Distress полностью

"Veins of solid ice beneath the rock. Nothing moves, nothing changes."

I gritted my teeth. "A hundred." My research budget was vanishing fast—and this had nothing to do with Violet Mosola. But I had to know.

Orange symbols danced across gray flesh. Caliban announced, "Our Sarah last accepted a call—in person, on this number—in the central metropolitan footprint for Kyoto, Japan, at 10:23:14 Universal Time, on March 26th, 2055."

"And where is she now?"

"No device has connected to the net under this ID since the stated call." Meaning: she hadn't used her notepad to contact anyone, or to access any service. She hadn't so much as viewed a news bulletin, or downloaded a three-minute music video. Unless…

"Fifty bucks—take it or leave it—for her new communications number."

Caliban took it, and smiled. "Bad guess. She has no new number, no new account."

I said numbly, "That's all. Thank you."

Caliban mimed astonishment at this unwarranted courtesy, and blew me a parting kiss. "Call again. And remember, petitioner: data wants to be free!"

Why Kyoto? The only connection I could think of was Yasuko Nishide. Meaning what? She'd still planned to cover the Einstein Conference, after all—but with a rival profile of a rival theorist? And the only reason she wasn't yet on Stateless was Nishide's illness?

Why the communications blackout, though? Kuwale's grim unspoken conclusion made no sense. Why would biotech interests want to harm Sarah Knight, if she'd shown every sign of abandoning Violet Mosala for another—thoroughly apolitical—physicist?

People began to cross the lobby, talking excitedly. I looked up. The auditorium down the corridor was emptying. Mosala and Helen Wu emerged together; I met up with them.

Mosala was beaming. "Andrew! You missed all the fun! Serge Bischoff just released a new algorithm which is going to save me days of computer time!"

Wu frowned and corrected her. "Save all of us days, please!"

"Of course." Mosala stage-whispered to me, "Helen still doesn't realize that she's on my side, whether she likes it or not." She added, "I have a summary of the lecture, if you want to see it?"

I said tonelessly, "No." I realized how blunt that sounded, but I felt so spaced out, so disconnected, that I really didn't care. Mosala gave me a curious look, more concerned than angry.

Wu left us. I asked Mosala, "Have you heard any more about Nishide?"

"Ah." She became serious. "It seems he's not going to make it to the conference, after all. His secretary contacted the organizers; he's had to be hospitalized. It's pneumonia again." She added sadly, "If this keeps up… I don't know. He may retire altogether."

I closed my eyes; the floor began to tilt. A distant voice asked, "Are you all right? Andrew?" I pictured my face, glowing white hot.

I opened my eyes. And I thought I finally understood what was happening.

I said, "Can I talk to you? Please?"

"Of course."

Sweat began running down my cheeks. "Don't lose your temper. Just hear me out."

Mosala leant forward, frowning. She hesitated, then put a hand on my forehead. "You're burning up. You need to see a doctor, straight away."

I screamed at her hoarsely, "Just listen! Listen to me!"

People around us were staring. Mosala opened her mouth, outraged, ready to put me in my place—but then she changed her mind. "Go ahead. I'm listening."

"You need blood tests, a full… micropathology report… everything. You're asymptomatic, now, but… however you feel… do it… there's no way of knowing what the incubation period might be." I was dripping sweat, and swaying on my feet; every breath felt like a lungful of fire. "What did you think they were going to do? Send in a hit squad with machine guns? I doubt… I wasn’t meant to get sick… at all… but the thing must have mutated on the way. Keyed to your genome… but the lock fell off, en route." I laughed. "In my blood. In my brain."

I sagged, and dropped to my knees. A convulsion passed through my whole body, like a peristaltic spasm trying to squeeze the flesh right out of my skin. People around me were shouting, but I couldn't make out what they were saying. I struggled to lift my head—but when I succeeded, briefly, black and purple bruises flowered across my vision.

I stopped fighting it. I closed my eyes and lay down on the cool, welcoming tiles.

In the hospital ward, for a long time, I paid no attention to my surroundings. I thrashed about in a knot of sweat-soaked sheets, and let the world remain mercifully out of focus. I sought no information from the people around me; in my delirium, I believed I had all the answers: