by Sean Platt
“Yes?”
“There’s too much information for that to be a handmade process. You’re right about that. But it’s controlled. It has to be.”
“So it’s AI. AI makes the decisions.”
“AI proposes candidates, but they must be greenlit. And even AI must follow an algorithm. A lot of it is about wealth. But there is more.”
Micah watched Clive, waiting for more.
“Maybe you could tell me what you’re talking about,” he said.
“That’s not something I’m at liberty to discuss,” Clive said. “But if I were you — in your unique, in-between position, on the cusp of something but not quite inside — I’d follow the wealth to find your answer.”
“What the hell does that mean, Clive?”
“Talk to someone who works with credits and exchange. Who writes conversion algorithms. The kind of person who might be able to write the rules for AI then greenlight or veto its suggestions.”
Wheels turned in Micah’s head. Something was almost clicking.
“And in unrelated matters,” Clive went on, “I imagine I’ll see you soon, at Craig Braemon’s pre-Shift event.”
“Say it again, Dom,” Omar said, holding his mobile next to Dominic’s mouth.
Dominic looked down at the small rectangular device then up from Omar’s long, ostentatiously dressed arm to his ostentatiously dressed torso. Omar was wearing a suit that Dominic, who didn’t know or care for colors, would have called brick red. Although Kate, across the trio of chairs in a revealing dress that showcased her assets above and below the waist, had already called it mauve.
Atop Omar’s ostentatiously dressed torso was his smiling head. Against his dark skin, Omar’s overly bleached teeth looked like Chiclets — a gum or candy (maybe both) that Dominic remembered Grandy used to carry. Omar was grinning wide enough to show off a handful of those Chiclets.
Dominic found himself torn. He had two possible responses. He could either try to make Omar eat the mobile or punch his fist through the man’s pristine dental work. Both were appealing options, but he couldn’t likely do both at once.
“Fuck off,” Dominic said.
“Just say it again.” From the corner of his eye, Dominic could see the screen, ready to record whatever he said next.
“Fuck off, Omar.”
“Tell me again how you feel about Dick Grabel. Tell me whether you think he’s competent to act as your number two for security at Craig’s Respero fundraiser. Tell me if you think he can be trusted.”
“I told you, he’s fine.”
“That’s not what you said last time, Dom.”
“I don’t like him,” Kate said.
“How ’bout you, Dom? How do you feel about Dick Grabel?”
Dominic pushed Omar in the chest. He didn’t want to be here. He was in trouble with the Lunis shortage and already had a ping from Austin Smith at NPS that his problems had doubled. The bug he’d left under Leo’s table had led to the arrest of half of the Organa village. He’d already dealt moondust; he was a damned junkie and would run dry; he’d betrayed a friend; he’d stolen dust from DZPD evidence to tide Leo over. Omar forcing himself into Dominic’s life this final time was bad enough without the lowlife’s humiliation.
“Stop it, asshole,” Dominic said.
“Stop what?” Kate asked.
“He’s trying to get me to say, ‘I like Dick’ again.”
There was a bonging from below Dominic’s chin. Omar pulled the handheld back and said, “Got it. Thanks, Dom.”
Omar pressed the mobile’s screen, and Dominic heard his own voice say, “I like Dick.”
“That’s my ringtone now. You wanna try calling me, test it out?”
Dominic rose then grabbed Omar by the collar. Kate raised her hands, waving for peace. Dominic let go of Omar then turned toward the office’s other end. He lasted three seconds then turned back, unsure what to do. You shouldn’t have to deal with immature bullies as an adult, and Dominic wasn’t used to being the one bullied. He’d always been large, gruff, and blue collar — another of Grandy’s terms that was increasingly synonymous with Directorate today. Dominic’s solid performance in school (mostly under and after his time in Leo’s class) had earned him a few names, but Dominic had proved himself to those boys with his fists in the streets. The idea that a two-bit hustler like Omar was getting under his skin now in such a stupid way was infuriating. There was no correct response. Looking away felt like pouting. And as much as he wanted to break Omar in half, his rational side knew that teaming with Omar and Kate was probably the only way out for all of them.
