by Sean Platt
“He’s still not sure it’s a potential. Might be a cleric. Or someone like you.”
Serenity scanned the map. It was fascinating to see, laid out like this. Lines and dots weren’t her native language, but this was how Wax saw the world. It really wasn’t any different from the way people saw Serenity in unique ways. Different assumptions, altered observations. The world changed people, and people changed the world. Long before The Beam, physicists had proved that at a granular enough level, what you expect is what you get.
She stepped back, ruminating, searching for her signature. Wax wasn’t on his own map, but the string representing his attention was. Serenity and the other children should be here too. Whatever was happening with the forming node, her school’s interest made them part of it.
But on Wax’s maps, Serenity was never a dot or a line. Perhaps because The Beam saw her as many places at once and perhaps because Serenity’s manifestation was exactly between the realities of The Beam and District Zero, Wax always represented her as a cloud. If she defocused her eyes just right, she’d be able to see that cloud, like a haze over everything. A guiding hand, perhaps, or an ever-present observer.
Finding Leah was the first step in finding herself. As for York or anyone else represented here, Leah’s position on the map didn’t show her location in the city, but rather how many connections she’d formed below the surface to how many others. It wasn’t always easy to tell which was Leah, but Serenity could usually guess, as she had with York. Leah had more connections than most, and she usually had a faint spray coming from her, like the shimmer of a ghost rising from a dead man’s chest. The spray always led to Serenity, and somehow became her.
Finally, she saw it. But the cloud’s shape was a bit different from normal, and seeing it made her shiver for a reason Serenity didn’t understand. It was as if there was something wrong with her extended body. Her cloud, on Wax’s maps, was usually round, soft, and blurred at the borders. But now, with her eyes screwed up and defocused, she saw something with edges. Darker than normal. Faint tendrils seemed to snake down from the cloud and to the connections themselves as if sniffing. She could see system faults and holes tinged with the same color — woe to the AI who tried to traverse the in-between regions. What was happening? Serenity hadn’t been feeling lately like this cloud on Wax’s map made her look. The shape she saw wasn’t observing as she herself was. It was destructive. Meddling. Manipulative.
“What’s wrong with me?” Serenity looked over at Wax.
He understood her meaning and turned to the map rather than Serenity herself for an answer.
“You seem fine.” His finger traced a large, gently looping shape around the outer cluster. Serenity saw it: her usual mapped presence, right where it should be. She’d been looking at the wrong thing was all.
She pointed to the other cloud. The one that wasn’t her at all. The one that looked ill. The one she couldn’t now unsee, no matter how much she tried to refocus her eyes. It was now plain as day to Serenity: a blighted fist clenching the entire node into a colliding center.
“What is this?” she asked.
Wax’s eyes scrunched. He made the maps, but the process wasn’t top of mind. They were a tool to help him see, not seeing itself. Whatever was here, he hadn’t seen it either, until now.
He finally did, pinching in and out. In and out. Trying to locate the dark cloud’s source.
“It’s something else,” he said.
I’m sure you can arrange a meeting with Vale. To…convince him of some things.
Aiden Purcell’s voice ran through Isaac’s mind as he stood in front of the bedroom wall, its surface converted to mirror mode. He hadn’t tried on his tuxedo in a long time, and expensive suits weren’t Permafit. Cloth had to be cut and sewn, not automatically adjusted. It was ironic that the old bespoke was now the least custom way to fit clothing, but not everything made sense among the Beau Monde. If human hands didn’t touch something, it wasn’t worth as much. Never mind that nanobots and fabricators could customize clothing far better than any tailor ever could.
Isaac tried to focus on the length of sleeves, the fit of cuffs, the perfect diameter of the old collar on his current neck. Unsurprisingly, Isaac hadn’t changed much since he’d last worn the tux. But still he was reluctant to take it off and ask his canvas to clean it for tomorrow because the minute he did, he’d have to admit his evening was over.
He’d have to go to bed because tomorrow would be a big day.
And once in bed, Purcell’s voice would be louder and keep him from sleep.
