Distress - A Novel Part 15

Mosala seemed pleased with this description. "A link, a bridge. Exactly." She leaned toward, reached over and took my hand; I glanced down, thinking: I'm in shot now, so this is unusable.

She said, "Without pre-s.p.a.ce to mediate between us-without an infinite mixture of topologies able to represent us all with a single flicker of asymmetry-n.o.body could even touch.

"That's what the TOE is. And even if I'm wrong in every detail-and Buzzo is wrong, and Nis.h.i.+de is wrong . . . and nothing is resolved for a thousand years-I still know it's down there, waiting to be found. Because there has to be something which lets us touch."

We broke off for a while, and Mosala called room service. After three days on the island, I still had no appet.i.te, but I ate a few of the snacks she offered me from the tray which emerged from the service chute, just to be polite. My stomach began protesting-loudly-as soon as I swallowed the first mouthful, rather defeating the point.

Mosala said, "Did you know that Yasuko hasn't arrived yet? I don't suppose you've heard what's holding him up?"

"I'm afraid not. I've left three messages with his secretary in Kyoto, trying to schedule an interview, and all I've got back are promises that he'll be in touch with me 'very soon.'"

"It's odd." She pursed her lips, obviously concerned, but trying not to plunge the conversation into gloom. "I hope he's all right. I heard he'd been sick for a while, early in the year-but he a.s.sured the convenors he'd be here, so he must have expected to be well enough to travel."

I said, "Travel to Stateless is more than . . . travel."

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"That's a point. He should have pretended to belong to Humble Science! and stolen a ride on one of their charter flights."

"He might have had better luck with Mystical Renaissance. He's a self-described Buddhist, so they almost forgive him for working on TOEs. So long as he didn't remind them that he once wrote that The Tao of Physics was to Zen what a Creation Science biology text was to Christianity."

Mosala reached up and started ma.s.saging the back of her neck, as if talk of the journey was rekindling its symptoms. "I would have brought Pinda, if the flight had been shorter. She would have loved it here. Left me to my boring lectures, and dragged her father off to explore the reefs."

"How old is she?"

"Three and a bit." She glanced at her watch and complained wistfully, "It's still only four in the morning, back home. Not much chance of a call from her, for two or three hours."

It was another opportunity to raise the emigration rumors-but I held off, yet again.

We resumed the interview. The beam from the skylight had s.h.i.+fted to the east, leaving Mosala almost silhouetted against the window and a dazzling blue sky. When I invoked Witness again, it reached up into my retinas and made some adjustments, enabling me to register the fine details other face in spite of the back-lighting.

I moved on to the question of Helen Wu's a.n.a.lysis.

Mosala explained, "My TOE predicts the outcome of various experiments, given a detailed description of the apparatus involved: details which 'betray' clues about all the less-fundamental physics which- some people insist-a TOE is meant to pull out of thin air, all by itself. But unraveling those clues certainly isn't trivial. You or I can't just glance at an idle particle accelerator and predict, instantly, the outcome of any experiment which might be performed with the machine."

"But a supercomputer, programmed with your TOE, can. So is that good, bad, or indifferent... are you guilty of circular logic, or not?"

Mosala seemed unsure of the verdict, herself. "Helen and I have been talking it over, trying to thrash out exactly what it means. I have to confess that I started out resenting what she was doing-and then ignoring most of her later work. Now, though . . . I'm beginning to find it very exciting."

"Why?"

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She hesitated. It was clear that her ideas on this were too new, too unformed; she really didn't want to say anything more. But I waited patiently, without prompting her, and she finally relented.

"Ask yourself this: If Buzzo or Nis.h.i.+de can come up with a TOE in which the whole universe is more or less implicit in a detailed description of the Big Bang-details deduced, right here and now, from observations of helium abundance, galactic cl.u.s.tering, the cosmic background radiation, and so on-no one accuses them of circular logic. Feeding in the results of any number of 'telescope experiments' is fine, apparently. So why is it any more 'circular' to have a TOE in which the universe is implicit in the details of ten contemporary particle physics experi- ments'

I said, "Okay. But isn't Helen Wu saying that your equations have virtually no physical content at all? I mean, no amount of pure mathematics could ever produce Newton's law of gravity-because there's no purely mathematical reason why the inverse square law couldn't be replaced by something different. The whole basis for it lies in the way the universe happens to work. Isn't Wu trying to show that your TOE doesn't rely on anything out there in the world-that it collapses into a lot of statements about numbers, which simply have to be true?"

