn’t fault her skills with camera or crowd: she had the knack of appearing dignified and authoritative, without seeming stern or aloof. And I had to admire her stamina: she displayed more energy after the long flight than I could have summoned if my life had been in danger.

  “I want to thank all of you for coming here to greet me; I really am touched by your generosity. And I want to thank you for undertaking the long, arduous journey to this island, to lend your voices to our small song of protest against the forces of scientific arrogance. There are people gathering here who believe they can crush every last source of human dignity, every last wellspring of spiritual nourishment, every last precious, sustaining mystery, under the weight of their ‘intellectual progress’ – grind us all down into one equation, and write it on a T-shirt like a cheap slogan. People who believe they can take all the wonders of nature and the secrets of the heart and say: ‘This is it. This is all there is.’ Well, we’re here to tell them—”

  The small crowd roared, “NO!”

  Beside me, someone laughed quietly. “But if they can’t take away your precious dignity, Janet, why make such a fuss?”

  I turned. The speaker was a … twentyish? asex? Ve tipped vis head and smiled, teeth flashing white against deep black skin, eyes as dark as Gina’s, high cheekbones which had to be a woman’s – except, of course, they didn’t. Ve was dressed in black jeans and a loose black T-shirt; points of light appeared on the fabric sparsely, at random, as if it was meant to be displaying some kind of image, but the data feed had been cut.

  Ve said, “What a windbag. You know she used to work for D-R-D? You’d think she’d have snappier rhetoric, with credentials like that.” Cre-den-tials was pronounced with an ironic (Jamaican?) drawl; D-R-D was Dayton-Rice-Daley, the Anglophone world’s largest advertising firm. “You’re Andrew Worth.”

  “Yes. How—?”

  “Come to film Violet Mosala.”

  “That’s right. Do you … work with her?” Ve looked almost too young even to be a doctoral student – but then, Mosala had completed her own PhD at twenty.

  Ve shook vis head. “I’ve never met her.”

  I still couldn’t pin down vis accent, unless the word I was looking for was mid-Atlantic: halfway between Kingston and Luanda. I put down my suitcase and held out a hand. Ve shook it firmly. “I’m Akili Kuwale.”

  “Here for the Einstein Conference?”

  “Why else?”

  I shrugged. “There must be other things happening on Stateless.” Ve didn’t reply.

  Walsh had moved on, and her cheer squad were dispersing. I glanced down at my notepad and said, “Transport map.”

  Kuwale said, “The hotel’s only two kilometers away. Unless that suitcase is heavier than it looks … it would be just as easy to walk, wouldn’t it?”

  Ve had no luggage, no backpack, nothing; ve must have arrived earlier, and returned to the airport … to meet me? I had a serious need to be horizontal, and I couldn’t imagine what ve wanted to tell me that couldn’t wait until morning – and couldn’t be said on a tram … but that was probably all the more reason to hear it.

  I said, “Good idea. I could use some fresh air.”

  Kuwale seemed to know where ve was going, so I put my notepad away and followed along. It was a warm, humid night, but there was a steady breeze which took the edge off the oppressiveness. Stateless was no closer to the tropics than Sydney; overall, it was probably cooler.

  The layout of the center of the island reminded me of Sturt – an inland South Australian neopolis built at about the time Stateless was seeded. There were broad, paved streets and low buildings – most of them small blocks of apartments above shopfronts – six stories high at the most. Everything in sight was made from reef-rock: a form of limestone, strengthened and sealed by organic polymers, which was “farmed” from the self-replenishing quarries of the inner reefs. None of the buildings was bleached-coral white, though; trace minerals produced all the colors of marble: rich grays, greens and browns, and more rarely, dark crimson, shading to black.

  The people around us seemed relaxed and unhurried, as if they were all out for leisurely strolls with no particular destination in mind. I saw no cycles at all, but there’d have to be a few on the island; tram lines stretched less than halfway to the points of the star, fifty kilometers from the center.

  Kuwale said, “Sarah Knight was a great admirer of Violet Mosala. I think she would have done a good job. Careful. Thorough.”

  That threw me. “You know Sarah?”

  “We’ve been in touch.”

  I laughed wearily. “What is this? Sarah Knight is a big fan of Mosala … and I’m not. So what? I’m not some Ignorance Cult member here to do a hatchet job; I’ll still treat her fairly.”

  “That’s not the issue.”

