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asked them the same question. A dozen different answers, probably;
Stateless seemed to run on the principle of people agreeing to do the same
thing for entirely different reasons. It was a sum over mutually contradictory
topologies which left the calculus of pre-space for dead; no imposed politics,
philosophy, religion, no idiot cheer-squad worship of flags or symbols-but
order emerged nonetheless.
And I still couldn't decide if that was miraculous, or utterly unmyste-rious.
Order only arose and survived, anywhere, because enough people desired it.
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Every democracy was a kind of anarchy in slow motion: any statute, any
constitution could be changed, given time; any social contract, written or
unwritten, could be dishonored. The ultimate safety nets were inertia, apathy
and obfuscation. On Stateless, they'd had the- possibly insane-courage to
unravel the whole political knot into its simplest form, to gaze at the
undecorated structures of power and responsibility, tolerance and consensus.
I said, "You kept me from drowning. So how do I repay you?" Vunibobo glanced
at me, measuring my seriousness. "Swim harder. Help us all to stay afloat."
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"I'll try. If I ever have the chance."
She smiled at this crudely hedged half-promise, and reminded me, "We're
heading straight into a storm, right now. I think you'll get your chance."
I'd expected, at least, deserted streets in the center of the island, but at
first sight little seemed to have changed. There were no signs of panic- no
queues of hoarders, no boarded-up shopfronts. When we passed the hotel,
though, I saw that the Mystical Renaissance carnival had gone to ground; I
wasn't the only tourist who was suffering from a sudden desire to be
invisible.
Back on the boat, I'd heard that one woman had been injured slightly when the
airport was captured, but most of the staff had simply walked away. Munroe had
spoken of a militia on the island, and no doubt they outnumbered the
invaders-but how their equipment, training and
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compared, I had no idea. The mercenaries seemed content, so far, to dig
themselves in at the airport-but if the ultimate aim was not to take power,
but to bring "anarchy" to Stateless, I had a queasy suspicion that there'd be
something a lot less palatable than the bloodless seizure of strategic assets,
very soon.
The atmosphere at the hospital was calm. Vunibobo helped me get Kuwale into
the building; ve smiled dreamily and tried to limp forward, but it took the
two of us to keep ver from falling flat on vis face. Prasad Jwala had sent the
scan of Kuwale's bullet wound ahead, and an operating theater was already
prepared. I watched ver being wheeled in, trying to convince myself that I
felt nothing but the same anxiety that I would have felt for anyone else.
Vunibobo bid me farewell.
After waiting my turn in casualty, I was sewn up under local anesthetic. I'd
managed to kill the bioengineered graft-which would have accelerated healing
and formed a good seal-but the medic who treated me packed the wound with a
spongy antibacterial carbohydrate polymer, which would slowly degrade in the
presence of the growth factors secreted by the surrounding flesh. She asked
what had made the hole. I told her the truth, and she seemed greatly relieved.
"I was beginning to wonder if something had eaten its way out."
I stood up carefully, numb at the center, but feeling the pinched absence of
skin and muscle tug on every part of me. The medic said, "Try to avoid
strenuous bowel movements. And laughter."
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I found De Groot and Mosala in the anteroom to the Medical Imaging suite.
Mosala looked drawn and nervous, but she greeted me warmly, shaking my hand,
clasping my shoulder. "Andrew, are you all right?" "I'm fine. But the
documentary may have a small gap in it." She managed to smile. "Henry's being
scanned right now. They're still processing my data; it could take a while.
They're looking for foreign proteins, but there's some doubt as to whether the
resolution's up to it. The machine's second-hand, twenty years old." She
hugged herself, and tried to laugh. "Listen to me.
If I'm planning to live here, I'd better get used to the facilities."
De Groot said, "No one I've spoken to has seen Helen Wu since early last
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night. Conference security checked out her room; it's empty."
Mosala still seemed stunned by the revelation of Wu's allegiance. "Why would
she get involved with the Anthrocosmologists? She's a brilliant theorist in
her own right-not some pseudoscientific hanger-on! I can understand how ... a
certain kind of person might think there's something mystical about working on
TOEs, when they find they can't grasp the details, themselves . . . but
Helen understands my work almost better than I do!" I didn't think it was a
good time to point out that that was half the problem. "As for these other
thugs, who you think killed Yasuko . . . I'll be giving a media conference
this afternoon, outlining the problems with Henry Buzzo's choice of measure
and what it means for his TOE. That should concentrate their tiny minds." Her
voice was almost calm-but she held her arms crossed in front of her, one hand
clasped around the other wrist, trying to mask the faint tremor of rage. "And
when I announce my own TOE on Friday morning
. . . they can kiss their transcendence goodbye." "Friday morning?"
"Serge Bischoff's algorithms are working wonders. All my calculations will be
finished by tomorrow night."
I said carefully, "If it turns out that you've been infected with a
bioweapon-and if you become too sick to work-is there anyone else who could
interpret these results, and put the whole thing together?"
Mosala recoiled. "What are you asking me to do? Anoint a successor to be
targeted next?"
"No! But if your TOE is completed and announced, the moderates will have to
admit that they've been proven wrong-and there's a chance they might hand over
the antidote. I'm not asking you to publicize any'
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one's name! But if you can arrange for someone to put the finishing touches-"
Mosala said icily, "I have nothing to prove to these people. And I'm not
risking someone else's life, trying."
Before I could pursue the argument any further, De Groot's notepad chimed. The
head of security for the conference, Joe Kepa, had viewed the copy De Groot
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