Mosala replied, frustrated, "Yes! But even if she's right. . . when those 'statements which have to be true' are coupled with real, tangible experiments-which are very much 'out there in the world'-the theory ceases to be pure mathematics ... in the same way that the pure symmetry of pre-s.p.a.ce ceases to be symmetrical.

"Newton came up with the inverse square law by a.n.a.lyzing existing astronomical observations. By treating the solar system in the way I treat a particle accelerator: saying, 'This much we know for a fact.' Later, the law was used to make predictions and those predictions turned out to be correct. Okay . . . but where exactly does the physical content reside, in that whole process? With the inverse-square law itself ... or with the observed motions of the planets, from which that equation was deduced in the first place? Because if you stop treating Newton's law as something given, standing outside the whole show as an eternal truth, and look at ... the link, the bridge . . . between all the different planets...o...b..ting different stars, coexisting in the same universe, having to be consistent with each other . . . what you're doing starts to become much more like pure mathematics."

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I thought I had an inkling of what she was suggesting. "It's a bit like saying that . . . the general principle that 'people form net clans with other people with whom they have something in common' has nothing to do with what those common interests happen to be. Exactly the same process brings together . . . fans of Jane Austen, or students of the genetics of wasps, or whatever."

"Right. Jane Austen 'belongs' to all the people who read her-not to the sociological principle which suggests that they'll get together to discuss her books. And the law of gravity 'belongs' to all the systems which obey it- not to a TOE which predicts that they'll get together to form a universe.

"And maybe the Theory of Everything should collapse into nothing but 'statements about numbers which have to be true.' Maybe pre-s.p.a.ce itself has to melt into nothing but simple arithmetic, simple logic-leaving us with no choices to make about its structure at all."

I laughed. "I think even SeeNet's audience might have some trouble wrapping their minds around that." I certainly did. "Look, maybe it's going to take a while for you and Helen Wu to make sense of all this. We can always do an update on it, back in Cape Town, if it turns out to be an important development."

Mosala agreed, relieved. Throwing ideas around was one thing, but she clearly didn't want to take a position on this, officially. Not yet.

Before I could lose my nerve, I said, "Do you think you'll still be living in Cape Town, in six months' time?"

I'd braced myself for the kind of outburst the word Anthrocosmologist had produced-but Mosala simply observed drily, "Well, I didn't think it could remain a secret for long. I suppose the whole conference is talking about it."

"Not exactly. I heard it from a local."

She nodded, unsurprised. "I've been having discussions with the academic syndicates here, for months. So it's probably all over the island by now." She flashed a wry smile. "Not much into confidentiality, these anarchists. But what can you expect from patent violators and intellectual property thieves?"

I said, "So what's the attraction?"

She stood. "Can you stop recording, please?" I complied. "When all the details have been worked out, I'll make a public statement-but I don't want some off-the-cuff remark on the subject coming out first."

"I understand."

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She said, "What's the attraction of patent violators and intellectual property thieves? That very fact. Stateless is renegade, they flout the biotech licensing laws. She turned toward the window, and stretched out her arms. "And look at them! They're not the wealthiest people on the planet-but no one here is starving. No one. That's not true in Europe, j.a.pan, Australia-let alone in Angola, Malawi. . ." She trailed off, and studied me for a moment, as if trying to decide if I really had stopped filming. If she really should trust me at all.

I waited. She continued.

"What's that got to do with me? My own country's doing well enough. I'm not exactly in danger of malnutrition, am I?" She closed her eyes and groaned. "This is very hard for me to say. But. . . like it or not, the n.o.bel prize has given me a certain kind of power. If I move to Stateless-and state the reasons why-it will make news. It will make an impact, in certain places."

She hesitated again.

I said, "I can keep my mouth shut."

Mosala smiled faintly. "I know that. I think."

"So what kind of impact do you want to make?"

She walked over to the window. I said, "Is this some kind of political gesture against traditionalists like PACDF?"

She laughed. "No, no, no! Well . . . maybe it will be that as well, coincidentally. But that's not the point." She steeled herself. "I've had a.s.surances. From a number of highly placed people. I've been promised that if I move to Stateless . . . not because I matter, but because it will make news, and create a pretext . . . the South African government will unilaterally drop all sanctions against the island, within six months."

I had goose b.u.mps. One country might make no difference-except that South Africa was the major trading partner of about thirty other African nations.

