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  “You’ll see. These people, they don’t get their own way, they’re coming for the whole system.”

  * * *

  Roz asked Malakal to accompany her on the trip to Djabal because of his rank and his knowledge of the area, but also so that they’d have representation at both of the gender-segregated gatherings of the funeral. They separate at the entrance to the compound, Malakal’s tall figure towering over the other white-robed men as he heads to the right, while Roz is guided around a partial wall to a dusty courtyard. Her first impression is of the other foreigners, trying not to cluster together and yet still forming a clear group. It’s not just their clothes and, in some cases, skin color that makes them stand out; unlike the locals, their public Information glows in the space beside their heads. Roz wishes she had thought to turn hers off. She sees representatives from ToujoursTchad, 1China, DarMasalit, and SahelLibre, all neighboring governments to at least one of DarFur’s centenals, and she sees them clock her too, their eyes flickering as they murmur quick messages up the hierarchy, noting Information’s presence and wondering why Al-Jabali merited their interest. Mostly timing, Roz thinks, going over to greet, and size up, the widow.

  Al-Jabali’s wife, Fatima, sits among silk cushions in the shadows of an unlit but well-appointed outbuilding, in the same style of concrete and roll-on linoleum as the main building. She looks genuinely grieved, or at the very least shocked, her large eyes sucking in the bits of light in the room, hovering above her defined cheekbones. Roz studied up the night before, muttering repeated bits of condolence phrases while she read about war in Central Asia. She’s always had an ear for languages, and she’s able to express her sympathy in Fur with a decent accent. Usually, the effort is appreciated, automatic interpreters notwithstanding.

  After that, there’s very little to do, ceremonially speaking. The temptation is to position herself somewhere with a good view of everyone, ideally not too close to any of the government representatives, and catch up on some content at eye level, or, more virtuously, get some work done. But Roz believes that there’s still something to be said for in-person observation and interaction, and resolutely shuts off everything but the breaking news feed. Fortunately, there’s a coffee station where a young woman is handing out tiny spiced cups. She hovers under the anemic mignonette tree in the middle of the courtyard near some of the better-dressed locals, sipping from her cup, but her eavesdropping gets her little besides tips on weaning toddlers and commentary on the dresses of other attendees. One woman does mutter something rude about the ToujoursTchad representative; Roz can’t hear whether it’s a personal criticism or political but decides that if there weren’t political animosity, the stranger wouldn’t be insulted. No one whispers anything about Al-Jabali’s lover, although that kind of spectacularly bad taste is hardly to be expected, unless the widow were extremely unpopular. Nor does anyone within Roz’s hearing speculate about the killer. She does catch two different people in separate conversations swearing off tsubame travel, although she doubts they have much opportunity to put that to the test.

  Finally the food comes: platters of not only goat but what Information identifies in graphic detail as cow and camel, flanked by bowls of congealed porridge, brownish crêpes, and a gooey green semi-liquid that Information claims is vegetable in nature, although in that case it offers fewer specifics. Roz sets to without great enthusiasm but with some relief: it is custom here to serve women the leftovers of what the men have eaten, but once again, opulence is showing. There are no telltale finger scoops missing from the porridge bowls, and the meat couldn’t be piled any higher on the trays.

  As Roz is finishing her meal, she gets a call from Maria. She stands up, rubbing her greasy fingers together in the absence of any disinte-wipes, and steps off to the side of the hut, where she can mutter in something like privacy.

  “How’s it going?”

  “All right,” Maria answers. “And you?”

  “It’s going to be a long day,” Roz answers, keeping a smile on her face. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s unfortunate the funeral had to be held away from Kas,” Maria says. “There’s a rumor going around that it wasn’t really Al-Jabali who was killed, and another saying the deputy was killed with him and nobody’s in charge. We’ve circulated the forensics report and we’re holding a community meeting in an hour and looking for other appropriate ways to get the word out.”

