‘Look at you,’ she said, not without affection. ‘Sitting there like an owl. Melancholy bloody gargoyle. You mawkish bugger. You don’t get any insight, you know, just because it’s night. Just because some buildings have their lights on.’
In typical political cliché, unificationists were split on many axes. Some groups were illegal, sister-organisations in both Besel and Ul Qoma. The banned had at various points in their history advocated the use of violence to bring the cities to their God-, destiny-, history-, or people-intended unity. Some had, mostly cack-handedly, targeted nationalist intellectuals – bricks through windows and shit through doors. They had been accused of furtively propagandising among refugees and new immigrants with limited expertise at seeing and unseeing, at being in one particular city. The activists...
‘We’ve been screwed he tells me, and I note he tells me so as if I am disagreeing with him. Which when last I looked I was not doing.’ ‘Seriously what . . .’ ‘In fact it could be said I agree with him on a startling scale. Of course we’ve been screwed, Borlú. Stop spinning like a drunk dog. What do you want me to say? Yes, yes, yes this is bullshit; yes someone has done
She drove my computer, pulling the information she had into various spreadsheets. She translated my muttered, vague ideas into charts. ‘This is called data mining.’ She said the last words in English. ‘Which of us is the canary?’ I said. She did not answer. She only typed and drank thick coffee, ‘made fucking properly,’ and muttered complaints about my software.