by Sean Platt
And now Clive had accepted an in-person meeting. Here, in his office, at the top of the twisted black Licorice Spire.
Micah looked at Lawrence, wondering if the man was a clone. Supposedly, they existed, and his lack of certainty felt like an unforgivable gap in knowledge. When Xenia could do all it could for the Beau Monde with its biological replacements, why would anyone bother to duplicate unenhanced human flesh as a clone? And even if it was possible, would you clone simply to preserve a competent assistant? Why even have an assistant when AI could surely do it better than Lawrence 2?
Micah stood. Lawrence looked over. He looked maybe twenty-eight and had an embarrassingly boring haircut.
“Tell him I have an appointment,” said Micah.
“He knows you have an appointment, Mr. Ryan.”
Micah swore inside. That had backfired. He’d meant that he wanted Clive to know he had a different appointment (something that might make him seem important by implication) and that Clive’s lack of punctuality was going to make him miss it. He wanted to flex his muscles and let Clive know that even the great mogul wasn’t the only important thing on Micah’s schedule. But all he’d done, by phrasing things wrong, was force Lawrence to remind Micah that Clive knew he was out here and yet was in no hurry to honor his time.
“Can I get you something while you wait?” Lawrence asked. As if Micah could be pacified with shitty coffee. As if Micah were just another supplicant, waiting on bent knee.
“I meant, I have another appointment. I need to leave soon if I’m going to make it.”
Lawrence watched him pleasantly.
Micah took a step toward the hallway door, waiting for Lawrence to stop him.
“I need to leave,” he repeated. “I’ve scheduled these too close together, and I’d assumed we’d be on time.” He resisted the urge to tap the wall to show Lawrence what time it actually was. He knew from his display that Spooner had kept him waiting for nearly twenty minutes already, but showing the assistant might shame him into action.
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Ryan.” Lawrence looked back at his screen. It was so thin that Micah literally couldn’t see it from the side — an ergonomic floating model buoyed by nanobots and made to adjust to the viewer’s eye level as it changed throughout the day. As Micah looked at Lawrence now, it seemed that Clive’s assistant was simply ignoring him.
“Unless you want to ring in and tell him. That I have a short window before I absolutely must leave, I mean. But it would have to be right now.”
Lawrence gave Micah a pleasant smile. “Mr. Spooner prefers not to be disturbed while working. I let him know when you arrived.”
“You may want to remind him, though, seeing as I have to go.”
Another smile. “That’s quite all right, Mr. Ryan. If you must leave, you can call anytime to reschedule. Have a pleasant afternoon.”
Micah stood where he was for a moment then returned to his hard, uncomfortable seat. He was just letting his head hang in defeat when the inner door opened. A boyish shout greeted him before he could compose himself enough to muster some dignity.
“Micah! It’s so nice to see you in person, young man.”
Micah made his face cordial but otherwise neutral. Clive had always called him “young man.” In Micah’s mind, it wasn’t unlike being called “kiddo” or “sport.”
“I have an appointment,” Micah said, again looking toward the hallway door. “It’s very important.”
Clive came forward and wrapped an arm around Micah’s shoulders, rumpling his blazer. “Oh yes. Of course it is.”
“No. I mean, I have an appointment.” Again he looked toward the door, half gesturing to indicate his pressing need to be elsewhere because he was a vital, in-demand person who waited on nobody.
“Sure, sure. I ran long on a previous call. I know you have an appointment, but it couldn’t be helped.”
“I mean…” Micah trailed off, sighing. He wished Clive had just agreed to meet in a simulation, like a normal person.
“Have a seat, Clive,” said Micah, gesturing, figuring he might as well try and order the man around his own office to regain some pride. But Clive was already walking to a bar along one wall. He didn’t seem to have heard.
“Get you a drink, Micah?”
“It’s a little early, isn’t it?”
Clive poured brown liquid over ice then drank half of it in one pull. The cost of that long swallow, knowing the way a man like Clive stocked his home and office, probably exceeded most of the city’s yearly Directorate doles.
“Sure it is,” said Clive, flashing his winning smile. “Nothing for you then? Fine.” He crossed the room, sat away from where Micah had indicated, and made himself casual. Micah, who’d been about to accept the drink, sat watching Clive swirl his own glass, ice cubes tinkling.
Micah sat. The chair was too small.
“Why did you want to meet in person, Clive?”
“You were the one who wanted to meet.”
“Yes, of course. But I assumed we’d meet in an immersion like we normally do.”
“Mikey, do you know who I meet in person most often?”
“I’d really rather you call me Micah.”
“Your mother,” Clive said, answering his own question and ignoring Micah’s protest. “I used to have a chance to see you and Isaac. Now it’s all simulations. It feels like we’ve spent time together because we’ve met in so many — but I swear this feels new now, like I haven’t seen you in decades.” He sipped. “Nobody meets in person anymore.”
“Plenty of people meet in person,” said Micah.