  “Try the mural,” Roz suggests.

  “It feels too soon, doesn’t it?” Maria murmurs. “But I’ll check with Amran and the locals and see what they say. Hang in there.” She signs off.

  Reminded, or given an excuse, Roz checks in with the rest of the team.

  “The militia is handling things pretty much as I expected,” Minzhe says, philosophically. “They haven’t a clue where to start, even though my take is that they’re genuinely upset about the assassination—once I convinced them that it was actually an assassination and not just a tragic tsubame malfunction. Commander Hamid is debriefing the other bodyguards as we speak. I have my doubts about their tactics, but I’ll let you know if we come up with something.”

  Charles is having more difficulty. “I don’t know how they get anything done here! There are so few feeds! None at all on eighty-seven percent of the border.”

  “Try talking to people,” Roz offers.

  “I am, I am,” he grumbles. “But you know how much everyone loves talking to outsiders and especially Information.”

  “Good luck,” she says. “And see if they have feeds on the other side of the border.”

  “I checked. Just as bereft. But I’ll keep looking along likely routes, on both sides, to and from the sites of these alleged battles.”

  She decides she doesn’t have to check in with Amran.

  Instead, Roz figures it’s as appropriate as it will ever be to approach the widow. She slips back into the room, edging past a tray laden with the remains of a meal. It’s a few degrees cooler inside, or maybe it just feels that way because of the dimness, and Fatima is reclining on her bed with two other women. Roz eyes the entourage but decides that the bereaved woman is entitled to support. Besides, she’s not planning on broaching anything too delicate.

  “I’m sorry to bother you again,” she begins, as softly as she can, “but as you know, we’re trying to find out who did this. I was wondering if you had any thoughts on who might have wanted to harm your husband.”

  Fatima stirs, sits up straighter. “He was doing the right thing for our people: of course people wanted to harm him.” She pauses. “Are you sure it was intentional?”

  “Quite sure,” Roz says. “Do you know why he was late to meet us that day?”

  “Late?” She says it so quickly, Roz is sure it’s genuine surprise, but she pulls back into languor almost immediately. “I have no idea.”

  “He was coming from here to meet us in Kas. Do you know what he was doing before he left?”

  “Some centenal business here, I don’t know. A meeting with the sheikhs.”

  “Did you often ride in the tsubame yourself? Had you noticed any changes in it recently?”

  “No. I’d only been in it once, when he first got it. No, wait, twice. We went to an event at an 888 centenal south of here about a month…” Her eyes flutter, looking it up. “… three weeks ago.”

  “Did you notice anything different the second time?” Roz asks. Fatima, after giving it thought, shakes her head. “Was anything bothering your husband over the last few weeks? Worrying him? Any new threats?”

  Fatima doesn’t answer immediately, just stares at Roz level-eyed, projecting as fierce a spirit as Roz has ever felt. But between her day job among the Information elite and SVAT episodes dealing with angry, violent, powerless people, Roz has a lot of practice with uncomfortable silences and accusatory glares, and she looks back without wavering. Finally, Fatima speaks: “No.”

  Roz raises her eyebrows. “Nothing?” She waits. “If you do think of anything, please
let us know. You might be in danger too,” she adds, although she doubts it’s a high probability.

  The widow’s eyes lash out at her in the darkness. “Is that a threat?” she hisses.

  “No!” Roz exclaims so loudly and quickly that she almost misses Fatima’s next words, low and angry.

  “If you or anyone in your organization harmed my husband, it is you who will be in danger!”

  “No, of course not,” Roz says again. “We had no reason or desire to harm your husband.” She would like to be able to say categorically that Information would never do such a thing, but she doesn’t trust her employer enough for that. Or her colleagues, she supposes. But she’s as certain as she can be without knowing firsthand.

  Fatima subsides, but Roz can still feel her antagonism in the close space. “I’m sure you will find out the truth, then,” she says, and Roz is left with no choice but to make as graceful an exit as she can manage.

