It was a delicate proposition, though. What would they be admitting, if they made an exception for her? And which scenario would they consider most damaging to the anti-boycott push: the cautionary tale of Mosala’s tragic death from a reckless flirtation with renegades – or the heart-warming story of survival when a mercy flight whisked her back into the fold (where every gene belonged to its rightful owner, and every disease had an instant cure)?

As yet, they probably didn’t even know about the difficult choice they were facing. So it was up to whoever broke the news to sell them on the right decision.

I turned to De Groot. “What if the mercenaries could be persuaded to guarantee safe passage for a rescue flight? To make a public statement to that effect? Do you think you could start things moving – on the chance of that?” I clenched my fists, fighting down panic. Did I have any idea what I was saying? Once I’d promised to do this, I couldn’t back out.

But I’d already made a promise to swim faster .

De Groot looked torn. “Violet hasn’t even told Wendy or Makompo yet. And she’s sworn me to silence. Wendy’s on a business trip in Toronto—”

“If she can lobby from Cape Town she can lobby from Toronto. And Violet’s not thinking straight. Tell her mother everything. And her husband. Tell Marian Fox and the whole IUTP if you have to.”

De Groot hesitated, then nodded uncertainly. “It’s worth trying. Anything’s worth trying. But how do you imagine we’re going to get any kind of guarantee from the mercenaries?”

I said, “Plan A is to hope very hard that they’re answering the phones. Because I really don’t want to have to walk into the airport and negotiate in person.”

#

Most of the island’s center still appeared untouched by the invasion – but four streets away from the airport, everything changed. There were no barricades, no warning signs – and no people at all. It was early evening, and the streets behind me were abuzz, with shops and restaurants open for business just five hundred meters from the occupied buildings – but once I’d crossed that invisible line, it was as if Stateless had suddenly given birth to its own Ruins, an imitation in miniature of the dead hearts of the net-slain cities.

There were no bullets flying, this was not a war zone – but I had no experience to guide me, no idea of what to expect. I’d kept away from battlefields; I’d chosen science journalism happy in the knowledge that I’d never be required to film anything more dangerous than a bioethics conference.