Was he supposed to kill Carter Vale? Isaac didn’t think he could do it if so. Regardless, the lack of a clear order was worse than knowing, for sure, that he was supposed to end a life — a rather prominent life, in the grand scheme of things. If Purcell had told him that was his mission, Isaac could go about making plans and then making his peace. But Purcell, like the slippery shit he was, spoke in vagaries and circles.
Maybe he was literally supposed to convince Vale of something: that reopening Project Mindbender was a very bad idea, for instance. Just like, in one of his mother’s favorite movies, a crime boss had suggested making a rival “an offer he couldn’t refuse.”
Was it possible it wasn’t a euphemism? And if Purcell had been intimating murder, was it possible Isaac could play dumb and pretend he’d taken the order literally? Everyone thought he was an idiot anyway. Hey, Mr. Purcell. Yes, I convinced Carter Vale of the need for a public forum to discuss dole increases. That’s what you wanted, right?
Purcell would crush him. He’d tell Natasha that Isaac had been behind the riot that nearly killed her. Natasha would relaunch her plans to emasculate Isaac then crank her vindictiveness dial to fifty. She’d ally with Micah. She’d ally with Micah’s insider in Rachel’s group. Because Micah had one; of that, Isaac felt certain. Isaac didn’t have an insider. Isaac was being dragged along for the ride — blessed with the Ryan name and wealth, but cursed because he’d unfortunately turned out to be Isaac.
It was such total bullshit.
But it was what it was, Isaac thought as he adjusted the band tie, trying to be impressed with his sharp appearance rather than repulsed by the acid in his gut. Micah was the alpha between them and always would be. They both knew Rachel was part of an ultra-high-level power group, and everyone knew that Micah (not Isaac) would ascend once Rachel was gone. They both knew that even now, Micah had that group’s ear. And they knew that Isaac had the same group’s ear — but that while Micah’s contact was an ally and an almost-equal, Isaac’s was a boss. A commander, whose boots required his tongue.
Isaac sighed.
He picked at the tuxedo’s jacket, trying to find adjustments in need of making. If the thing needed tailoring, he’d get to do a few more tasks before bedtime. But if it remained as perfect as it seemed to be, he’d only be able to put it into the Tomorrow Closet beside the in-wall dresser, where it would be cleaned up, freed of dust, and made even more perfect.
Maybe there was more to this than he knew.
The idea was strangely heartening. Isaac was never given more information than what he strictly needed to know, so why would this time be any exception? He’d always been shuffled around like a piece on a game board. Isaac, do this. Isaac, go here. He was rarely given whys, only tasks. There was always a larger game in play, and Isaac never knew about it until everything was over. Everything leading to Shift had been that way. Isaac’s reactions to the riots had been provoked, and necessary for much of Micah’s Enterprise counterreactions to make sense. Isaac’s Directorate responses hadn’t had their own merit or life. They’d just been fodder for Enterprise strategy.
So really, maybe this was just another gambit. Maybe the truth was being held from Isaac yet again. Maybe that was why Purcell had been so nonspecific: because whatever Isaac did, it didn’t actually matter. And it made sense that there was a hidden agenda. Purcell had already told him that Braemon’s party wasn’t, in the strictest sense, actually Braemo
n’s party.
He’s just the face man this time, Isaac. The fundraiser’s true host doesn’t want to be seen.
Maybe this was one time when being kept in the dark was a good thing. Maybe Purcell had only given him the Vale order because he wanted Isaac out of the way when the truly important events unfolded. Because as far as Isaac had heard, the idea of a host-behind-the-host was new information. And if Braemon wasn’t really in charge, how much of what was supposed to happen at the event wouldn’t be orchestrated? How much wouldn’t be a show…like one Directorate figurehead making an impotent move against another?
Yes. It all made sense. There’s no way Purcell meant for Isaac to kill the Directorate president. How could he have thought that was his mission? If Purcell wanted someone dead, he wouldn’t need to hand the task to someone like Isaac. Not that he’d even trust Isaac to get the job right. Surely, Purcell meant for Isaac to fuck it all up. To botch the job. To wimp out. To not try. To give up. All of those things were, in the world’s eyes, hallmarks of Isaac Ryan.