“Sim this, sim that. Immerse this, immerse that. That’s the problem with being rich, Micah. Everyone always gives you the best, even if you don’t want it. Sometimes, I want the imperfection of personality. Not something that’s been sifted and sorted by The Beam. And what does it say that really it’s just me and your mother and — well, and select other people who’d bore you — who I take my real time to meet and share space with? I’ve missed you, Micah. Haven’t even seen you in an immersion for a few months now. How are you? How is life in politics?”
“Complicated.” He shifted.
“Well then. What can I do for you?”
Micah took a moment before responding. Clive had always been his insider within his mother’s private group, but even Clive wouldn’t outright admit it even existed, who was in it, how much power it really had, or anything else. They’d always danced around the issue in veiled metaphors and winks. Only recently had things begun to change a little, probably lining up with his mother’s forthcoming death — sooner or later, depending on Kai. If he had to guess, it meant that Rachel’s involvement would pass to Micah when she shuffled off this mortal coil. But begging to know more — even after Clive asked a question Micah could answer with a too-curious question of his own — would probably result in frustration. It was maddening how well Clive kept the group’s secrets.
Instead of asking directly about the group (“Panel,” he’d heard it called) and his chances of joining the zenith of elite, Micah sniffed at its edges.
“I’m concerned about my mother’s health.”
Clive actually laughed. “No, you aren’t. Just because you haven’t been in my office before today doesn’t mean I don’t know you, Micah. I remember ages ago, when your grandfather moved Ryan into the Yukon, I’d come to your house and — ”
Micah cut him off. During the years about which Clive was about to wax nostalgic, Micah and Isaac had been in their twenties, but Clive’s tone suggested he was taking Micah’s seeming age today at face value and was picturing the two boys as toddlers playing with blocks.
“Not that kind of concerned,” Micah said. “I meant in terms of tidying affairs. I somehow doubt the most important things she might leave hanging if something happens to her are written in her will.”
“She’s left other plans in place for above-and-beyond matters. It’s not all with her attorney and will.”<
br />
“Like what?”
Clive half smiled. So much for sniffing around Panel’s edges. Micah was going to be cockblocked before he got close. “What needs to be addressed has been addressed.”
“I don’t even know everything she has her hands in,” Micah said, keeping his voice casual, trying to pretend his question had been general rather than prying into the forbidden topic. “She’s on dozens of committees throughout the party — both parties, maybe, through avatars. There’s the whole of Ryan Enterprises…”
“But you’re already running Ryan, Micah. She and I have discussed it. You and Isaac will each inherit half, but you alone will be the decision maker. You’ll do what you’re doing now. Rachel’s only instructions are that you let Isaac feel he has some control over the company’s direction, even though he’ll have none. The only change from now to then is that your credit balance will grow much larger.”
Clive crossed one leg over the other, sitting back. Now that he’d told Micah what he already knew (and what he could have reminded Micah of over a voice call), he was waiting patiently for his visitor to find his balls and cut to the chase. Obviously, legal matters weren’t what had caused Micah to request the meeting, and his pretense was an insult to them both.
“If that same number of credits dropped into someone else’s account,” Micah said, “what would happen? In terms of their social status.”
Clive uncrossed his legs and leaned forward.
“What do you mean?”
“I have some people asking me about Beau Monde. People who have been knocking on the door for a long time. I think if they don’t get the flag, we risk losing them.”
Micah sat back as Clive moved farther forward. He finally had Clive’s attention and was again feeling some of his usual composure. Everything had been carefully phrased: the assertion that people were asking about Beau Monde, which wasn’t something anyone really talked about because it was all rumor. The assertion that they’d asked Micah, which put him in a position of power and implied authority. The way he’d casually mentioned the trailing identifier appended to Beau Monde Beam IDs — a tidbit that even the Beau Monde itself wasn’t supposed to know. And lastly, the way Micah had asked Clive about any of it — discussing highest-level information, bonding the two men together in shared conspiracy.
“And who would these people be?” Clive asked.
“Nicolai Costa. And a…another friend of mine.”
At the mention of Costa, Clive sat back. He looked surprised in a specific way. Few people outside of Panel knew the secret importance of Nicolai Costa. Micah wanted Nicolai because of his role in making the modern Beam possible, but based on Clive’s eyes, it seemed Nicolai had deep meaning to Panel, too.
“Costa came to you? Asking about Beau Monde?”
“Indirectly.”
“And what’s your question about credits?”
“My credit balance is already enormous. Getting more won’t make me Beau Monde because I’m already Beau Monde. But what about Nicolai? What if he got the same windfall?”
“Are you considering giving Costa your inheritance?”
“I’m asking how it happens. How Beau Monde status is conferred. I’m asking if it’s simply a matter of wealth. Because Nicolai isn’t the only person who seems to have enough yet hasn’t moved up. Or been moved up.”
“I will inquire,” said Clive, not at all answering the question.
“And for me,” said Micah. “Inquire for me.”
“You’re already Beau Monde.”
Micah gave Clive a long look. He didn’t mean Beau Monde. He meant what stood above it.
“Who makes the decision?” Micah asked instead.
“It’s complicated.”
“There are too many for your group to handpick them all. Even if Beau Monde is the top 1 percent, 1 percent of the NAU is still a lot of people.”
“Like I said, it’s complicated.”
Clive watched him, assessing. Micah watched him back.