Mosala said quietly, "The voting patterns in the UN don't show it, but the fact is, the anti-sanctions faction is not a tiny minority. At present, there's all kinds of bloc solidarity and surface agreement, because everyone believes they can't win, and they don't want to cause offense."

"But if someone gave the right little push, they might start an avalanche?"

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"Maybe." She laughed, embarra.s.sed. "Talk about delusions of grandeur. The truth is, I get sick to the core every time I think about it- and I don't actually believe anything dramatic is going to happen."

"One person to break the symmetry. Why not?"

She shook her head firmly. "There've been other attempts to s.h.i.+ft the vote, which have all fallen through. Anything's worth trying, but I have to keep my feet on the ground."

Several things were running through my mind at once-though what might happen if the biotech patent laws ever really collapsed, globally, was almost too distant a prospect to contemplate. But the fact remained that Mosala had more use for the doc.u.mentary than I'd ever imagined- and she'd told me all this to let me know as much, to give me the leverage she wanted me to employ, to ensure that her emigration did cause a stir.

It was also clear that the whole endeavor-however Quixotic- would be extremely unpopular in certain quarters.

Was that what Kuwale had had in mind7 Not the Ignorance Cults, not PACDF fundamentalists, not even pro-science South African nationalists outraged by Mosala's 'desertion'-but powerful defenders of the biotech status quo? And if the teenaged burglar ''paid. to frighten her' hadn't been lying, after all. . .

Mosala walked over to a side table and poured herself a gla.s.s of water. "Now you know all my deepest secrets, so I declare this interview over." She raised the gla.s.s and declaimed self-mockingly, "Vive la technoliberation!"

"Vive."

She said seriously, "Okay: there are rumors. Maybe half of Stateless knows exactly what's going on-but I still don't want those rumors confirmed until certain arrangements, certain agreements, are much more solid."

"I understand." And I realized, with a kind of astonishment, that somewhere along the way I'd won some measure of trust from her. Of course she was using me-but she must have believed that my heart was in the right place, that I'd let myself be used.

I said, "Next time you're arguing circularity with Helen Wu deep into the night, do you think I could ... ?"

"Sit in? And record it?" She seemed to find the prospect dubious, but she said, "All right. Just so long as you promise not to fall asleep before we do."

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She walked me to the door, and we shook hands. I said, "Be careful." She smiled serenely, slightly amused at my concern, as if she didn't have an enemy in the world. "Don't worry. I will."

180.

17.I was woken by a call just after four, the ringing growing louder and more shrill until it reached into my melatonin dreams and turned the darkness of my skull inside-out. For an instant, the mere fact of consciousness was shocking, unspeakable; I was outraged as a newborn child. Then I stretched out an arm and groped around on the bedside table for my notepad. I squinted at the screen, blinded for a moment by its brightness.

The call was from Lydia. I almost refused to take it, a.s.suming that she'd somehow miscalculated the time zones, but then I woke sufficiently to realize that it was the middle of the night for her, too. Sydney was only two hours behind Stateless. Geographically, if not politically.

She said, "Andrew, I'm sorry to disturb you, but I thought you had a right to hear this in realtime." She looked uncharacteristically grim, and though I was still too groggy even to speculate about what was coming next, it was obvious that it wasn't going to be pleasant.

I said hoa.r.s.ely, "That's okay. Go ahead." I tried not to imagine what I looked like, gaping bleary-eyed at the camera. Lydia seemed to be in a darkened room, herself, her face lit only by the image on the screen . . . of me, lit only by the image other. Was that possible? I suddenly realized that I had a pounding headache.

"Junk DNA is going to have to be re-edited, with the Landers story removed. If you had time, of course I'd ask you to do it yourself, but I'm a.s.suming that's not possible. So I'll give it to Paul Kostas; he used to be one of our news room editors, but he's freelance now. I'll send you his final cut, and if you strongly disagree with anything, you'll have an opportunity to change it. Just remember that it's being screened in less than a fortnight."

I said, "That's fine, that's all ... fine." I knew Kostas; he wouldn't 181.

mutilate the program. "Why, though? Was there some legal glitch? Don't tell me Landers is suing?"

"No. Events have overtaken us. I won't try to explain; I've sent you a trailer from the San Francis...o...b..reau-it'll all be public by morning, but. . ." She was too tired to elaborate, but I understood; she didn't want me to learn about this as just another viewer. A quarter of Junk DNA, and some three months' work on my part, had just been rendered obsolete, but Lydia was doing her best to salvage some vestige of my professional dignity. This way, at least I'd stay a few hours ahead of the ma.s.ses.