So he had nothing to worry about. He should simply forget it.
Or not. There was no way to know.
Natasha entered the bedroom. She was wearing her thinnest nightgown, red hair spilling across her narrow shoulders. She approached Isaac from behind and wrapped her hands around him. The hands were high, and for a second he thought she must have learned the truth and was about to strangle him. But she only adjusted his tie.
“You look good in this.”
Isaac supposed he should reply that Natasha looked good in the almost-nothing she was wearing as well, but he couldn’t push the words past his lips. For one, his guilt had doubled since Purcell’s veiled threats about the state of their marriage. And for two, his mind was on murder.
Natasha came around in front of him, sat on the bed, and patted the comforter.
“What?”
“Come to bed.”
“Like this?”
Natasha seemed to think he was being playful. She looked his tuxedo over and said, “If you like.”
“I’m still dressed.”
“Get undressed.”
“I was going to.”
Natasha looked like she was resisting an eye roll. Isaac didn’t used to be this terrible at the dance that was happening. But when was the last time they’d had a honeymoon in their long relationship? When was the last time Natasha had tried to be seductive? They weren’t spring chickens. There were times when Isaac sometimes wondered if nanobots could truly reverse aging after all. They halted bodily decay and kept their hosts young, but there were plenty of days when Isaac remembered that he and Natasha were both in their eighties. Pops hadn’t lived to be much older than Natasha was now, and he’d been shriveled, all drooping skin. The thought, centered on his young-looking wife, wasn’t arousing.
“Okay. Go ahead. Get your PJs on,” she said.
“Are you making fun of me?”
“A little.” Natasha smiled, and Isaac forced himself to relax. There was too much to think about, but none of it involved Natasha. In a twisted way, his fraudulent save at the club had been the first peace offering between them. There was no point in spoiling it. Natasha wasn’t to blame for Aiden Purcell and his maddening power play. She wasn’t responsible for his obligation to be part of Jameson Gray and Micah’s stupid show, even though she would share the stage with them.
Isaac untied his tie then slipped off his coat and shirt. He caught his reflection in the mirror and realized he was attractive. He didn’t normally realize it because he was shit upon so often, but he’d had all the same nano treatments as Micah. He had the broad chest, the muscled arms, the young face. A bit weak in the chin, perhaps, but a good catch nonetheless.
Isaac removed and hung his slacks. As he was stowing the tux for tomorrow, he felt a jab at his rear. He turned to see Natasha poking his boxers — white with large blue polka dots.
“Nice shorts.”
“These are my normal boxers. I have, like, fifty pairs.”
Now the eye roll came. “Oh, I know.”
“Do you really want to do this thing tomorrow?” he asked.
“The fundraiser? Sure.”
“Why?”
“It’ll be fun.”
Isaac sat, feeling naked. But it hardly mattered; Natasha was nearly nude in her gown. It should have been arousing. Instead, it felt like an amiable negotiation.
“I doubt that.”
“What do you mean?”
“A bunch of windy ass bags shaking hands and talking politics? And I don’t even know Craig Braemon.”
“I don’t know him either,” Natasha said. “That’s not the point. It’s a party, Isaac.”
Isaac reached over and took Natasha’s hand. “I have an idea. Instead of going to that gathering of stiffs, let’s head out of town. Catch a rail to District Two. Recreate the night we met.”
Natasha’s face seemed to melt into a touched smile. He didn’t realize her fabricated features could still move so fluidly. She almost seemed like the all-natural girl he’d fallen in love with.
She squeezed his hand. “That’s so sweet.”
“What do you say? We did it in an immersion, but we could do it for real.” He gestured toward the closed Tomorrow Closet. “My tux is ready.”
“I love the idea. Let’s do it next weekend.”
“Or we could do it tomorrow.”
“We have the Braemon thing tomorrow.”
Isaac tried on a devil-may-care smile, sure he was failing to pull it off. “That’s why I’m suggesting tomorrow.”
