And I still couldn’t decide if that was miraculous, or utterly unmysterious. Order only arose and survived, anywhere, because enough people desired it. Every democracy was a kind of anarchy in slow motion: any statute, any constitution could be changed, given time; any social contract, written or unwritten, could be dishonored. The ultimate safety nets were inertia, apathy and obfuscation. On Stateless, they’d had the – possibly insane – courage to unravel the whole political knot into its simplest form, to gaze at the undecorated structures of power and responsibility, tolerance and consensus.

I said, “You kept me from drowning. So how do I repay you?”

Vunibobo glanced at me, measuring my seriousness. “Swim harder. Help us all to stay afloat.”

“I’ll try. If I ever have the chance.”

She smiled at this crudely hedged half-promise, and reminded me, “We’re heading straight into a storm, right now. I think you’ll get your chance.”

#

I’d expected, at least, deserted streets in the center of the island, but at first sight little seemed to have changed. There were no signs of panic – no queues of hoarders, no boarded-up shopfronts. When we passed the hotel, though, I saw that the Mystical Renaissance carnival had gone to ground; I wasn’t the only tourist who was suffering from a sudden desire to be invisible. Back on the boat, I’d heard that one woman had been injured slightly when the airport was captured, but most of the staff had simply walked away. Munroe had spoken of a militia on the island, and no doubt they outnumbered the invaders – but how their equipment, training and discipline compared, I had no idea. The mercenaries seemed content, so far, to dig themselves in at the airport – but if the ultimate aim was not to take power, but to bring “anarchy” to Stateless, I had a queasy suspicion that there’d be something a lot less palatable than the bloodless seizure of strategic assets, very soon.

The atmosphere at the hospital was calm. Vunibobo helped me get Kuwale into the building; ve smiled dreamily and tried to limp forward, but it took the two of us to keep ver from falling flat on vis face. Prasad Jwala had sent the scan of Kuwale’s bullet wound ahead, and an operating theater was already prepared. I watched ver being wheeled in – trying to convince myself that I felt nothing but the same anxiety that I would have felt for anyone else. Vunibobo bid me farewell.