And it all became news. It all became history. Sarah was doing her job flawlessly – but for the record, the three of us willingly steamrollered flat every unspoken fear, every qualm, every trace of doubt that the world could ever be different from the nets’ pale imitation of it.

We were almost finished – I was on the verge of recounting the events in the ambulance – when my notepad chimed. It was a coded trill for a call to be taken only in private. If I answered, the communications software would shift to deepest encryption, automatically – but if the notepad sensed other people within earshot, it would refuse to maintain the connection.

I excused myself, and left the tent. The sky showed a faint wash of gray over the stars. Music and laughter still flooded out of the square behind the markets, and people were still roaming the camp – but I found a secluded spot nearby.

De Groot said, “Andrew? Are you all right? Can you talk?” She looked haggard and tense.

“I’m fine. A little bruised by the quake, that’s all.” I hesitated; I couldn’t bring myself to ask the question.

“Violet died. About twenty minutes ago.” De Groot’s voice faltered, but she steeled herself and pushed on wearily. “No one knows exactly why, yet. Some kind of trap sprung by one of the anti-viral magic bullets – maybe an enzyme in concentrations too weak to detect, which converted it into a toxin.” She shook her head, disbelieving. “They turned her body into a minefield. What did she ever do to deserve that? She tried to find a few simple truths, a few simple patterns to the world.”

I said, “They’ve been caught. They’ll stand trial. And Violet will be remembered … for centuries.” It was all hollow comfort, but I didn’t know what else to say.

And I’d thought I’d been prepared for this news, ever since I’d heard she was in coma – but it still came like a sudden blow to the head … as if the anarchists’ astonishing reversal of fortune, and Sarah’s miraculous reappearance, had somehow rewritten the odds. I covered my eyes with my forearm for a moment, and saw her sitting in her hotel room beneath the skylight, raked by the sun, reaching out and taking my hand. Even if I’m wrong … there has to be something down there. Or nobody could even touch.

De Groot said, “How soon can you get off the island?” She sounded more than a little concerned – which was touching, but strange. We’d hardly been that close.

I laughed dismissively. “ Why? The anarchists have won, the worst is over. I’m sure of that.” De Groot did not look sure at all. “Have you heard something? From … your political contacts?” There was a sudden chill in my bowels, like the disbelief I’d felt before each new spasm from the cholera: It can’t be happening again.