I said, "I appreciate that. Thank you."

We bid each other goodnight, and I viewed the "trailer"-a hastily a.s.sembled package of footage and text, alerting other news rooms to the story, and giving them the choice either to wait for the polished item soon to follow, or to edit the raw material themselves and put out their own version. It consisted mainly of FBI news releases, plus some archival background material.

Ned Landers, his two chief geneticists, and three of his executives, had just been arrested in Portland. Nine other people-working for an entirely separate corporation-had been arrested in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. Laboratory equipment, biochemical samples, and computer records had been taken from both sites in pre-dawn raids. All fifteen people had been. charged with violating federal biotechnology safety laws- but not because of Landers' highly publicized neo-DNA and symbiont research. At the Chapel Hill laboratory, according to the charges, workers had been manipulating infectious, natural-RNA viruses-in secret, without permission. Landers had been footing the bills, circuitously.

The purpose of these viruses remained unknown; the data and samples were yet to be a.n.a.lyzed.

There were no statements from the accused; their lawyers were counseling silence. There were some external shots of the Chapel Hill laboratory, sealed off behind police barricades. All the footage of Landers himself was relatively old material; the latest was cannibalized from my interview with him (not completely wasted, after all).

The lack of detail was frustrating, but the implications already seemed clear. Landers and his collaborators had been constructing perfect viral immunity for themselves beyond the specific powers of any one vaccine or drug, beyond the fear of mutant strains out-evolving their defenses. . .

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while engineering new viruses capable of infecting the rest of us. I stared at the screen, which was frozen on the last frame of the report: Landers, as I'd seen him in the flesh, myself, smiling at the vision of his brand new kingdom. And though I balked at accepting the obvious conclusion . . . what possible use could he have had for a novel human virus except for some kind of thinning7.

I sprinted to the bathroom, and brought up the meager contents of my stomach. Then I knelt by the bowl, s.h.i.+vering and sweating-lapsing into microsleeps, almost losing my balance. The melatonin wanted me back, but I was having trouble convincing myself that I was through vomiting. Pampered hypochondriac that I was, I would have consulted my pharm at once if I'd had it, for a precise diagnosis and an instant, optimal solution. With visions of choking to death in my sleep, I contemplated tearing off my shoulder patch-but the symbolic attempt to surrender to natural circadian forces would have taken hours to produce any effect at all-and then it would have rendered me, at best, a zombie for the rest of the conference.

I retched, voluntarily, for a minute or two, and nothing more emerged, so I staggered back to bed.

Ned Landers had gone further than any gender migrant, any anarchist, any Voluntary Autist. No man is an island7 Just watch me. And yet, apparently, it still hadn't been far enough. He'd still felt crowded, threatened, encroached-upon. A biological kingdom wasn't enough; he'd aspired to more elbow room than even that unbridgeable genetic gulf could provide.

And he'd almost attained it. That was what species self-knowledge had given him: a precise, molecular definition of the H-word . . . which he could personally transcend, before turning it against everyone who remained in its embrace.

Vive la technoliberation! Why not have a million Ned Landers? Why not let every solipsistic lunatic and paranoid, self-appointed ethnic-group-savior on the planet wield the same power? Paradise for yourself and your clan-and apocalypse for everyone else.

That was the fruit of perfect understanding.

What's wrong, don't you like the taste7 I clutched my stomach and slid my knees toward my chin; it changed the character of the nausea, if not exactly removing it. The room tipped, my limbs grew numb, I strived for absolute blankness.

And if I'd dug deeper, done my job properly, 1 might have been the one to find him out, to stop him . . .

183.

Gina touched my cheek, and kissed me tenderly. We were in Manchester, at the imaging lab. I was naked, she was clothed.

She said, "Climb inside the scanner. You can do that for me, can't you? I want us to be much, much closer, Andrew. So I need to see what's going on inside your brain."

I started to comply-but then I hesitated, suddenly afraid of what she'd discover.

She kissed me again. "No more arguments. If you love me, you'll shut up and do what you're told."

She forced me down, and closed the hatch of the machine. I saw my body from above. The scanner was more than a scanner-it raked me with ultraviolet lasers. I felt no pain, but the beams prised away layer after layer of living tissue with merciless precision. All the skin, all the flesh, which concealed my secrets dissolved into a red mist around me, and then the mist began to part. . .

I dreamed that I woke up screaming.