Twenty had waited in the cabin while the others fetched me; now she took charge. “I don’t know what fantasies Kuwale’s been feeding you. Portraying us as rabid fanatics, no doubt.” She was a tall, slender black woman with a Francophone accent.

“No, ve told me you were moderates. Weren’t you listening?”

She shook her head innocently, bemused, as if it were self-evident that eavesdropping was beneath her dignity. She had an air of calm authority which unnerved me; I could imagine her instructing the others to do just about anything, while retaining a demeanor of absolute reasonableness. “‘Moderate’ – but still ‘heretical’, of course.”

I said wearily, “What do you expect other ACs to call you?”

“Forget other ACs. You should make your own judgment – once you’ve heard all the facts.”

“I think you blew any chance of a favorable opinion when you infected me with your home-brewed cholera.”

“That wasn’t us.”

“No? Who was it, then?”

“The same people who infected Yasuko Nishide with a virulent natural strain of pneumococcus.”

A chill ran through me. I didn’t know if I believed her, but it fit with Kuwale’s description of the extremists.

Nineteen said, “Are you recording, now?”

“No.” It was the truth; although I’d captured their faces, I’d stopped continuous filming hours before, back in the hold.

“Then start. Please.” Nineteen looked and sounded Scandinavian; it seemed every faction of AC was relentlessly internationalist. Those cynics who claimed that people who forged transglobal friendships on the nets never came together in the flesh were wrong, of course. All it required was a good enough reason.

“Why?”

“You’re here to make a documentary about Violet Mosala, aren’t you? Don’t you want to tell the whole story? Right to the end?”

Twenty explained, “When Mosala’s dead, there’ll be an uproar, naturally, and we’ll have to go into hiding. And we’re not interested in martyrdom – but we’re not afraid of being identified, once the mission’s over. We’re not ashamed of what we’re doing here; we have no reason to be. And we want someone objective, non-partisan, trustworthy, to carry our side of the story to the world.”

I stared at her. She sounded perfectly sincere – and even formally apologetic, as if she was asking for a slightly inconvenient favor.

I glanced at the others. Three regarded me with studied nonchalance. Five was tinkering with the electronics. Nineteen stared back, unwavering in her solidarity.

I said, “Forget it. I don’t do snuff movies.” It was a nice line; if I hadn’t recalled Daniel Cavolini’s interrogation the moment the words were out, I might have had a warm inner glow for hours.