“Was that all?” Clive didn’t rise from his chair, but the meeting had apparently reached a stalemate.
“There’s one more thing,” Micah answered.
Clive waited for him to continue.
“My job has been complicated lately, thanks to events nobody’s bothered to inform me about.”
Clive nodded. “Okay.”
“I understand there are limits to what you can share. But we’re all in this together, and we both know a lot of the supposed inter-party feuding is just for show, to energize Shift and make it seem to matter.”
“It does matter,” said Clive.
“In terms of the Senate balance, yes. But for the people, it’s just smoke and mirrors. Putting on a good show.”
Clive looked like he might pretend to feel differently but decided not to insult Micah by doing so.
“Maybe this all happened because you wanted a genuine reaction out of Enterprise. Meaning: a genuine reaction out of me, since the sheets care more about covering me than the president. But what you may be missing is that now that the Prime Statements are over, I’ve been given no direction as to my response.”
“What are you talking about, Micah?”
“Mindbender. You could have told me Carter Vale was planning to dig up that old chestnut. It’s not just my high-profile Enterprise role to consider. I also have a large stake at Xenia.”
“You’re misunderstanding, Micah. Nobody knew Vale was planning to promise a return to work on Project Mindbender — to promise that Directorate members would be able to access it as part of their services package if it ever gets finished. That took all of us by surprise.”
“Vale just came up with it on his own? Totally rogue?”
“Maybe you should ask your brother. He’s unofficial head of Directorate.”
Micah almost laughed. Isaac didn’t know strategy even at peak form, and he was far from his best self now. He and Natasha were somewhere between their normal acrimonious, bitchy selves and a gross version of twisted in love. Micah, who knew the whole story from both ends, was in a unique position to both pity and be disgusted by the couple. Isaac had re-won Natasha’s admiration by saving her from a siege that he himself had caused. Natasha had folded right back into the arms of a man she’d disrespected for years — but she likewise hadn’t backed away from either her decision to shift, her emasculating comeback concert, or her PR campaign with Isaac’s failings at its center. They were two people dancing with knives at each other’s backs. The sex, if it was happening, would probably peel paint. Or cause paint to leap off the walls in embarrassment and shame.
“Isaac doesn’t have any idea what’s happening,” said Micah.
“You’re sure?”
Micah leaned in. “Do you know something?”
Clive leaned back, shrugging.
“So Vale’s proposal was of the blue.”
“As far as anyone seems to know without quizzing Vale, yes.”
“What’s being done about it?”
“Done?”
Micah tried to decide if he wanted to voice his certainty that Panel, like Micah himself, sometimes ordered problems solved in lethal ways. Instead, he said, “Does what Vale said mean anything at all? Are there competing labs looking into Mindbender-type research? Was something leaked from Xenia?”
“Relax, Micah. He’s dusting off an old idea and throwing research appropriations at it. They’ll spend trillions trying to make a square peg fit a round hole, and then they’ll give up while Xenia’s progress on the real Mindbender continues unimpeded. It’s a pipe dream.”
“Do you think he believes what he said? Vale, I mean?”
“Vale is as bright eyed and naive as they come. I imagine he still believes in the Tooth Fairy.”
Micah sat back, feeling heavy. Clive gave a little wave, dismissing it all as c’est la vie.
“Spice of life. And to think, we were so sure Enterprise would take the Senate this year.”
“You don’t th
ink we will?” It hurt to hear Clive say it, even though Micah had more or less calculated the same thing. Whether Panel had orchestrated Vale’s announcement or not, the idea of suffering another term of Directorate Senate majority — especially after he’d spent months believing the opposite — felt like a ton of bricks on his back.
Clive laughed. “Of course not. The Senate will remain Directorate. Vale has pulled the most precious of tricks. He’s given the population something they can both aspire to and believe. The Mindbender pipe dream is real enough to have a kernel of far-fetched truth yet lofty enough to inspire the lowest people to new heights. As far as they can climb to heights, anyway. Starving Enterprise will shift to Directorate so they can be a part of it. Only those who truly deserve to be in Enterprise will stay.” The last should have been both self-evident, but Micah took it as an insult to his party’s promise.
Clive saw Micah’s annoyed expression and stood. Micah, sensing the meeting’s end — without conclusion or anything learned, of course — stood as well.
“It’s fine, Micah. Don’t worry about Vale. Don’t worry about Mindbender. Or Shift. Or the Senate. We’ll adapt. We always do.”
“We?” Micah wasn’t sure what the pronoun referred to.
“Your future is in good hands. I’ll just say that.”
Micah felt like Clive was tossing him a bone. Part of him wanted to reject the platitude because it felt like pandering, and Micah Ryan didn’t need pandering. But the simple sentence still made something inside him stand at attention.
Your future is in good hands.
Clive didn’t wink. But it was close.
Micah suppressed a smile. He nodded briefly instead, shook Clive’s offered hand in what seemed to be parting, and turned toward the door.
“Micah,” Clive called from behind him.
Micah turned.
“You asked about Beau Monde. About status for Nicolai and…” he gave a tiny little smile, as if he knew something, “…others.”