by Sarah Fine
Anna’s mouth drops open, then snaps shut. “Just because she doesn’t want to do it his way doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to do it at all. And just because he claims to be serving the American people doesn’t mean he really is. Or that he can’t be serving his own interests, too.”
I bow my head and say through clenched teeth, “I’m sure the president would like to hear her ideas.”
“What makes you think she hasn’t shared them with him already?”
I look up at her. “Has she?”
“She’s trying her best, Marguerite. You don’t know my mom. She’s a good person.”
Who funded a smear campaign last fall that was about as low as what Bianca did to me today. “Okay. I believe you.”
Anna lets out a short, harsh laugh. “I’ve gotta go. Let me know if you hear anything from Kyla?”
“I totally will. I’m worried about her, too.” And that is no lie. “Hey. I want you to know that even though it feels like the world is going crazy right now, and I know it might be weird with your mom and Uncle Wynn, I’m glad I met you.”
Her brow furrows. “Thanks.”
“You don’t have to say the same.” I laugh. “Though it would be nice.”
Now she smiles, and it seems genuine. “I’m glad, too, Marguerite.”
“My friends call me Mar.”
“Mar. Okay. Look, I’ll talk to my mom, all right? But she’s really suspicious of Sallese, because she thinks the administration is just trying to grab her company and they’re using the bombing to their advantage.”
“I’ve heard those rumors, too. It’s pretty pathetic.” I let out a bitter laugh. “Almost makes me wonder if Bianca planted it.”
Anna sighs. “I told her to take that vid down, and it looks like she did. Just before I commed, actually. I checked a few places—it’s totally gone.”
“Huh.” That had to have been El’s doing, not hers. “That’s a relief.”
“Yeah. I wish everything could be solved that quickly.”
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow?”
“School’s already been canceled—too many students were going to be absent, from what I heard. Want to meet for coffee if we’re off the hook?”
“Absolutely. I’d love to know where to get some decent caffeine.”
“I know where we can get the good stuff.”
“It’s a date. How about eleven?”
“Sure. I’ll send a car.”
I give her my address, and then she signs off and my screen goes dark. I sink into my bed, letting the tension in my muscles ease. Well, at least she offered to talk to her mom. I know El wants me to get her to cooperate with the investigation, too, but I’m not sure I moved the needle just now. Maybe tomorrow I could offer to go with her to the FBI offices. It would help if I could give her more solid reassurance that it was just a formality—it’s ridiculous that she’d be a suspect, but nobody asked me.
I change clothes and settle in to wait for my ride to the White House. I’m looking forward to having a face-to-face meeting with Uncle Wynn. He’ll take my questions seriously, and he’ll listen. He always has.
Chapter Eleven
Percy
Aunt Rosalie is in the sitting room with an open bottle of white Bordeaux and two glasses when I join her. “Shall we?” she asks, pouring.
“Lord have mercy, Auntie. We’re starting already?”
She waves her hand, and a projection appears over the table. It’s the Seal of the President of the United States. “Sallese is scheduled to address this great nation, and I hoped you might watch with me.”
I sit next to her and cross one leg over the other. “You sound so very enthusiastic.”
She chuckles and takes a deep pull from her glass. “Sometimes I feel too old for this job, my boy.”
My chest tightens. “But you do it so well.”
“Percy, I am thinking of retiring.”
There’s that twist of pain again. “You’re a lady of vigor and action, though, my dear. Retirement would absolutely bore you.”
She smiles down at the bottle of wine. “My apartment in Paris is really very nice, you know. I’m sure you would love it there. There is a magnifique patisserie only a minute’s walk from the building. Nothing touched by canny hands. All natural.”
“Well. As natural as anything gets these days, I suppose.”
“You could be happy there, mon chéri. You’re not happy here.”
“Are you joking?” I pick up my glass and sniff deeply. I don’t drink, but I like the smell, and Auntie doesn’t like to drink alone. She’ll cluck her tongue at me and finish my glass when we’re done here.
She pats my knee and taps her Cerepin nodule. “You could make your little movies in Paris. Even more people would watch them, because everyone has one of these, instead of the endless fighting about who can have, who cannot.”
Because the government subsidizes them. The European Union abandoned any pretense at capitalism before I was born, according to my mother. “One problem: my little movies aren’t in French.”
“Oh, all the Cerepins have automatic translation. It unites the world. Percy, you could get one yourself if you wanted.”
I set my glass down and lean back, giving her a casual smile that belies my fury. “Darling, we’ve talked about this. My parents were quite clear on this point.”
“Yes, but why? They never told me, and neither have you. It really is odd that you’ve never gotten one.”
We’ll tell everyone the truth when the time is right, but until then no one can know, my mother’s voice whispers in my ear. “Ah, just old-fashioned, I suppose.” I pluck at my cravat and give it a horrified look. “Lord, my cravat has gone limp.”
She gives me a playful slap. “So cheeky, boy,” she says.
“Well, I don’t think you should worry too much about my opting to go au naturel, Auntie. When the Sallese administration is done with Fortin, Cerepins might not even be available for purchase overseas.”