  Back in the hot sun, she blinks, first with annoyance, then to compose a message to Malakal. He’s probably having a great time on the men’s side, interrogating the interesting new Governor and all the local sheikhs, chilling however men do. She bullets out the little she learned (“widow suspicious of us”) and sends it. Malakal doesn’t answer right away, which probably means he’s caught up in some sparkling conversation. Eventually, Roz gives in and starts working on the tsubame problem at a headache-inducing eyeball level. The vehicle went in for maintenance two months ago, but it was for a specific issue—a problem with the energy management—and it’s not guaranteed that the mechanics would have noticed whether the valve was missing. Still, Roz decides to start from there. The first questions are about the mechanics themselves; it’s an unlicensed shop, because there are no licensed shops within a hundred-mile radius, but at least it’s back in Kas. She sends Charles a message to check it out.

  “Salaam wa aleikum.”

  Roz looks up, blinking rapidly to dispel the table of locations and dates. The woman from ToujoursTchad has taken the plastic chair beside her, her fine toub a muted shimmer of purple and black.

  “Hélène Ahmed,” the woman says, holding out a black-gloved hand.

  “Roz Kabwe.” Knowing this woman must have come looking for something, Roz does not bother with small talk. “Did you know Governor Yagoub well?”

  “Al-Jabali? We had met, of course. Information”—Hélène dips her head, simultaneously acknowledging that Roz is part of that vast organization and that she may not be aware of everything they are doing—“offered many incentives for the creation of coalitions and inter-centenal cooperation, so we were beginning to work together on some initiatives of this kind. Unfortunately, these projects were still in their infancy.” She offers a deprecating moue. “We must hope that his successor will continue them.”

  “Let’s hope so, indeed,” Roz answers. “What kind of projects were they?”

  “As I said, many of them were still in the very early stages of formulation. But obviously, Information infrastructure is a huge priority.”

  Roz frowns. A priority for Information, maybe, but it doesn’t seem like it’s been a priority for these governments. Not much has been done about it, anyway.

  “And then economic stimulus, water purification … You’ve seen the evaporation processing plant in Kas? Anyway, as you can tell, there’s a lot to be done.”

  “Most of the governments work well together?”

  “We try,” Hélène says, with some asperity. Her eyes flick up and down, assessing what she can get away with. “The Chinese, of course, they can be difficult. They just don’t understand the culture here. And the Sudanese … Well, we don’t actually work with any Sudanese.”

  “Do you think any of these frictions could have led to the explosion?” Roz motions at the surrounding funeral.

  Hélène makes a show of thinking, although Roz imagines she came over with someone in mind to pin it on. “It could have been the Sudanese. Some of them have been very distressed about the fragmenting of their country. They blamed Al-Jabali as much as anyone.”

  More than they blamed Information? Roz thinks, and also: “Their” country?

  “But, to be honest,” Hélène sighs, “much as I would like for it to be the Sudanese—and I strongly recommend that you do not discount them—I suspect that there may have been outsiders at work.”

  “Why do you say that?” Roz asks, wondering if by “outsiders” she is again referring to ethnic Chinese who have, most probably, spent their entire lives in this desert.

  “It’s just not something we would do,” Hélène says, waving her hand.

  “Really.” One of Roz’s personal travel rules is never to fly with an African head of state, aircraft accidents being a traditional means of doing away with them. “I think I could name a few examples.”

  Hélène flutters her toub. “With the situation here, if one of us was to have designs against another, it would be very public. Many people still see conflict as the best way to win additional territory.”

  “Or start a costly feud, which could be avoided by secrecy or the appearance of an accident,” Roz counters.

  “On the contrary,” Hélène says sweetly. “Feuds win support at home. My point is, there are elements of this disaster that suggest the involvement of foreigners. But you will be doing the investigation; I am sure you will find the truth. Surely, Information always does.” She flounces to her feet. “No plans to visit ToujoursTchad while you’re here?”

