by Sean Platt
“I think we both know there’s more to it than that,” Micah said, a trifle short. “I told you as much, and I’m sure my mother told you more.”
Nicolai forced himself to finish his sip then set the glass down slowly. He’d assumed Rachel and Micah wouldn’t have cross-talked about Nicolai’s visit because the Ryans ate their young — and, he supposed, their elders. But in just a few days, news of Nicolai’s poking into Ryan affairs had made its way ‘round the circle.
“Look, Nicolai. You can go off and play your piano if you want. Go paint. Go read and write books. Wear a fucking beret for all I care. But I know you better than you’re giving me credit for, and I know that you’re equal parts artist and capitalist. It’s not even incongruent. I feel the same way about myself. The art we create is big and bold and doesn’t appear on a canvas. To put it bluntly, people like you and me — we make the world. That’s our art. So you can brush off your father’s creations if you want. You can turn away from everything I do the same as you’re turning away from everything my brother does. Maybe you don’t want anything to do with any of us, despite the fact that you thought it pertinent to go and talk to Rachel. And that’s to say nothing of what’s going on with your little girlfriend.”
“I don’t have a girlfriend.”
Micah gave a tiny, patronizing smile.
“Point is, you’d be lying to yourself. If you stop being angry and hurt long enough to think honestly about all of this, you’d see how obvious that is. Turning from my requests — or, if you prefer, my suggestions, which you may feel free to adapt and take as your own ideas — would be cutting off your nose to spite your face. It’s another thing that she and you have in common, and she’s just as slow to come around and get on the winning side.”
“You mean your mother?” Nicolai asked, heart thumping at Micah’s mention of “she.”
“Yes, Nicolai,” said Micah, his voice thick. “My mother is who I’m talking about. Rachel Ryan wants to be a free-agent artist.”
Again, Nicolai decided to dodge, pretending not to hear Micah’s sarcasm. He was having trouble keeping all of his lies straight. Did Micah know he and Kai knew each other? He’d been assuming not, but it’s not like it would have been impossible to tie them together. Micah’s Beau Monde access would have no trouble connecting them, even if only casually. Rachel might even have said something to Nicolai about Kai; he couldn’t remember. That was the problem with secrets.
“What’s your…suggestion?” Nicolai asked, hoping the many truth detectors he felt sure Micah had on his body and in his office’s canvas wouldn’t hear his uncertainty.
“You’ve heard about Craig Braemon’s Respero fundraiser. The Violet James Foundation thing.”
It was a statement, not a question. Nicolai watched Micah, trying to control his breathing. The house of cards was growing too tall. Not only did Micah know Nicolai had been snooping in his family, he also seemed to know something about Kai…and maybe the secret they were keeping from him, about Kate-né-Doc. But now there was this, too. Craig Braemon’s pre-Shift event. The same pre-Shift event that conspiracy theorist Sam Dial had already convinced Nicolai to attend for nefarious purposes, not even an hour ago.
Nicolai nodded. He managed to say, “Sure,” but didn’t trust himself with a second word.
“I’d like you to attend. As a Capital Protection representative.”
“Why?”
“Because Braemon doesn’t like me. We have…history. But it’s already become one of those events that’s more than its face value. He’s also tied to my mother.”
“Does he like her?”
“Probably not. But they have other ties. I think.”
“You think?”
Micah shifted, finally coming down to sit properly in the chair, taking a sip of his wine.
“I’ll be blunt, Nicolai. Let’s slash the knot, in the spirit of honesty and having all cards on the table. I know you know Kai Dreyfus.”
Nicolai resisted choking on his wine.
“And I know you know about the Beau Monde. Of course you do because you’re not stupid. And because after talking to Kai, I know that she knows, so of course you’ve discussed it.”
“Kai is just a friend,” was all he could think to say.
“Sure she is,” said Micah, and Nicolai found himself unable to read the man’s subtext — if there was more to what he knew than he was letting on. “Because she’s lobbying for you, same as she’s lobbying for herself.”