  “It’s the only issue I’m willing to discuss with you. Why do you imagine it’s any of your business how this documentary’s made?”
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  Kuwale said calmly, “I don’t. The documentary’s not important.”

  “Right. Thanks.”

  “No offense. But it’s not what I’m talking about.”

  We walked on a few meters, in silence. I waited to see if keeping my mouth shut and feigning indifference would prompt a sudden revelatory outburst. It didn’t.

  I said, “So … what exactly are you doing here? Are you a journalist, a physicist … or what? A sociologist?” I’d almost said: A cultist – but even a member of a rival group like Mystical Renaissance or Culture First would never have mocked the deep wisdom of Janet Walsh.

  “I’m an interested observer.”

  “Yeah? That explains everything.”

  Ve grinned appreciatively, as if I’d made a joke. I could see the curved facade of the hotel in the distance, straight ahead now; I recognized it from the conference organizers’ AV.

  Kuwale became serious. “You’ll be with Violet Mosala … a lot, over the next two weeks. Maybe more than any other person. We’ve tried to get messages through to her, but you know she doesn’t take us seriously. So … would you at least be willing to keep your eyes open?”

  “For what?”

  Ve frowned, then looked around nervously. “Do I have to spell it out? I’m AC. Mainstream AC. We don’t want to see her hurt. And I don’t know how sympathetic you are, or how far you’re prepared to go to help us, but all you’d have to do is—”

  I held up a hand to stop ver. “What are you talking about? You don’t want to see her hurt? ”

  Kuwale looked dismayed, then suddenly wary. I said, “‘Mainstream AC’? Is that supposed to mean something to me?” Ve didn’t reply. “And if Violet Mosala doesn’t take you seriously, why should anyone else?”

  Kuwale was clearly having grave second thoughts about me. I still wanted to know what the first ones had been. Ve said derisively, “Sarah Knight never agreed to anything – not in so many words – but at least she understood what was going on. What kind of journalist are you? Do you ever go looking for information? Or do you just grab an electronic teat and see what comes out when you suck? ”

  Ve broke away, and headed down a side street. I called out, “I’m not a mind-reader! Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

  I stood and watched ver disappear into the crowd. I could have followed, demanding answers – but I was already beginning to suspect that I could guess the truth. Kuwale was a fan of Mosala’s, affronted by the planeloads of cultists who’d come to mock ver idol. And though it wasn’t, literally, impossible that an even more disturbed member of Humble Science! or Mystical Renaissance meant Violet Mosala harm … most likely it was all just Kuwale’s elaborate fantasy.

  I’d call Sarah Knight in the morning; she’d probably had a dozen weird messages from Kuwale, and finally fobbed ver off by replying: It’s not even my job anymore. Go pick on the arsehole who stole it from me, Andrew Worth. Here’s a recent picture. I could hardly blame her; it was a small enough act of revenge.

  I continued on toward the hotel. I was dead on my feet, sleepwalking.

  I asked Sisyphus , “So what does AC stand for?”

  “In what context?”

  “Any context. Besides alternating current .”

  There was a long pause. I glanced up at the sky, and spotted the faint row of evenly spaced dots, drifting slowly eastward against the stars, which still bound me to the world I knew.

  “There are five thousand and seventeen other meanings, including specialist jargon, subcultural slang, and registered businesses, charities, and political organizations.”

  “Then … anything which might fit the way it was used by Akili Kuwale a few minutes ago.” My notepad kept twenty-four hours of audio in memory. I added, “Kuwale is probably asex.”

  Sisyphus digested the conversation, rescanned its list, and said, “The thirty most plausible meanings are: Absolute Control, a Fijian security consultancy who work throughout the South Pacific; Asex Catholique, a Paris-based group which advocates reform of the policies of the Roman Catholic Church toward asex gender migrants; Advanced Cartography, a South African satellite data reduction firm … ” I listened to all thirty, then thirty more, but the connections were all so ludicrous as to amount to nothing but noise.

  “So what’s the meaning which makes perfect sense – but isn’t listed in any respectable database? What’s the one answer I can’t get out of my favorite electronic teat?”

  Sisyphus didn’t dignify that with a reply.

  I nearly apologized, but I caught myself in time.

  Chapter 11

  I woke at six-thirty, a few seconds before my alarm sounded. I caught fragments of a retreating dream: images of waves crashing against disintegrating coral and limestone – but if the mood had been threatening, it was rapidly dispelled. Sunlight filled the room, shining off the smooth silver-gray walls of polished reef-rock. There were people talking on the street below; I couldn’t make out any words, but the tone sounded relaxed, amiable, civilized. If this was anarchy, it beat waking up to police sirens in Shanghai or New York. I felt more refreshed and optimistic than I had for a very long time.