“Maybe you take a step down, Omar,” said Kate. Her voice was feminine and sexy, but her cadence and tone had all the finesse of a brick. Kate conflicted Dominic’s emotions. She was beautiful and alluring, but she moved, acted, and spoke like a man. He wasn’t sure whether he was attracted to her or not — though looking at Kate, it was almost impossible not to be.
“I’m just having fun,” Omar said.
“Maybe we just skip your fun, and you stop being an asshole,” Kate said.
Dominic gave Kate a small nod of thanks. She must’ve taken it for ogling because she covered her cleavage and rolled her eyes.
Omar shrugged, acquiescing. But because he was Omar, he touched his mobile one final time before putting it away and again Dominic heard himself profess his appreciation for Dick.
“Fine then. You want to be business, we’ll be business.” Omar straightened his collar and tipped his eyes toward Dominic’s abandoned chair.
Dominic returned the dealer’s stare, waited for him to sit, then plopped down with a grunt.
“As I was saying before all the humor left the room,” Omar continued, “Dick Grabel, from what you showed me of the roster, seems the logical choice to head up security.”
“I thought I was supposed to head up security,” Dominic said, trying to keep his voice even.
“Officially, Craig Braemon’s event is a goody-goody, PR-friendly fundraiser to provide Respero Dinners for poor people,” Omar said. “But we all know it’s mainly politics. Politics plus its location in DZ puts it under the purview of DZPD. And that means you’re in charge by default, Dom, because you’re captain of Station One, where Quark has its annex.”
Omar, as usual, was acting like the mastermind, even though he was just regurgitating what Dominic had already told him, using his own slippery words.
“I don’t see why that’s a problem,” said Kate.
Omar started to respond, but Dominic cut him off. “Anything that funds a nonprofit organization is considered public by DZ law, and that puts it under public protection. Add the strong political presence — the Ryans, for sure, maybe even other figures — we know will be in attendance, and the situation doubles. Police provide security like they would for either of the presidents. The stretch on resources this time of year is a pain in the ass because politicians use pre-Shift to exploit loopholes.”
“What do you mean?”
“They can throw parties and call them fundraisers,” Dominic said. “Anyone here really think an Enterprise stooge like Omar’s man Craig cares about Dinners for poor people?” He shook his head with obvious disgust, as if the Enterprise was the only dirty party. “They invite political allies and get drunk, but the provision lets them do it on the city’s dime. All sorts of city services are forced to support whatever stupidity bigwigs put together as long as they register them properly ahead of time.”
“Directorate thinking,” said Omar, scoffing.
Dominic, whose whole family had been Directorate for as long as the party had existed, gave him a glance before returning his attention to Kate.
“It’s a solid system if it’s not exploited, but of course it’s exploited plenty.” He eyed Omar. “Especially by Enterprise assholes who think the world belongs to them.”
“We’re a party of people who take the opportunities that present themselves. Right, Katie?”
“Po
lice provide protection,” Dominic went on. “For the duration of every one of these things, captain of the Quark-allied precinct — that’s mine, Station One — receives a conditional promotion. For a few hours every other week or so lately, my Beam ID makes me a co-commissioner because it takes a few precincts’ worth of patrolmen to divert and cover the event’s needs, and someone has to be in charge. It doesn’t let me run the city, but it’s still a promotion.”
Kate looked at Omar then back at Dominic. She recrossed her legs. Dominic, watching, fought a spontaneous boner.
“So you’ll head security at Braemon’s event.” Another glance at Omar. “No Dick required.”
“I can’t. I’m supposed to coordinate. It will seem strange if I’m patrolling Braemon’s apartment like a waiter. Problem is, it’s me who has the access needed to override a few layers of security on Braemon’s canvas, and that means I need to come by at some point anyway. So what Omar’s saying — what I was saying — is that I need to designate someone to head security who fits a specific profile: he needs to be competent enough to run the event without needing to check in up the command chain but incompetent enough that I can get past him without him shouting, ‘Hey there, Boss!’”
