Null States Page 2

  While she is craning her head after what is either a lethal weapon or a harmless anachronism, the rest of the procession bunches up in front of her. They have come up against a long, low wall running along the edge of the market and painted with an extended graphic news strip, each panel roughly the size of a market stall. “How brilliant!” laughs Maria. Roz squeezes into a place where she can read the section in front of them.

  The first panel portrays the Mighty Vs: Vera Kubugli and Veena Rasmussen, the co-heads of state for the Supermajority government, Policy1st. Bas-relief headshots have been printed out and stuck above hand-painted bodies with a shared word bubble: Corporations and the corporate governments they sponsor are separate, it says (as Roz reads through her visual translator, Information agrees in a projected footnote that this is true, and offers citations for the legal basis). Corporations should no longer be able to use their profits for corporate government election campaigns. A separate bubble at the bottom editorializes: Maybe they could use them to pay employees a little more instead!

  The next box shows Adaku Achike, the regional representative of 888, and Thaddeus Legressus, a spokesperson for PhilipMorris, rebutting with their own arguments about free speech, intertwined interests, and private property. The cartoonist has added a cigarette dangling from Thaddeus’s mouth, even though he never smokes in public. The third panel is a cartoon of the Information building in Khartoum, which has a recognizable domed shape and is probably a familiar metonymic for the readers, with a hefty bit of text explaining the current statute and the timetable for reviewing the case. Information, as usual, attracts wordiness and boring illustrations.

  That doesn’t hold for the final panel, which is an exaggerated caricature of Vera Kubugli attempting to hunt a boa constrictor with a falcon. The raptor, labeled INFORMATION along its tail feathers, is too busy leafing through a huge tome. In the meantime the boa, a distension the shape of Africa in its middle, has wound the end of its tail around the leg of the Mighty V.

  Pointed, almost over the top, but wobbling just this side of libel. Glancing down the wall, Roz sees that the next strip is an update on the legal processes against Heritage, the former Supermajority, and beyond that is a series of panels on a recent social capital pyramid scheme.

  Strictly speaking, the cartoons are superfluous. All of this data is available on Information, to everyone. Functionally illiterate people can have their news read to them on Information, and accessibility for different levels of education has been a major objective, so there are options for various degrees of language comprehension. But someone—Information tells Roz it was the town council of sheikhs—thinks literacy is important, and the public comic strip seems to be getting people to read. There are a number of locals meandering up and down, taking it in, and farther along Roz sees what looks like a café set up so the customers can enjoy the view while they sip their glass cups of tea.

  The meeting area is on the other side of the wall, about half a kilometer outside of town. There is only one species of shrub visible and very little else, so Roz has plenty of time to find out from Information that the reason for the remoteness is the traditional need for a landing strip for fixed-wing aircraft or helicopters. Even the more versatile modes of transportation tend to disembark at the same spot, at least on formal occasions. As they draw closer, she can see that a small stage has been arranged at one end of the dusty field, thankfully with a woven-reed roof tilted overhead. A small delegation is waiting for them: three men in flowing white robes, two with white turbans on top and the other wearing a cap, and three women in equally flowing but much more colorful attire. Roz is glad they kept the SVAT team down to four; after including Amran, they are still fewer than the centenal government group.

  During the round of greetings, Roz keeps a close watch on Amran and Minzhe. Clasping of hands, long repetitions of similar phrases and occasional questions rendered meaningless by the lack of any follow-up or answer: Welcome, God be with you, Praise God, Good to see you, And your family? In God’s name, Are you well? God is merciful, God is great. She follows the pattern as well as she can. When the flurry of introductions has settled and Amran has reported that the governor is only a few minutes out, Roz finds herself standing beside the deputy governor, the highest-ranking official present. It’s not an accident; the Information bureaucracy downplays its hierarchy, but Roz is the team leader, and everyone here knows it.

  The deputy governor is younger than she might have expected, but Al-Jabali is young and charismatic too, so maybe this is part of their brand. Roz has already forgotten all the names she just learned, but his public Information displays a graceful sweep of calligraphy beside his head. Her visual translator lets her appreciate it for a few seconds before resolving it into the Roman alphabet: Suleyman.

  “Your first visit to this area?” he asks, when her eyes shift from the display to meet his.

  “Yes,” Roz says, and tries to think of something complimentary she can say about what she’s seen over the past few hours. She’s sure some people think of this place as beautiful, but deserts are not her idea of paradise.

  “Very different from where you are from, perhaps?”

  Roz catches a knowing amusement in his eyes and laughs. She’s still thinking in diplo-speak, though, and asks a question rather than answering directly. “Do you get a lot of visitors?”

  “We got very many in the time before the elections,” the sheikh says. Of course they did. The eastern Sahel was one of the last entrants to micro-democracy before the vote; they must have been flooded with technicians, activists, campaigners. “And afterward some, I believe they called themselves ‘adventure tourists’. They came to feel afraid here, where we live.” He opens his hand, turns it up toward the sky in mystification. “Hard to understand. But recently that has dropped off.”

