Kuwale was only half a generation younger than me, and we probably shared eighty percent of our world views—but ve'd pushed all the things we both believed much further. Science and technology seemed to have given ver everything ve could ask for: an escape from the poisoned battleground of gender, a political movement worth fighting for, and even a quasi-religion—insane enough in its own way, but unlike most other science-friendly faiths, at least it wasn't a laboriously contrived synthesis of modern physics and some dog-eared historical relic: a mock truce like the fatuities of Quantum Buddhism, or the Church of the Revised Standard Judaeo-Christian Big Bang.
I watched ver tinkering with the software, waiting for some conjunction of satellites and atomic clocks, and wondered: Would I have been happier, if I'd made the same decisions? As an asex—saved from a dozen screwed-up relationships. As a
Would I have been happier?
Maybe. But then, happiness was overrated.
Kuwale's software chimed success. I walked over and accepted the data ve'd unlocked, tight-beam infrared flowing between our notepads.
I said, "I don't suppose you want to tell me how you know about these people? Or how I'm meant to verify what you say about them?"
"That's what Sarah Knight asked me."
"I'm not surprised. And now I'm asking."
Kuwale ignored me; the subject was closed. Ve gestured at my abdomen with vis notepad, and instructed me solemnly, "Move everything in there, first chance you get. Perfect security. You're lucky."
"Sure. While one EnGeneUity assassin is running around Stateless with your notepad, trying to find the right geographical coordinates, the others will be saving time by carving me open."
Kuwale laughed. "That's the spirit. You may not be much of a journalist, but we'll make a revolutionary martyr out of you yet."
Ve pointed across the expanse of reef-rock, glistening green and silver in the morning sun. "We should return to the city by separate routes. If you head that way, you'll hit the southwest tram line in twenty minutes."
"Okay." I didn't have the energy to argue. As ve turned to leave, though, I said, "Before you vanish, will you answer one last question?"
Ve shrugged. "No harm in asking."
"Why are you doing this? I still don't understand. You say you really don't care whether Violet Mosala is the Keystone or not. But even if she's such a great human being that her death would be a global tragedy… what makes that your personal responsibility? She knows exactly what she's buying into, moving to Stateless. She's a grown woman, with resources of her own, and more political clout than you or I could ever hope for. She's not helpless, she's not stupid—and if she knew what you were doing, she'd probably strangle you with her bare hands. So… why can't you leave her to take care of herself?"
Kuwale hesitated, and cast vis eyes down. I seemed to have hit a nerve, at last; ve had the air of someone searching for the right words with which to unburden verself.
The silence stretched on, but I waited patiently.
Kuwale looked up and replied casually, "Like I said: no harm in asking.
Ve turned and walked away.
18
I viewed the data Kuwale had given me while I waited for the tram. Eighteen faces, but no names. The images were standardized 3D portraits: backgrounds removed, lighting homogenized, like police mug shots. There were twelve men and six women, of diverse ages and ethnicities. It seemed a curiously large number; Kuwale hadn't suggested that every one of them was actually on Stateless—but how, exactly, could ve have got hold of portraits of the