“So you’re onboard,” said Omar.
Dominic looked over. Omar’s face had changed. It was hard to believe this was the same person who’d just goaded him into saying “I like Dick” for immature shock value. Now he looked invested. Serious. Willing to talk straight in a way he hadn’t before.
“I already said I’m onboard.”
“I can hear the difference now, though. Now you’re thinking it out. You have in mind how you’ll do this, don’t you?”
“We. How we will do this.”
“See,” said Omar, “I like that even better. We. The three of us, as a team. You through acting like this is beneath you then?”
Dominic wasn’t so sure about that. He still loathed Omar. He still thought the asshole’s crony Jimmy was a hothead who might, however ancillary to the main trio currently in the office, represent a loose end that could get them caught. He still knew almost nothing about Kate, and there was a policeman’s itch about her that made Dominic think there was a secret being kept from him. In his gut, everything about Omar’s plan felt wrong. It felt dangerous and stupid. It felt like he was crawling back into bed with someone who’d repeatedly burned him.
But thinking through the plan — while dodging Omar’s abrasive personality — over the past few days had turned a few frozen wheels inside him. If what Omar said about the so-called Beau Monde was true, it meant there was an elite pulling strings that a fair world shouldn’t permit them to pull. And if Craig Braemon represented a portal to that elite, the good cop inside Dominic wanted to climb through it. Not to join that privileged group but to break it up like a ring of criminals.
Besides, on a practical level, it was beginning to feel like this whole thing might solve every one of Dominic’s problems with Lunis and the Organas. With leverage, he would no longer need to be a drug trafficker. With privileged access, he’d be able to help Leo if it turned out the old man’s cause was just…or crush him if he was another wrench in the system.
Dominic had tried to do things the fair way, and he’d always been stymied by people like Omar who didn’t play by the rules. Maybe it was time for Captain Long to start playing dirty, too, for the greater good.
“Don’t push your luck, Omar,” said Dominic.
“Fine,” said Kate, leaning forward and putting her cleavage on display. “You become phantom commissioner. You assign Grabel to head security at the event. The idea is to access Braemon’s canvas, right? You’re kidding yourself if you think that can be done even with commissioner’s Beam access. I had my own canvas locked down sixteen ways, and the right people were able to hack in like snapping a twig. You really think three hustlers will be able to walk in there and pop his system’s top if he’s the big shit you say he is?”
Dominic’s eyes narrowed at Kate’s use of the past tense. Her story of a hacked canvas had the sound of something previously discussed, but this was the first time Dominic was hearing it. What had she been hiding that had necessitated such extreme protection? Who were “the right people” who’d hacked it? It might have everything to do with a smuggling arrangement between Kate and Omar, and that made sense. But Dominic’s instincts said it was something different. Something further in the past. Something she’d admitted to without a second thought, forgetting herself and her current company.
But the moment passed, and Dominic’s eyes moved from Kate to Omar, who was smiling his giant white smile. The one that Dominic kept wanting to smash, ally or not.
“I think it just fine, Katie,” Omar said, “because you ain’t even heard the good part of the plan yet.”
Sam Dial felt like an asshole.
He sat in front of his laptop canvas, his anonymizer coupled and shielded, two separate timers ticking at his side reminding him to shower because he kept forgetting and stunk. The timers had gone off yesterday. He’d reset them. They’d gone off once today, and it had taken him a half hour to remember why he’d set them. In the meantime, the rabbit hole he’d been pursuing had sent him into a Beam hyperforum on Lunis usage. From there, he’d begun investigating add-ons he really wanted but didn’t trust himself to get, seeing as he felt sure most add-ons had location-betraying malware that may or may not be able to read (and report) their user’s Beam ID. After that, Sam had started to sketch out how such a nefarious system might work on paper, before remembering that camera drones might see him drawing. So he’d burned the paper on his stove then nearly forgot to turn off the range (the place was ancient; it didn’t even have an induction cooker) and had nearly burned the place down. Fortunately, his timers had gone off again at that point, one after the other, prompting him to kill the fire. He’d remembered the need to shower later and had reset them with no confidence that they’d properly alert him to his bathing need this time, or any other.
