Distress полностью

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 vis 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: Its 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.

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.