She gave him a patient look. “I love the idea. I really do. But we can’t no-show. We’re expected. Micah is counting on us.”
“He’ll survive.”
“Jameson is counting on us.”
Isaac sighed.
“Besides, it’s for a good cause. And the parties need some solidarity. Jameson and I have been practicing hours and hours, even after you’re done practicing with us. I’m sure Micah’s been doing the same. It’s make-peace, Isaac. After all the fighting this year, the sheets need to see us all together, poking fun at one another, showing the country that in the end the whole NAU is in this as one. I mean, why do you think President Vale is coming?”
Isaac almost choked on his tongue. He coughed, “Vale is coming?”
“You didn’t know? Micah told me. He said a friend of his was talking to President Vale and told him all about our little magic trick: Shift’s loser being a good sport by making the winner disappear. He thought it was funny, a clever idea for sparking unity.”
“But he’s Directorate! Braemon is Enterprise!”
“You’re Directorate, Isaac.”
Isaac had to fight not to shout. “I know I’m Directorate. But I’m just there as comic relief, for Micah’s little magic show. It’s still an Enterprise event.”
“It’s for the Violet James Foundation, not Enterprise or Directorate.”
“Oh, come on. It’s Enterprise posturing, and we all know it. Holy West, why the hell would Vale come?”
“Why do you care?”
“It’s not his party!”
Natasha looked at Isaac with her eyebrows slightly raised. It was an assessing gesture — the one she usually used when deciding just how big of an impotent asshole Isaac actually was. But then the eyebrows lowered, and her gaze softened again. Natasha held his bare arm, leaning her head against his shoulder.
“It’s just a few hours. We can keep it brief then make our excuses.”
But Isaac was still thinking of Vale. And of a growing certainty that when Isaac arrived, someone would bump into him and deliver new orders. Or possibly a sharp knife, or poison.
“Besides,” Natasha said, “Shelly will be there. She sent me a message saying there’s something we really need to talk about.”
“Shelly?”
“Shelly Godfrey.”
“Who’s Shelly Godfrey?”
Natasha lay back. Her gown, in the ov
erhead light, seemed especially sheer. Maybe she was getting as tired of this conversation as he was. Of course they were going to the event, so why keep discussing it? After all, some person Isaac had never even heard of was going to be there.
“You don’t remember Shelly? She used to be security coordinator whenever I went on tour. Tall. Blonde?” Natasha’s eyes formed jokingly defensive slits, and she added, “Absolutely stunning.”
“No.”
“She left a few years ago. I haven’t seen her in ages.”
“Oh.” Isaac had lost interest. He was considering permitting an erection. Other people had sex with their wives, so why not?
“She works for the police now. Same basic coordinator position, I imagine.”
“Hmm.” He lay back.
“Ever since that whole thing at The Sap, she’s been trying to hook up, but we can never sync our schedules. I guess all it took to remind her of me was trying to save my life in a riot.”
Isaac sat up on his elbows, his heart thumping.
“Of course,” Natasha said, sitting up to join him and drawing circles on his chest with a long finger, “my hero had already shown up to save me.”
Isaac met Natasha’s eyes. “She was with the police group that came to The Sap riot?”
Natasha nodded, uninterested.
“Why does she want to meet with you all of a sudden? What’s so important that she can’t just tell you over a connection, or leave a message?”
“We used to be good friends, Isaac. We’d like to sit and have a drink.”
“Tomorrow. Tomorrow, you need to have this drink.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Why now?”
“Shelly says she wants to tell me the story behind the riot. ‘Something I positively must hear.’”
Isaac felt his eyes widen. His heart was beating so hard and so loud, it was impossible to believe she couldn’t hear it. He needed a moment to remember how to formulate words, because leave it to Natasha — she’d finally made him forget all about Purcell’s dirty assignment. Now he couldn’t think of anything but Shelly Godfrey, her position with the riot squad that had dispatched that night, and a secret she was dying to tell her old friend, in person, without her husband around to hear, about how the riot had truly gone down. And, maybe, who’d actually been responsible.