  “I see.” Roz can’t imagine coming here on purpose, without getting paid for it. Even if feeling afraid is your thing, there must be more thrilling places to do it. Not to mention cooler.

  “And what are you here to do?”

  Roz looks at him in surprise. “We were asked to support your new government in relations with neighboring centenals.” Her words trail off and her face starts to heat. The sheikh’s expression hasn’t changed, but somehow she knows that he’s not asking about the official job description. Of course he knows why they’re here, and if he didn’t, he wouldn’t be admitting it.

  “You are checking up on us? Policing us?” The question is hostile, but his tone is level, courteous even, and the warmth in his expression has not changed.

  “We’re here to provide support,” Roz repeats. “You can request for us to leave if you don’t want us here.” This man really is extraordinarily attractive. His very dark skin is smooth and almost luminous, his features rounded and even. Roz is sure he knows that Information can overrule a request for a SVAT team to exit a centenal.

  “Of course we won’t ask you to leave. You are our guests. But we like to know what our guests are looking for here, so we can be sure that they are satisfied.”

  “Very hospitable,” Roz says, trying to keep it as smooth as his comment. The sheikh offers a small bow, and she thinks she sees a smile on his lips.

  The sun is still beating down on them. Roz glances at the horizon, hoping for some sign of the governor’s transport. She sees nothing but sand, scrubs, and, over her right shoulder, Charles’s face squinting into the distance.

  “Imagine him making us wait out here,” Charles mutters when she meets his eyes.

  She tries to imagine Al-Jabali. Young, new at this, surrounded by rivals and enemies even more than most politicians. He chose to become a centenal governor as well as head of state, so he’s ambitious. And yet the fact that he’s not here attending to them suggests he’s opposed to Information and confident enough to show it. Or maybe he’s just not very good at this part of his job, Roz thinks. Maybe schedules get away from him. Maybe he’s not anti-Information per se but trying to assert his
independence. She glances at Amran, thinking they’ll need a much more thorough rundown of local politics.

  “The governor is very sorry to be late,” Suleyman says on her left. Roz is almost certain he can’t have heard Charles’s comment unless he’s using something to augment his hearing. “He will want to tell you himself, but there is still much work to do in our centenals. We had very little budget or autonomy before independence, and we are trying our level best to make up for lost time.”

  Roz smiles and nods. Rare for a politician to admit weakness like that; whatever they’re hiding must be even more embarrassing than getting up to speed on basic governance. A minor insurgency? Some looming political crisis? She becomes aware of the faintest of hums against her eardrum, at first more a sensation than a sound. As it grows into a buzz the people around her shift, turning their gaze south, and a moment later, Roz makes out a dark smudge against the undifferentiated beige of the distance.

  “He hopes your visit can be helpful in a number of ways,” the deputy goes on.

  “We also hope so,” Roz answers. After a pause, she asks, “Are you from this centenal?”

  “Yes,” Suleyman says. “I was born here, and my parents never fled to Chad. Except for some small trips within the region, I’ve lived in Kas my whole life.”

  Roz wonders what that must be like. She’s lived abroad since university, and she can never go home. Thinking of that, and because the deputy has turned his attention to the approaching vehicles, she glances down and taps out a message to her parents: arrived safe. interesting place, it looks like what the rest of the world thinks of Africa. They’ll find that amusing. talk soon. She sends it and looks up again, hoping that wasn’t too obvious.

  Suleyman either didn’t notice or is politely ignoring her inattention. She follows his gaze into the emptiness of the landscape. Roz thought she had gotten used to the desert from living in Doha, but this is different. There is no city to hold it off. This land feels unfinished and in-between, scrubby semi-aridity that has been pushing closer to absolute desert over the past century.

  “Look at that,” Charles murmurs. The smudge has gotten closer, and Roz can make out the tight formation of three tsubames. White cloth streams out behind each two-person craft, as if they were wearing the traditional jellabiyas. He clicks his tongue. “Why do these African leaders always have to make such a big deal of themselves? And why do we fall for it?”

  “Oh, right,” Roz says, glancing over at him. “European princelings never do pomp and circumstance.”

  Because she is turned toward him, she misses the moment of the explosion.

  She sees the shock on his face at the same time as she hears the bang, louder than she would have thought possible, and a clattering smash that sounds like it will never end, so rushed and unstoppable that she jumps away from it, raising her arms as though the wreckage is about to crush her instead of smashing into the sand half a kilometer away. Through the explosion she hears, or feels, the abbreviated gasp from the man next to her, like a shout cut off by breathlessness.

  It must all be on vid, Roz thinks as her head turns toward the sound. Even out here, there must have been a feed trained on that. She’ll be able to see the explosion in detail and in slow motion as often as she wants. Probably many, many more times than she wants. Her eyes focus on the flicker of flame overhung by a spiraling column of dark smoke. There’s definitely a feed on this receiving stand, so she’ll be able to check reactions. Unable to stop herself, though she knows she’s about to be too late again, she swings her head back around to the deputy governor, automatically her first suspect. His face shows shock, or a good imitation: mouth slightly open, eyes wild. Then he is down off the platform and plunging across the sand toward the scene of the crash. Roz leaps after him.

