"I've swallowed enough bad news today. And the Keystone—"
Ve grinned sardonically. "Ah, Amanda Conroy summons you to her
"If I thought I knew it all, why would I be pleading with you to tell me what I've missed?"
Ve hesitated. I said, "On Sunday night, you asked me to keep my eyes open. Tell me why, and tell me what I'm looking for—and I'll do it. I don't want to see Mosala hurt, any more than you do. But I need to know exactly what's going on."
Kuwale thought it over, still suspicious, but clearly tempted. Short of Mosalas colleagues, or Karin De Groot—all highly unlikely to cooperate—I was probably the closest ve could ever hope to get to vis idol.
Ve mused, "If you were working for the other side, why would you pretend to be so incompetent?"
I took the insult in my stride. "I'm not even sure that I know who
Kuwale caved in. "Meet me outside this building in half an hour." Ve took my hand and wrote an address on my palm; it wasn't the house where I'd met Conroy. In half an hour, I was supposed to be filming Mosala at yet another lecture—but the documentary would survive with a few less reaction shots to choose from, and Mosala would probably be relieved to be left in peace for a change.
Kuwale thrust a rolled-up pamphlet into my open hand before I turned away. I almost discarded it, but then I changed my mind. Ned Landers was on the cover, bolts protruding from the side of his neck, while an Escher-rip-off effect had him reaching out of the portrait and painting it himself. The headline read: THE MYTH OF A SELF-MADE MAN—which was, at least, wittier than anything the murdochs would come up with. When I flicked through the article within, though… there was no talk of monitoring or restricting access to human genome data, no discussion of US and Chinese resistance to international inspections of sites with DNA synthesis equipment, no practical suggestions whatsoever for preventing another Chapel Hill. Beyond a call for all human DNA maps to be "erased and undiscovered"—about as useful as imploring the people of the world to forget the true shape of the planet—there was nothing but cult-speak: the danger of meddling with quintessential mysteries, the "human need" for an ineffable secret to life, the techno-rape of the collective soul.
If Mystical Renaissance really wanted to speak for all humanity, define the fit and proper boundaries of knowledge, and dictate—or censor—the deepest truths of the universe… they were going to have to do better than this.
I closed my eyes, and laughed with relief and gratitude. Now that it had passed, I could admit it: For a while, I'd almost believed that they might have claimed me. I'd almost imagined that I might have ended up crawling into their recruitment tent on my hands and knees, head bowed with appropriate humility (at last), proclaiming: "I was blind, but now I see! I was psychically numbed, but now I'm attuned! I was all Yang and no Yin—left-brained, linear, and hierarchical—but now I'm ready to embrace the Alchemical Balance between the Rational and the Mystical! Only say the word… and I will be Healed!"
The address Kuwale had given me was a baker's shop. Imported luxuries aside, all the food on Stateless came from the sea—but the proteins and starches in the nodules of the engineered seaweeds which flourished at the borders of the reefs were all but identical to those in any grain of wheat, and so was the smell they produced on baking. The familiar aroma made me light-headed with hunger, but the thought of swallowing a single mouthful of fresh bread was enough to make me nauseous. I should have known, by then, that there was something physically wrong with me—beyond the after-effect of the flight, beyond broken melatonin sleep, beyond my sadness over losing Gina, beyond the stress of finding myself at the deep end of a story which showed no sign of bottoming out. But I didn't have my pharm to pronounce the illness real, I didn't trust the local doctors, I didn't have time to be sick. So I told myself that it was all in my head—and the only possible cure was to try to ignore it.
Kuwale appeared, sans clown suit, just in time to save me from either passing out or throwing up. Ve walked past without even glancing at me, radiating nervous energy; I followed—and started recording—resisting the urge to shout out vis name and deflate the implied cloak-and-dagger solemnity.
I caught up, and walked alongside ver. "What does 'mainstream AC' mean, anyway?"
Kuwale glanced at me sideways, edgy and irritated, but ve deigned to answer. "We don't know who the Keystone is. We accept that we may never know, for certain. But we respect all the people who seem to be likely candidates."
That all sounded obscenely moderate and reasonable. "Respect, or revere."