  And I was finally going to meet my subject.

  I’d received a message the night before, from Mosala’s assistant, Karin De Groot. Mosala was giving a media conference at eight; after that, she’d be busy for most of the day – starting at nine, when Henry Buzzo from Caltech was delivering a paper which he claimed would cast doubt on a whole class of ATMs. Between the media conference and Buzzo’s paper, though, I’d have a chance to discuss the documentary with her, at last. Although nothing had to be concluded on Stateless – I’d be able to interview her at length back in Cape Town, if necessary – I’d been beginning to wonder if I’d be forced to cover her time here as just another journalist in the pack.

  I thought about breakfast, but after forcing myself to eat on the flight from Dili, my appetite still hadn’t returned. So I lay on the bed, reading through Mosala’s biographical notes one more time, and rechecking my tentative shooting schedule for the fortnight ahead. The room was functional, almost ascetic compared to most hotels … but it was clean, modern, bright, and inexpensive. I’d slept in less comfortable beds, in rooms with plusher but gloomier decor, at twice the cost.

  It was all too good, by far. Peaceful surroundings and an untraumatic subject – what had I done to deserve this? I’d never even found out who Lydia had sent into the breach to make Distress . Who’d be spending the day in a psychiatric hospital in Miami or Berne, while tranquilizers were withdrawn from one strait-jacketed victim after another, to test the effects of some non-sedative drug on the syndrome, or to obtain scans of the neuropathology unsullied by pharmacological effects?

  I brushed the image away, angrily. Distress wasn’t my responsibility; I hadn’t created the disease. And I hadn’t forced anyone to take my place.

  Before leaving for the media conference, I reluctantly called Sarah Knight. My curiosity about Kuwale had all but faded – it was sure to be a sad story, with no surprises – and the prospect of facing Sarah for the first time since I’d robbed her of Violet Mosala wasn’t appealing.

  I didn’t have to. It was only ten to six in Sydney, and a generic answering system took my call. Relieved, I left a brief message, then headed downstairs.

  The main auditorium was packed, buzzing with expectant chatter. I’d had visions of hundreds of protesters from Humble Science! picketing the hotel entrance, or brawling with security guards and physicists in the corridors – but there wasn’t a demonstrator in sight. Standing in the entrance, it took me a while to pick out Janet Walsh in the audience, but once I’d spotted her it was easy to triangulate to Connolly in a forward row – perfectly placed to turn from Walsh to Mosala with a minimum of neck strain.

  I took a seat near the back of the room, and invoked Witness . Electronic cameras on the stage would capture the audience, and I could buy the footage from the conference organizers if there was a
nything worth using.

  Marian Fox, president of the International Union of Theoretical Physicists, took the stage and introduced Mosala. She uttered all the words of praise that anyone would have used in her place: respected, inspirational, dedicated, exceptional . I had no doubt that she was perfectly sincere … but the language of achievement always seemed to me to crumble into self-parody. How many people on the planet could be exceptional? How many could be unique? I had no wish to see Violet Mosala portrayed as no different from the most mediocre of her colleagues … but all the laudatory clichés conveyed nothing. They just rendered themselves meaningless.

  Mosala walked to the podium, trying to look graceful under hyperbole; a section of the audience applauded wildly, and several people rose to their feet. I made a mental note to ask Indrani Lee for her thoughts as to when and why these strange adulatory rituals – observed almost universally with actors and musicians – had begun to be followed for a handful of celebrity scientists. I suspected it was all down to the Ignorance Cults; they’d struggled so hard to raise popular interest in their cause that it would have been surprising if they hadn’t ended up generating some equally vehement opposing passions. And there were plenty of social strata where the cults were pure establishment, and there could be no greater act of rebellion than idolizing a physicist.

  Mosala waited for the noise to die down. “Thank you, Marian. And thank you all for attending this session. I should just briefly explain what I’m doing here. I’ll be on a number of panels taking questions on technical matters, throughout the conference. And of course, I’ll be happy to discuss the issues raised by the paper I’m giving on the eighteenth, after I’ve presented it. But time is always short on those occasions, and we like to keep the questions tightly focused – which, I know, often frustrates journalists who’d like to cover a broader range of topics.