“She is?” The idea was strangely touching. He knew Kai’s lust for Beau Monde status, but he hadn’t known she was arguing for Nicolai’s inclusion without being asked. In the moment, he found himself missing her.
“I might as well tell you because Kai will tell you anyway: She thinks I can get both of you in, and I’ve told her truthfully that I can’t — but that I may know how to find out who controls the decisions. Braemon is part of that.”
“You’re sending me to this fundraiser so you can get Kai and me into the Beau Monde?”
Micah shook his head. “I’d be insulting you if I pretended that was the reason. Of course it’s not. But Braemon has something I want, too.”
“What?”
“A vote.”
“A vote for what?”
“You don’t need to know that any more than I need to know other people’s privileged information. Like: any secrets you and Kai might be keeping from me.”
“We’re not — ”
“I want leverage on Braemon. But that’s good news for you because you also want leverage on Braemon.”
“I don’t want leverage.”
“Sure you do. Same as Kai.”
“Kai came asking you for something,” Nicolai said, “so why don’t you send Kai?”
“I am,” said Micah. He recrossed his legs. “I’m sending her with you.”
Nicolai found himself speechless. The levels of deception were endless. Maybe Micah knew all that he and Kai had done and tried to hide from him and simply didn’t care because there was a bigger prize on the table. Or maybe he cared plenty, and what was happening now was akin to a cat playing with its prey before leaving its guts on the floor.
“What do you want us to do?”
“Attend.”
“And?”
“That’s it. Just attend. Go to the event, and make your intentions clear.”
Nicolai squinted, not understanding. “You want us to threaten him? With what?”
“You’re not listening, Nicolai. Stop trying to read between the lines. Attend and intend. That’s it.”
“You want me to go to this thing with Kai. And once there, you want me to think good thoughts?”
Micah nodded. “Thoughts about getting what I need from Braemon. What you and Kai, by extension, need as well.”
This was feeling more and more like a trap. This wasn’t a mission; it was a prayer circle.
“Why?”
“I’m conducting an experiment.”
“Maybe you could tell me what the experiment hopes to prove?” Nicolai said.
Micah took a sip, his legs still crossed at the knee, his fine suit bold and powerful. “Whether certain…sources…are right about the network’s allegiance.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You brought your father’s nanobots to the NAU, Nicolai. As I said, there’s a lot of talk about how The Beam might be changing. I want to see if it’s true. As I’m sure my mother implied or flat-out told you we kept you close all these years not just because we like you and appreciate your mind, but because we think you’re important.”
“Noah Fucking West, Micah, if you’d just explain what you — ”
“Braemon’s security is impossibly complex. The gates are all guarded by highly evolved artificial intelligent agents. There is literally no way for a human to hack their way inside it.” He took another sip of wine, finishing the glass. “But if I’m right, your personal history with the AI might have
made you some friends inside the system.”
“You think that just because I want to get you inside Braemon’s system, it’s just going to happen?” Nicolai said, his jaw wanting to hang open.
Micah smiled. “Seems worth a shot to find out, doesn’t it?”
Nicolai swallowed. Sam Dial had suggested Nicolai attend Braemon’s party for reasons that worked for Nicolai but were only fully known to Sam…and now here was Micah, practically ordering Nicolai to do the same thing.
Nicolai watched Micah’s cocky smile, feeling his world’s bolts loosen even further than they’d felt of late. Unbidden, his memory played back a snippet from a NEXT talk he’d heard years ago that had refused to leave his mind:
As we scream past singularity, the idea that “everything happens for a reason” has intertwined with the expression “Everything that can happen, will happen.” The first has stopped being an expression about faith and has instead become a truth about the inevitable probabilities that come with an infinite-computing, nearly omniscient, AI-driven brute force loop.
Was the concordance of Sam’s and Micah’s directives a coincidence?
Maybe. But more and more, in Nicolai’s mind, the idea of coincidence was feeling obsolete.
