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She felt her heart go。 She draped herself across the body； holding on to the far edge of the gurney。
〃What have you done？〃 she heard Abbot shouting at Cavendish。 His voice was so far away。
〃We obtained all the proper permits to exhume the body；〃 Cavendish said。 〃A few cells； that's all we needed。〃
〃I won't be implicated in this；〃 Abbot was shouting。
She listened。 Such horror。 Her grip failed。 She slid to the floor。
〃Elise！〃 Abbot knelt over her。 He was trying to cradle her。 〃Call for help；〃 he demanded。
With the last of her strength； she pushed him away。
10
Pornography
FEBRUARY
It felt to Miranda as if she had lost her mother all over again。 But mourning had fallen from fashion； and so she did not cry。
Nearly everyone at Los Alamos had lost someone by now； either to the pandemic directly…especially the foreign scientists…or to the circumstances surrounding it。 The plague had still not muscled its way onto American shores。 But as medical stockpiles dwindled and physicians were sent off to various 〃beachheads〃 along the seaboards and Mexican border； other diseases were beginning to prey on the population。 Tuberculosis had made a major eback。 Polio was rearing its head。 There were cholera outbreaks up and down the Florida peninsula。 Mortality was said to be soaring among the very old and very young。 Health care was in such collapse that people were dying out there from dog bites； rusty nails； and broken bones。 Curiously all of the suffering； death； and chaos had e to be lumped together。 In one way or another； every random event was driven by the same single mechanism。 That was their definition of the plague。 You only had to say the word； and it explained any misery； any misfortune。 Even the death of an old woman from her second heart attack。
Elise had toppled into the mass grave in their minds。 Los Alamos had lost its leader； but gained a new one in Cavendish。 Miranda made her grief invisible。 As a courtesy to others； you were expected to bear up and carry on。 There was work to be done。 She did her work。 In the face of death； she threw herself into creating new life in the cloning works of Alpha Lab。 Sometimes her sadness could not be forgotten； though。 That was how she came to begin surfing the plague。
It had bee a minor obsession for many of them； a form of recreation； surfing the plague； as they called their electronic hitchhiking； watching the world unravel。 Miranda thought of it as a long…distance death watch； and had avoided it for months。 But now she felt drawn to know what was ing。
From the safety of their mesa top； equipped with the latest munication technology； surfers tapped into the storm of dispatches； pleas； rumors； and broadcasts being launched by victims around the world like messages in bottles。 One only had to dial in。 With a few keystrokes； Miranda could patch into security cameras mounted in Swiss or Argentine stores or banks； peer through television cameras fixed to the masts of legendary skyscrapers； revive phantom signals lingering in distant puters； or download imagery from satellites。 There were eyes everywhere。 The sky was filled with voices。 All you had to do was choose what you wanted to see； who you wanted to listen to。
People collected their finds like souvenirs； taping or downloading them； swapping them or jealously hoarding them； making websites； talking about their latest spectacle over coffee。 Everyone had their own tastes； their personal thresholds。 Some described muning for weeks with desperate strangers in the deep of night twelve time zones away。 Others went for grand； epic views of whole cities going still。 One woman was conducting a cyber…romance with an astronaut in the space station。 Clubs formed to reconstruct dead cities from their electronic relics； patching together images of empty streets； finding glimpses of buildings reflected in mirrors or store windows； entering apartments； viewing books on bedstands； the remnants of last meals； even the final videos watched by occupants。 Some people made a hobby of collecting the lives of victims。
Miranda started by going where they had gone。 She toured their cities； eavesdropped on their chat rooms； sampled their plague biographies； replayed images that were months old。 She followed the exoduses from foreign metropolises into the red sands of the Rajasthan Desert； into the Australian outback； over the Atlas Range and into the Sahara； and along the railways into the great forests of northern Russia。 From geosynchronous orbit； the halted trains and traffic looked like dead serpents。 She tracked fifty…mile…long columns of refugees turned back by armies in the middle of nowhere； at borders that were no more than lines on maps； the last vestiges of the nation…state。 Bloody food riots in Sao Paulo； London； and Berlin； the burning of Vienna； street orgies in Rio de Janero： With unbelievable speed； the plague had mushroomed into a tidal wave and sent panic ahead of itself。 The order of things did not decay so much as vanish。 Old rivals barely had time to swarm across borders； declare revolutions； or machete each other； before the virus swept them under。
Miranda traveled through the horrors and went on； searching for something； though she did not know what。 There was no lack of partners and places to explore。 As the hyper…disease advanced and nations fell； one simply moved on to the next victim； the next landscape。
At first she felt dishonest； or at least contradictory。 Voyeurism is always parasitic； and here they were； parasite hunters。 On the other hand； their curiosity was natural。 History was being made； or unmade。 Everyone wanted to be a witness。 There was fort in that； even a sort of immunity。 To be a witness implied they would outlast what they were witnessing。 Watching； they could remain above and outside of what they watched。 It was a form of pornography； but also at one level； a duty。 Even as they went rooting through the impending death of mankind； they were memorizing what had been forgotten； seeing what human eyes no longer saw。 They were gathering the last of remembrance。
One night Captain Enote； the head of security in her lab； slipped her a gift； a pink stick'em note with satellite coordinates。 He had been one of the few to attend Elise's funeral； despite having met her only once。 He had showed up in a jacket and tie and stayed at the back； and did not make eye contact with Miranda； though he'd e for her benefit。 This was the first time she'd spoken to him since。 〃Try this；〃 he said。 〃Private stock。 Africa。 Part of the Navy recon。 Keep it to yourself； please。 It's supposed to be classified。〃
The Captain was retired military； a former Marine； and it didn't surprise Miranda that he had some inside connection to the Navy expedition。 She knew only the bare bones of its mission： to inherit the earth。 With America fast being the last and only nation left intact； her fleets had been dispatched to investigate and catalogue whatever remained on the other continents。 The aircraft carriers with their reconnaisance planes were central to the probe。 They hovered off foreign coasts； documenting the state of the cities and countryside； their aircraft overflying the roads and rivers； reco