Distress полностью

"I'm sorry you were infected. The wild type's bad enough; I know, I've had it." Ve was wearing the same black T-shirt I'd seen ver in at the airport, flickering with random points of brightness. It suddenly struck me again just how young ve was: little more than half my age—and in at the deep end.

I said, begrudgingly, "That wasn't your fault. And I'm grateful for what you did." Even if saving my life wasn't the point.

Kuwale looked distinctly uncomfortable, as if I'd just showered ver with undeserved praise. I hesitated. "It wasn't your fault, was it?"

"Not directly."

"What's that supposed to mean? The weapon was yours?"

"No!" Ve looked away, and said bitterly, "But I still have to take some responsibility for everything they do."

"Why! Because they're not working for the biotech companies? Because they're technoliberateurs, like you?" Ve wouldn't meet my eyes; I felt a small surge of triumph. I'd finally got something right.

Kuwale replied impatiently, "Of course they're technoliberateurs." As if to say: isn't everyone? "But that's not why they're trying to kill Mosala."

A man was walking toward us with a crate on his shoulder. As I glanced in his direction, red lines flashed up across my vision. He kept his face half-turned away from us, and a wide-brimmed hat concealed half of the rest, but Witness—reconstructing the hidden parts by symmetry and anatomical extrapolation rules—saw enough to be convinced.

I fell silent. Kuwale waited until the man was out of earshot, then said urgently, "Who was it?"

"Don't ask me. You wouldn't give me any names to go with the faces, remember?" But I relented, and checked with the software. "Number seven in your list, if that means anything to you."

"What kind of swimmer are you?"

"Very mediocre. Why?"

Kuwale turned and dived into the harbor. I crouched by the edge of the water, and waited for ver to surface.

I called out, "What are you doing, you lunatic? He's gone."

"Don't follow me in yet."

"I have no intention—"

Kuwale swam toward me. "Wait until it's clear which one of us is doing better." Ve held up vis right hand; I reached down and took it, and began to haul ver up; ve shook vis head impatiently. "Leave me in, unless I start to falter." Ve trod water. "Immediate irrigation is the best way to remove some transdermal toxins—but for others, it's the worst thing you can do: it can drive the hydrophobic spearheads into the skin much faster." Ve submerged completely, dragging me in up to the elbow, almost dislocating my shoulder.

When ve surfaced again, I said, "What if it's a mixture of both?"

"Then we're fucked."

I glanced toward the loading bay. "I could go and get help." In spite of everything I'd just been through—no doubt thanks to a passing stranger with an aerosol—part of me still flatly refused to believe in invisible weapons. Or maybe I just imagined that some principle of double jeopardy meant that the molecular world had no more power over me, no right to a second attempt to claim me. Our presumed assailant was walking calmly off into the distance; it was impossible to feel threatened.

Kuwale watched me anxiously. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine. Except you're breaking my arm. This is insane." My skin began to tingle. Kuwale groaned, a worst-expectations-come-true sound. "You're turning blue. Get in."

My face was growing numb, my limbs felt heavy. "And drown? I don't think so." My speech sounded slurred; I'd lost all feeling in my tongue.

"I'll hold you up."

"No. Climb out and get help."

"You don't have time." Ve yelled toward the loading bay; vis cry sounded weak to me—either my hearing was fading, or ve'd inhaled enough of the toxin to affect vis voice. I tried turning my head to see if there was any response; I couldn't.

Cursing my stubborness, Kuwale raised verself up and dragged me over the edge.

I sank. I was paralyzed and numb, unsure if we were still connected. The water would have been transparent if not for the air bubbles; it was like falling through flawed crystal. I desperately hoped that I wasn't inhaling—it seemed impossible to tell.

Bubbles drifted past my face in contradictory wavering streams, refusing to define the vertical. I tried to orient myself by the gradient of light, but the cues were ambiguous. All I could hear was my heart pounding— slowly, as if the toxin was blocking the pathways that should have had it racing in agitation. I had a weird sense of déjà vu; with no feeling in my skin, I felt no wetter than when I'd stood on dry land watching the image from the tunnel diver's camera. I was having a vicarious experience of my own body.

The bubbles suddenly blurred, accelerated. The turbulence around me grew brighter, then without warning my face emerged into the air, and all I could see was blue sky.