August 14, 2091
“Archer,” said the attractive woman to Sam’s right, touching his arm, “which way will you be shifting?”
It took Sam a moment to answer. Just a moment, but the pause — between his brain’s automatic response and the verification delivered through his cloud implant — was there. Ironically, it was The Beam that answered first, and Sam’s own reaction (a desire to correct the woman) came second. One more bit of proof that Beam off-worlding of processing was more natural than nature, given that biology was slower, and its recall not nearly as sure.
But yes, despite his brain’s knee-jerk rejection of his new name, he was able to verify that his identity tonight was that of Archer Latham, age twenty-four, quasi-reclusive software entrepreneur, native enough to District One that his family still thought of the city as Los Angeles. Sam had actually never been to D1 before now, but he’d created an extensive faux history for Archer Latham and naturally had maps and access to all of the public cams. His wetchip was one of the best he’d been able to afford. As long as he had a good Beam connection, he should be able to come across just fine as Archer.
“I’m not going to tell you that,” he told the woman.
Her name was Veronica. She had mocha skin and emerald green eyes. It wasn’t a normal combination, but that’s what Sam found so incredibly attractive. He wanted to ask her if both were natural — the skin color and the eyes — but it would be as rude as asking if she was truly as young as she seemed, given that her presence at the table meant she was wealthy enough to be seventy-five and not look it. As rude, really, as asking Sam/Archer which way he intended to shift.
“Enterprise,” said the man across the table from Sam. “That boy is as Enterprise as they come.” The man was big, broad, and had a deep laugh. Apparently, he was from Texas. He was going by the name Sully, but Sam thought his real name might be Houston. As in, again, Texas. He might be one of the original partners who’d formed O, the sex industry giant. But as tempting as it was to suss out the big man’s history, Sully/Houston wasn’t Sam’s target tonight.
“Maybe,” said Sam.
“Ain’t nobody at this table who’s Directorate,” said Sully.
“I am,” said a woman two people down from Sully at the big round table.
A waiter came between them just as Sully took a deep breath and prepared to remonstrate. Sully seemed offended by the server’s presence and waited patiently while he delivered flambéed vanilla-poached pears with apricot sauce, chocolate liqueur soufflés, and a plate of pignoli cookies. When the waiter was gone, Sully said, “You’re as Directorate as my Aunt Bessie.”
“Aunt Bessie sounds like a pretty Directorate name to me,” said the woman.
“Shit. I don’t know if you’re insulting your poor excuse for a party, saying Bessie sounds cornpone, as befits Directorate, or trying to make your point against me. Either way, you lose. Aunt Bessie owned a ranch of enhanced cattle. She turned up the bulls’ sex drives then got a tinkerer to halve the gestation periods. The calves quick-grown like that are stringy, sure. But Bessie reframed it as tough meat for tough people and branded half the jerky market. Made a mint. As Enterprise.”
“So Enterprise is the only worthwhile choice, I guess,” said the woman, whose name was Gloria — also immaterial to Sam’s investigation.
“You really want to start with me?” Sully said.
Gloria rolled her eyes, and the ten people around the table laughed. Everyone knew Sully and how he always was.
“So,” Veronica said, speaking only to Sam. “Enterprise?”
“I chose Enterprise at my Choice. I don’t see any reason to change,” Sam replied, trying to channel confidence appropriate to Archer Latham. The shell that Sam had created on The Beam before taking the UltraMag from DZ to D1 made Archer out to be reclusive but opinionated. When attending a dinner like this, Archer, if he existed, would stand up and step into the same power as anyone around the table. Archer wouldn’t blush from a pretty girl’s attention like Sam Dial would. Fortunately, Sam had thought of that. He’d uploaded instructions to his nanobots to suppress his natural blush response, to slow his adrenaline release, to blunt any of a dozen hormonal reactions to playacting that might give him away.
“You didn’t shift? You chose?”