She takes a generous gulp of the Bordeaux. “The French government is well aware. Our importers have been contacting the trade offices in Paris. This uncertainty is good for no one.” She grunts. “And how it’s being handled . . . using Cerepin registrations to track down technocrats for questioning? Such a violation of liberty! At least you and I are safe. I am relieved to have diplomatic immunity—I can tell you that.”
Immunity . . . “Auntie, that immunity extends to our embassy vehicles, doesn’t it? As a logical exercise, is your car, for example, the same as this house or your office?”
“But of course. We must be free to conduct official business without interference, and this includes our vehicles.”
“How would they interfere?” I pretend to take a drink.
She grins, happy to have company, and does the same. “Well. Zao prided himself on his technical operators, but some of them have a weakness for une partie de jambes en l’air, you know how they say? And we used that to our advantage.”
My auditory chip translates as she speaks, and I fan my face. “Auntie. How risqué.”
Her cheeks are getting pink, and she giggles. “Oh, governments like to listen in on each other, darling, but we ensured our buildings and vehicles are cloaked in absolute secrecy.”
This is promising. “Now I feel foolish asking if I can borrow something from the fleet a bit more often.”
Her eyebrows rise, wrinkling her forehead. “Ah? You need a car?”
“There’s a girl.” I do my best to look sheepish.
Now she’s positively glowing. “A girl? Percy.” She chortles. “Of course you may have a car. L’amour is the most important thing. Tell me her name, my boy!”
I say the first name that comes to me. And then I wonder why.
Auntie looks like she’s about to explode with joy. “Marguerite! She is French?”
“Um.”
“Oh . . . is this not a relationship with much talking? My boy!”
“I’ll have t
o ask her.”
“I hope she is nicer than that skinny one you brought here. Her face had the look of one who has smelled something bad.”
I snort. “Bianca does have that look! An excellent observation.” I wonder if she’s made it to Switzerland by now. I wonder if she would let me know, or if she only coms to torment me.
“Tell me about this Marguerite!”
“She . . . has lovely skin. And eyes. Her sense of fashion . . .” This is starting to get funny. “She isn’t from the District.”
“Who are her parents? Would I have met them? Do we move in the same circles?”
I clear my throat as the presidential seal dissolves with a flourish of trumpets, and not a moment too soon. “Perhaps later, Auntie. I think my president wants to speak with me.”
She finishes the wine in her glass and pours herself more. My gaze stays riveted on the three-dimensional projection in front of me. It’s as if the president is sitting between us and the antique fireplace.
“My fellow Americans, I had not anticipated addressing you so soon after taking office, but life rarely cooperates with an old man like me.”
The president is at his desk, his large hands clasped, shoulders hunched. He looks too big for the seat. His face is simultaneously soft and strong, his thick head of auburn hair flecked with gray. He projects an aura of vigor while still managing to appear both gentle and fatherly. Take it from a pro: he is simply made for streaming—either you want him to take care of you or you want to please him or both. This man would not have gotten so far if he were scrawny and bald, for example. These things matter more than they should, but this is why I’m so popular.
“As you know, on Monday, our Department of Artificial Intelligence Regulation building was the target of a terrorist bombing. The loss of life has been significant and unacceptable: eighty-two people are confirmed dead. Rescue efforts are ongoing, and I assure you that this administration is providing every scrap of assistance we can offer.”
“He is very good,” Auntie murmurs. “You can almost believe him.”
He does seem sincere. He has that earnestness that Marguerite also projects. I can see why she is under his spell.
“Throughout November and December, as we prepared to assume the responsibilities of the White House, I worked with President Zao to create a seamless transition. I believed we succeeded, but it seems we underestimated the level of contempt that exists for economic equality and prosperity for all Americans. Because that’s what these attacks were—an attack on hope. Let me be clear: I will not let that stand.”
Now he’s leaning forward, looking right at me. Well, not me, of course, but I feel his stare like a hard scrape along the inside of my skull. He is so very good.
“But we have some obstacles to overcome.” Then he moves on to what I’ve been waiting for. He tells us that we need all patriotic technocrats in DC to cooperate with the investigation and to submit to questioning if the FBI contacts them. Next he says that while the culprit is being identified and brought to justice, he will continue his work with the nation’s tech conglomerates to push his agenda forward.
So the tech moguls are expected to cooperate with the president—and I wonder if the level of cooperation is linked to how hard the FBI leans on them.
“You might be wondering who would be willing to attack us on our own soil in so cowardly and vicious a way. Such attacks haven’t been a part of our daily life since the anti-android bombings of twenty years ago, and I had hoped we would never see it again in my lifetime. But I will tell you that my administration is cooperating with federal law enforcement to mine every clue and follow every lead. We will find the individuals who perpetrated these murderous attacks, and we will offer them the full measure of American justice.”
His fists are clenched. His jaw is, too.