  CHAPTER 2

  Nougaz calls Roz within five minutes of the explosion.

  Information presents itself to the world as an organization without a head, guided by (depending on the translation and the local connotation) a council, or board, or committee. In Roz’s experience of organizations, though, there are always those who wield or are angling to wield more influence than others. Everyone with enough access and sense knows that Valerie Nougaz has been consolidating her position since before the last election. Even though she’s not Roz’s supervisor, Roz isn’t entirely surprised to see her name on the call.

  Besides that, Nougaz knows Roz personally. Unfortunately, the reasons for that overlap almost completely with the reasons why Roz is personally disinclined to talk to her these days.

  In a crisis, though, it’s all professionalism. “Does your team need to be evacuated?”

  Roz is still breathing fast, not just from the run, and her heart is jumping. She should be scared—she was scared, for a moment or two—but evacuation from all this urgency is the last thing she wants. Still, she has to appreciate Nougaz prioritizing staff safety, and she shows it by thinking about the question for half a second. “Not at this time. No indication that the attack had anything to do with us.” She’s been playing this out in her head over the last five minutes. “It wouldn’t have been that much more difficult to set an explosive device under the receiving platform—probably easier. I think for the moment we can assume that if this was an attack, it has achieved its aim.”

  “Are you sure he’s dead?” Nougaz asks.

  “Very sure.” Roz is standing ten feet away from the wreckage of the tsubame, having stepped away to take the call. There’s a scorched smell with multiple levels of unpleasantness. “On the assumption that Governor Yagoub was one of the passengers in this tsubame. Information shows him boarding, but since there are few feeds between the departure point and here, it is possible he got out at some point. Unlikely, though. The deputy governor has identified him, but the bodies aren’t in great shape. We’ll want it confirmed independently.” Suleyman is kneeling beside the wreckage along with one of the other sheikhs, lips moving in what Roz assumes is prayer.

  “Passengers? Bodies?”

  “He was traveling with a bodyguard. There were minor injuries in one of the other tsubames that was hit by debris, but only the two in this one are dead.”

  A moment of consideration. “Is there any chance that this was not an attack, but an accident?”

  “A chance.” Roz sighs. “It was a pretty spectacular explosion.” She watches as the deputy governor rises and walks back toward the platform. His body language has changed completely: he is striding straight-backed, fingers fluttering as he makes calls, his other hand gesturing to those still on the platform. The sheikh who was kneeling with him hurries to catch up.

  “Okay,” Nougaz says. “I want you to take the lead on the investigation—figure out if it was an assassination, and then find out who did it. I’ve—”

  “Sorry,” Roz says, and immediately wishes she hadn’t. Even through the poor connection, she can see Nougaz’s hatchet face sharpen. “Shouldn’t that be the role of the DarFur government?”

  “Probably,” Nougaz replies crisply. “And if you find they’re up to it, by all means leave it to them. But I have my doubts. And we can’t be letting people assassinate our heads of state. We’re having enough trouble on the Central Asian border; we can’t look weak internally. I’ve already asked Malakal to join you. He should arrive from Juba in a few hours with the forensics team. In the meantime, you know better than I what will be useful. Ask for it.”

  Like someone with experience in criminal investigations? Roz thinks but does not say. Hopefully, it won’t be too different from the data-crunching that she does when she’s not on SVAT missions. True, there weren’t many feeds in the desert between Djabal and here, but looking at the data from Djabal over the past day or two should let them pin down the saboteur pretty quickly.

  “Your team will probably need to do some handholding during the transition, but that seems aligned with your original mission. And don’t underestimate the risks of instability! Do not hesitate to request evacuation or se
curity reinforcements if you feel any concern.”

  “Understood.”

  Almost immediately after Nougaz signs off, Roz gets another call. She sees that it’s Maryam and cringes with a moment of irrational guilt before picking up.

  “Hey. You okay?” Maryam’s tone is perfunctory: as technical director for the Doha Information Hub, she is as wired into this as anyone in the world and already knows no one on the team was physically injured. “I heard the reinforcements are headed in, so I’m going to see what I can do to up bandwidth out there.”

  “That would be appreciated,” Roz says, turning away from the scene of the crash. “Connectivity is pretty grim here even without data-intense work going on. Are you going to be able to tell us what the tsubame was processing before it blew up?”

  “I’ve already started on a full analysis of the interface logs for the past week.”

  “Great, I’ll work from here on external data.” Roz sees a group of half a dozen people in dark blue uniforms jogging toward her from town. “Gotta go,” she says. “Looks like the army’s here.” Or police? She didn’t read up enough on that side of things, and checks with Information.

  “Stay safe,” says Maryam, and signs off.

  Most governments this size would contract out their security functions to LesProfessionnels or YourArmy, but (as the Information commentary implies) DarFur government officials have had plenty of experience with foreign military on their soil, and decided to train up a police and militia force from scratch. Most members are either young and inexperienced or drawn from the guerilla groups that fought for independence over the past decades.