Free Zendegi by Greg Egan

The density of the crowd kept their pace to a shuffle, and the afternoon heat was beginning to bite, but the atmosphere was upbeat, and the constant rhythmic chant of ref-eren-doom - the English loan-word imported virtually unchanged into Farsi - was echoed playfully between different groups, breaking up the monotony and sparing people’s throats.
     
    Jomhuri-ye-Eslami Avenue was a broad, elegant street, with a stately row of fountains where it met Baharestan Square. It had been spared from the current spate of road-works that plagued much of central Tehran - all the flyovers and tunnels-in-progress that filled the streets with concrete dust, coating Martin’s trouser cuffs and shredding his nasal membranes. Some of the upmarket clothing shops along the route were closed and shuttered, but others had banners of support in the windows, and a few had proprietors, sometimes even whole families, standing in the doorways waving and cheering. Martin thought back to 2003, when he and Liz had joined an anti-war march through Sydney, just before the invasion of Iraq. Given the outcome, that was hardly an encouraging comparison, but he wasn’t reaching for a political analogy. It was simply that the measured, determined mood of the crowd, the steady rhythm of their advance, the whole texture of sounds and emotions, had been cut from the same cloth.
     
    Martin felt a sudden ache of loneliness; he could not have expected Liz to be marching beside him here, but it would have been enough to be able to sit with her in the evening and say: You know what I was reminded of today? Now their shared memories meant nothing.
     
    ‘Did you see that?’ Behrouz asked him.
     
    ‘Sorry, I was—’
     
    ‘Her phone.’ Martin followed his gaze; the green-sashed marshal was using it to talk to someone. Martin checked his own phone; there was still no signal.
     
    ‘Do you want to ask her about it?’ Martin suggested. ‘If you can convince her we’re not informers.’
     
    When she’d finished the call Behrouz approached her and made introductions. The woman gave her name as Mahnoosh.
     
    She addressed Martin directly, in English. ‘I read some of your stories before they cut the internet.’
     
    Martin felt a twinge of self-consciousness; his reports were written for Australian readers skimming half-a-dozen foreign political stories over breakfast, not sophisticated Tehranis in the thick of the action. He said, ‘I hope you’ll excuse any mistakes I made; I’ve only been here a few months.’
     
    She smiled slightly. ‘Of course.’
     
    ‘Do you mind if I ask you how your phone’s working?’
     
    ‘It’s not going to the towers,’ she said. ‘Just direct to other phones.’
     
    ‘I don’t understand.’
     
    She spoke with Behrouz. ‘We’ve set up a mesh network,’ he translated. ‘It doesn’t rely on any infrastructure from the phone company; the phones just pass the data between themselves. Email, text messages, voice calls, web services.’
     
    Martin was impressed. No doubt the government would soon find a way to block the system - they were already jamming satellite TV - but for now the protesters had an unexpected advantage. ‘Can I plug into this network?’
     
    Mahnoosh held out her hand and he passed her his phone. She inspected it for a few seconds then returned it. ‘Sorry, no. The best one is this—’ She took her own phone from her pocket and showed it to him. The manufacturer’s logo was one he’d never seen before: a triangle formed from three copies of the letter S.
     
    ‘Who makes these?’
     
    ‘Slightly Smart Systems,’ Mahnoosh replied, a hint of amusement in her eyes at the wonderfully self-deprecating name. ‘Indian software, Chinese hardware. But we made some changes ourselves.’
     
    Martin handed the phone back. He was surprised that Omar hadn’t tried to sell him one, knowing how useful it would be. But since the night of the crash they’d been more circumspect in their