“I wasn’t quite old enough in time for Shift. I just went through Choice, even though I’d missed by a hair.” He shrugged. “So it lacks the formality. I’m Enterprise same as if I’d shifted.”
“Are you as nervous as I am?” Veronica asked, now practically caressing Sam’s hand.
“You haven’t been through a Shift?”
“I’m only twenty-three.”
“Oh. No, I’m not nervous. Why would I be nervous?”
“You heard what Craig said.”
“Craig says a lot of things.”
Veronica lowered her voice further. “What, you don’t believe him?”
Sam believed Craig just fine. He’d already written his article, in fact, and the article made it clear just how very deeply he believed Craig. Soon, the whole world would believe everything Craig had bragged about tonight — too loud, maybe, to keep any secrets from the restaurant’s top-tier diners. But if Sam had to guess, half the people around them now were this Beau Monde Sam had written about and wouldn’t care anyway. The other half would probably ignore the fat, balding man, assuming him drunk. The table in the semiprivate room was oozing ego for everyone to see. Braggadocio would be assumed as nothing more than that.
Well, until Sam’s article was published in the Sentinel, of course. He’d already more or less proved that a hidden class was manipulating Shift, and after what he’d heard tonight and what he’d add to his cached, off-site research archive in the morning, there would be no escape. Officially, Craig Braemon had been cleared of all charges of currency manipulation. But leopards never really changed their spots, and this one was at the top — or near the top — of something big.
“He’s just drunk,” Sam said dismissively.
Veronica started to reply, but Sam felt a coming ping and held up a finger. He’d been parallel wet-processing since he learned to walk and would have no problem holding a conversation while sliding files back and forth to the cloud over his encrypted connection, making sense of them all. But this was important. Something that demanded his attention and quickened his pulse even beyond the pacifying ability of the hormonal ballet his nanos’ AI was supposed to be handling.
“Mr. Dial?” said a voice in Sam’s ear, streaming from his implant.
Veronica, apparently sensing something amiss, touched his arm again. There was something subtly different in the touch. He sensed the same affection she’d been showing all night, but now there was more. Sam had scraped by o
n an Enterprise reporter’s salary for years, but his parents had always given him plenty and he’d spent most of what he earned on enhancing his hive connectivity because a good reporter needed tools to do his job. Right now, nodes tied to sensory nerves were parsing pressure data while optic AI was watching Veronica’s face from the corners of Sam’s eyes. The assessment came back and fought with the voice’s intrusion: Veronica was just a little doubtful. She’d accepted Archer Latham because the others accepted him, but it was all a house of cards, carefully orchestrated in advance with spoofed mails and tags, false records and subtle notes of introduction. All anyone would have to do to pop Sam’s cover would be to ask his exact connection to the group: Who, exactly, had vouched for this young software prodigy? Everyone sort of assumed…but nobody, beyond the smoke and mirrors, knew for sure. Sam couldn’t afford Veronica’s doubts.
Everything was tentative. Doubt was only one of many things he couldn’t afford.
“Is something wrong?” Veronica asked.
“Mr. Dial?” the voice in Sam’s ears echoed.
He was crossing the emotional control threshold. Passing hormonal safety lines. It was only his will, now, that would keep him in the clear, and Sam — who’d been raised half in The Beam — had never been good at individual thought.
He was suddenly sure that everyone at the table could hear his incoming call. It was absurd, but the very fact that Sam had landed himself at a Braemon power dinner — in order to nail the man’s coffin shut, no less — was absurd.
“I’m feeling a little sick,” Sam said.
“Do you need some air? I’ll join you.”
“Mr. Dial? Are you there?”
Sam should dismiss the call, but he’d left the channel open specifically for this kind of an alert. The call terminated before he could respond, and a moment later his internal focus was redirected to his bank’s app. He saw the trace left by the alert.
He’d gone below one hundred credits.
That was a problem. The train ride home cost sixty at the lowest class, and dinner would cost eighty at least. He’d already raised eyebrows by ordering soup and no drinks. He’d had no idea the place would be so pricey.