As he watched his screen, ignoring the machine’s prompt to drag out a holoweb and browse The Beam like a normal human, Sam felt an itch. He felt like a massive dickhead. An impostor. A poseur. A fake. A douche bag charlatan.
Sam stared at his Beam page’s open admin window, which was waiting for him to put his fingers on the keys like a caveman rather than dictating. Waiting for him to pretend to know things in Shadow’s superior, confident way. Waiting for Shadow to make proclamations like someone in control and with authority, knowing those proclamations would be read as the delusions of some asshole who’d embarrassed himself with proud promises to disrupt Shift.
Did Shadow have any followers left who believed in him? Should he post as he’d planned…or would posting get him laughed at and threatened?
He’d intended to write his update about misappropriation of city funds. About how the Beau Monde was swinging its big bat to get more than their fair share yet again. In the final days leading up to a rather undisrupted Shift (no thanks to Shadow’s big mouth and uncredited fuck-you thanks to Integer7), there was an increasing number of both Enterprise and Directorate events. All were supposedly fundraisers, all being paid for by the city, sucking off social services that poor people like Sam and most of Null needed far more. And the people throwing those events had the trailing identifier on their IDs designating them as part of the privileged class.
That’s something Null would normally care about. But did Shadow have any credibility left to post on it? He could barely open his inbox without finding more threats.
But it could be worse, Sam reminded himself.
Back when he’d worked at the Sentinel, before he’d ruffled feathers in one of Sam Dial’s defining life events, he’d had all sorts of brain hardware that suited his hyperconnected youth. He’d lived on The Beam back then. He’d never been alone. He’d chatted with six or seven people at once; he’d casually offloaded parts of his memory to Beam servers so that his own personal short-term memory could di
vert to more pressing concerns. He’d never even turned on do-not-disturb, having crafted AI-mediated custom responses for use when he was sleeping then used a deep cortex enhancement called a Tumbler to talk for him until he was awake enough to resume talking consciously.
Back then, Null’s threats wouldn’t have sat in his inbox. They’d have flown in front of his face. They’d have screamed in his ears. He’d have been assaulted, wounded, reduced to cowering before them.
Disconnected life at least had this going for him: He could shut it off. He could compartmentalize, even if he didn’t like it.
One of Sam’s alarms went off at the same time as a small diode blinked atop the Trill cabled into Sam’s anonymizer. It was another of Stefan’s inventions that provided a stupidly complicated solution to a simple function. If Sam had a working cochlear implant or even a decent Beam connection, the incoming caller could simply speak to him. But in Sam’s life, even calls weren’t straightforward.
Sam, suddenly realizing that none of the cloak and dagger was necessary because he was supposed to answer the call as the reporter Sam instead of the criminal Shadow, grabbed his handheld, attempted to send the ping over from his hijacked and filtered canvas, and failed. The call ended. Sam grabbed the ID and called back, this time using his normal mobile and identity.
“Nicolai Costa,” said a voice.
“Mr. Costa. This is Sam Dial.”
“I just tried to call you. Your canvas sent a reject. And now I can’t get video.”
“I’m calling from my handheld.”
“It’s still not registering right,” said Costa.
“It’s VoIP.”
“What’s that?”
“Voice over IP.”
Costa said nothing, probably baffled because nobody had used VoIP since before Sam was born. Even IP, which his hotwired system used, was an Internet holdover and wholly foreign to everyone. It was ironic that using a backward technology relying on Beam relics that the system itself barely remembered for protection was, right now, giving him away.