  “I’m afraid we’re very busy,” Roz says, making a mental note to have someone schedule an unannounced visit as soon as possible.

  CHAPTER 7

  On the stretch of green between the arms of the avenue, people waltz to the strains of an audio-boosted ballroom dance projection. They dance every morning as Mishima slides by, a quick impression of couples twirling and a father-son team of instructors (Information provides an auto-link to their ads) making gentle corrections or beating time in the air. At the end of the avenue, she crosses the narrow park and skates back along the other side. Her soles taper to blade-edges, calibrated to be almost frictionless where they meet the pavement, with calculated patches of slight cling along the edges to target specific muscle groups, shifting according to her workout goals. A few blocks from her apartment, Mishima slows, then lets herself cruise, straightening up. When she’s finally slid almost to a stop, she uses gesture control to gradually raise the friction to the level of clunky but adequate footwear. She steps cautiously, readjusting to her own weight and clumsiness as she transfers to a walk. She’s breathing deeply, grateful every day for the decades of increasingly efficient atmospheric scrubbers in Saigon; the air is scintillating, far cleaner than Paris or Tokyo.

  Mishima kicks off her shoes in the building entranceway and takes the five flights of stairs up to the apartment at a light, leaping run, the coda to her workout. She opens the door, drops the shoes, plops some foam from the dispenser in the entranceway, and runs it through her hair, along sweat-gathering areas, cleansing the exercise funk. She puts on some music, stretches against the wall and then on the floor. Looking up at the balcony railing reminds her she needs to water the plants. She leans into her stretch again, checks her diagnostics. She isn’t stretching as far as yesterday, but her right adductor is a little tight, so she doesn’t push it.

  Cooldown over, Mishima moves to her workstation. She pulls over one of the balloon lights—thin layers of luminous fluoron wrapped around a sealed helium bubble that floats against the ceiling—and settles in to finish a report. Mishima is an entrepreneur now, selling her services to the highest bidder. It’s a bracing change after spending years inside the world’s largest bureaucracy, even if she did have a privileged position there. At the moment, she’s working for an uptake accelerator specializing in political economy of marginalized groups, which seemed like an awesome match. They scour the world’s centenals for successful policy innovations and then try to get more governments to notice and adopt those innovations.
The first part is fun; the second part is both more difficult and less useful than it sounds. Almost always, a new context requires so much adaptation to make the initiative effective that it might as well be a completely new policy.

  She doesn’t have as much pull as a consultant as she did when she was veteran Information staff. Mishima finds it aggravating to have to provide a product to specifications that are often wrong, or at best inefficient. She has to tell herself, often, that her job is to give the client what they want, not tell the client what they should want. On the other hand, she finds it easier to detach from failure that way. Besides, her rate is high enough to cover a lot of aggravation.

  Her last mission was to Nuwara Eliya, where a small, mildly Marxist government found a way to resolve the tension between tea’s critical role in the economy and the exploitative economics of hand-picked tea production. The entire plantation labor force is provided through mandatory two-year stints for all youth, either before or after university, which their earnings help them to pay for. Mishima is trying to figure out the overlap between commodities that drive economies through low-paid manual work and the range of governments that would embrace a mandatory non-military service for youth. Maybe she can tweak the incentives so it’s not absolutely mandatory?

  She’s toying with the labor-incentive-water numbers for cotton, and has just about decided that she’s better off shifting the focus up the value chain to cheap textiles, when she gets a call.

  “Hi! Roz! How are you?” Mishima gladly swivels away from her workstation.

  “Tired, to be honest,” answers Roz, safely alone at last in the workspace of the crow. Malakal is in the cabin with the door shut. She suspects the male side of the event was at least as exhausting; he has assured her it was just as boring. “Long, ceremonial day.”