The two men who descended first wore officer’s uniforms and side arms, but they might have been doctors. They took the medics aside and spoke in a huddle, their voices lost beneath the hum of the jets; air was still being forced through the stationary engines to keep them cool. Then a slender young man in rumpled civilian clothes emerged, looking haggard and disoriented. It took me a few seconds to recognize him; it was Mosala’s husband, Makompo.

De Groot met him; they embraced silently. I stayed back as she led him to the ambulance. I turned and looked away across the gray-and-silver reef-rock; threads of scattered trace minerals caught the moonlight, shining like the foam on an impossibly tranquil ocean. When I turned back, the soldiers were carrying Mosala, bound to a stretcher, up into the plane. Makompo and De Groot followed. I suddenly felt very tired.

De Groot came down the steps and approached me, shouting, “Are you coming with us? They say there’s plenty of room.”

I stared back at her. What was there to keep me here? My contract with SeeNet was to make a profile of Mosala, not to record the fall of Stateless. The invisible insect had forbidden me to join the flight – but would the mercenaries have any way of knowing, if I did? Stupid question: outdoors, military satellites could just about fingerprint people and lip-read their conversations, all in infrared. But would they shoot down the plane – undermining the whole PR exercise, and inviting retribution – just to punish one obscure journalist? No.

I said, “I wish I could. But there’s someone here I can’t leave behind.”

De Groot nodded, needing no further explanation, and shook my hand, smiling. “Good luck to both of you, then. I hope we’ll see you in Cape Town, soon.”

“So do I.”

The two medics were silent as we rode back to the hospital. I felt certain that they wanted to talk about the war – but not in front of a foreigner. I scanned through the footage I’d taken with the shoulder camera, not yet trusting the unfamiliar technology, then dispatched it to my console at home.

The city was more crowded than ever, though there were fewer people on their feet now. Most were camping out on the streets, with sleeping bags, folding chairs, portable stoves, and even some small tents. I didn’t know whether to feel encouraged by this, or depressed at the pathetic optimism it implied. Maybe the anarchists were prepared to make the best of it, if the city’s infrastructure was seized. And I’d still seen no evidence of panic, riots, or looting – so maybe Munroe was right, and their education in the origins and dynamics of these revered human cultural activities was enough to empower them with the ability to think through the consequences, and decline to take part.