We argued for fifteen minutes. I improvised; I dropped misleading hints about PACDF and an impending political storm, but I said nothing about Mosala’s planned emigration. In the end, Lydia caved in. I was astonished.

I used the software Kuwale had given me to send ver a deep-encrypted message. “No, I haven’t spotted one of your goons. But if you expect any more help from me – beyond acting as a living culture medium – you’re going to have to give me all the details: who these people are, who employed them, your analysis of the weapon … everything. Take it or leave it. Meet me at the same place as last time, in an hour.”

I sat back and took stock of what I knew, what I believed. Biotech weapons, biotech interests? Whether or not that was true, the boycott itself had almost killed me. I’d always seen both sides of the gene patent laws, I’d always been equally suspicious of the corporations and the renegades – but now the symmetry was broken. I had a long history of apathy and ambivalence – and I was ashamed to admit that it had taken so much to politicize me – but now I was ready to embrace technolibération , I was ready to do everything I could to expose Mosala’s enemies and help her cause.

The Beach Boys never lied, though. I couldn’t believe that a weapon from EnGeneUity and their allies would have failed because of anything as simple as my distorted melatonin cycle. That sounded more like the work of brilliant, resourceful amateurs making do with limited knowledge, limited tools.

PACDF? The Ignorance Cults? Hardly.

Other technolibérateurs , who’d decided that Mosala’s original scheme would benefit greatly from a Nobel-prize-winning martyr? Unaware that they were pitted against people who largely shared their goals – but who weren’t merely averse to treating people as expendable, but who had elevated the sacrificial celebrity in question to the status of creator of the universe?

There was an irony there, somewhere: the cool, pragmatic realpolitik faction of technolibération seemed to be infinitely more fanatical than the quasi-religious Anthrocosmologists.

An irony, or a misunderstanding.

Kuwale’s reply arrived while I was in the shower, scouring away the dead skin and the sour odor I’d been unable to remove in the hospital bathroom.

“The data you insist on seeing can’t be unlocked at the place you’ve specified. Meet me at these coordinates.”

I checked a map of the island. There was no point arguing.

I dressed, and set out for the northern reefs.

PART THREE

Chapter 20