“For those of you who are afraid right now, afraid that technology like the Cerepin will never reach you, afraid that these setbacks will deter us from our promises to restore American jobs to human workers, I speak directly to you now. When you voted for me, you were casting a ballot in faith, with trust. When you voted for me, you stood up and said that you wanted a better life for you and your family, that you wanted a chance to thrive in this, our new reality, where cannies can do so many of our jobs and where the gap between rich and poor is larger than it has been at any time in our history. You wanted a voice here in the White House, and a future. I tell you now: nothing has changed. You have that voice. That hope will not be diminished. That trust will not be squandered. And this is not an empty promise. I am backing it up with the power of this office and my own personal determination.”
He smiles. It is welcoming and reassuring. He has marvelous teeth. “In the private sector, I built a technological empire on one wish, one dream: that I could make the everyday lives of the American people better. That I could ease pain and stress, that I could increase concentration, energy, potential. Many of you can testify to the power of that dream.”
“Ha! He speaks of his former business with the neurostim devices. How tasteless,” my aunt says. “He only serves their stockholders.”
“He had to sell his shares, didn’t he?”
“This is what he wants the people to believe.”
The president is still talking. “And that is the power of this dream and of this effort.”
“He is not even speaking about the crisis now!” my aunt says. “He is still campaigning.”
“Maybe he is. For public opinion.”
“Tell our technocrats in Congress that you want them to take action,” Sallese says. “Tell them you want emergency funds to support this effort. Tell them you want access to Cerepin technology to improve your lives, your options, and your chance of success. Tell them to work with me so that we can increase access to our best technological advance since neurostim devices.”
“Bah! Neurostims were banned overseas a year ago.”
I lean away so I can see her face. “Really?”
She nods. “It was not pretty.”
“How Sallese handled it, you mean?”
“No, he was out of the company by then. But his board was very ugly about the whole business. Distasteful.” She sniffs. And then she finishes her second glass of wine.
I pour her another. “But he seems to think very highly of them still and talks up what they do.”
“When he was the CEO, they marketed them very aggressively.”
“Do you think he believes the claims about their benefits?”
Long ago, my parents told me the difference between the stim devices and my own augmentations was as vast and deep as the Atlantic. Later, I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.
“I think he believes in whatever brings him profit,” says Auntie. “He worships the almighty dollar.”
“But now that he’s president, how does that work?”
Her eyes are wide. “Dear, we’re all wondering that.”
“Thank you. And all bless America,” says Sallese. The channel returns to the display of the presidential seal.
I stretch. “Well, he has marvelous hair. But did he actually say anything?”
Auntie has her nose in her glass as she says, “To Americans, he said everything, didn’t he?”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve been too long here in the embassy with you,” I tease. Although perhaps it’s true. Neither American nor French. Neither human nor . . .
“Then talk to this Marguerite.” Now her eyes are glinting with mischief. “If you have a chance to talk. If she is not from the capital, perhaps she is charmed by him.”
That’s not even the half of it. “I’ll ask her. Can I go see her now?”
“Oooh, dear boy. Is it like that?”
“Perhaps. I’ll let you know.” I get up. “Until tomorrow, Aunt Rosalie. This was a true pleasure. Bonsewer.”
She winces, as she always does when I (intentionally) slaughter the language of my ancestors. “Bonsoir, mon lapin.”
I he
ad back to my room, letting Sophia know I am not in distress and would simply like noise canceling. I go straight to my desk and call up Marguerite’s channel. I wonder how she would feel if she knew I’d just hinted to my aunt that she and I are fous d’amour, or at least that we love to faire l’amour, which might be worse.
Especially if she knew who I really am, to her.
No new vid yet in response to the president’s address. The president’s favorite surrogate is slow on the upswing tonight. I swipe away from her channel. I’m sure it will be there by morning.
Right now, though, I have questions.
Wynn Sallese is the former CEO of NeuroGo. Everyone knows that. But the bigger story was when he relinquished control of the company to run for president. The man who gave up his fortune to fight for the people. He self-funded his campaign and didn’t ask for a coin from the commoner—he asked only that they turn out to vote. There were charges of corruption, but none managed to stick. And no one has raised concerns about the safety of neurostim devices, not in this country, at least. This even though hundreds of thousands of people have them, just not in the District. By some accounts, that is because they can conflict with the signals from the Cerepins, and many consider the Cerepins to be superior tech. By other accounts, neurostim devices are used more for mood stabilization, a little pick-me-up, and many say the District inhabitants don’t have as much need. They’re doing just fine.
But Auntie said that his neurostim devices were banned in Europe a year ago. This was news to me.
The day they were slaughtered, my parents were at a clinic that used neurostim devices to treat addictions to various substances. Derek Kasabian, the man who killed my parents, stabbed them over and over again with a scalpel, tried to blame the neurostim device Dr. John Weisskopf had installed at the base of the man’s skull the previous week, saying it drove him to a burst of impulsive violence. No one listened, because Derek was caught on surveillance stealing the scalpel over an hour before he attacked, pointing to some degree of premeditation.
No one listened, because he disappeared before he went to trial for the killings.