The Caryatids - Bruce Sterling [108]
Developments of this scale, the most grandiose scale possible: These were the schemes that kept Sonja standing firm at her duties. Forged in the heat of combat, she was an iron pillar of the state.
Except on Mr. Zeng’s analytical screens, where the Angel of Harbin was not an iron pillar but a vulnerable fluffy blue cloud.
With her bioplastic notebook uneasily poised on her exfected knees in her watery hospital bed, Sonja saw, with a sinking, seasick sensation, that her blue cloud looked distinctly stormy. In Zeng’s world, this was the hexagram sigil and omen signifying that one was (in a colloquial translation) “getting too big for one’s boots,” that “the heat was on,” that “tomorrow’s prospects were dim.”
As she studied these cryptic hints, Sonja realized for the first time that Mr. Zeng’s service had a name in English: it was a “correlation engine.” She had been using a correlation engine all this time, in another language and another context. Apparently these radical techniques had escaped Chinese state secrecy, and become so common lately that even Western businesspeople like George saw fit to use them.
Sonja certainly was not in “business.” Sonja was a state heroine. Profits were not her concern—but purges were. As a state operative, if you didn’t already know for sure who the chosen victim was and why, then that victim was probably you.
This established, Sonja had to discover who had tried to kill her. There were three basic varieties of killers in China: the people supporting the state, the traitors against the state, and, worse yet, the people like herself and Mr. Zeng, the people definitely with the state yet not eminently of the state, people who were plausibly deniable and eminently disposable.
After some deft string pulling, the local police saw fit to share the results of their investigations with Sonja.
The attack plane had been vaporized by its payload of explosive. However, one of its wings and parts of its landing gear had cracked and fallen off. Those fragments were rich with criminal evidence.
For the Jiuquan police, any grain of stray pollen was a clue that blazed like an asteroid. The police knew the range of the plane, from its wing shape and its fuel capacity. They knew, roughly, what landscapes it must have overflown, because of the pollen lodged in its crude seams. They further knew that the plane had been hand-built, recently, in the desert, from snap-together panels of straw plywood.
It was a toy airplane made in a secret bandit camp—made from pressed Mongolian hay. The plane’s lightweight panels were so carelessly glued that they might have been assembled by a ten-year-old child.
As a further deliberate insult, the plane had somehow been salted with DNA from several high-ranking officials who had once been major figures of the Chinese state. Fake DNA evidence was no surprise to the local police, of course—even the cheapest street gangs knew how to muddy a DNA trail, these days. Still, given that the police in Jiuquan were absolutely sure to study DNA evidence, this was a nose-thumbing taunt, a knowing terrorist provocation. It showed a mean-spirited cunning that could only be the work of true subversives.
So, Sonja had the profile of her enemies: they were not of the Chinese state. They were ragtag political diehards, pretending to state connections, skulking outside the state’s borders, and trying to liquidate her. They were anti-state bandits who wanted revenge.
It had never been Sonja’s intention to provoke revenge attacks. Sonja had never wanted to kill anyone. Her first jaunt into China had been as a teenage camp follower in a medical relief column. Its poorly armored trucks were piled to bulging with rations, water barrels, tents, cots, bandages, antibiotics … Not thirty kilometers from port they’d been ambushed with rockets and small arms, their convoy shot to pieces and everything of value stolen by feral, screeching, dust-caked, rag-clad bandits who had scrambled back into the barricaded rubble that had once been their town.
That was Sonja’s introduction to the true situation