Beneath the Shine

by Sarah Fine

  No one listened, because his doctor, John Weisskopf, insisted he had shown violent behavior in the past.

  No one listened, because random violence happens, and people are quick to blame an addict.

  But if you knew who my parents were, then it might behoove you to listen. My parents specialized in neural augmentation and were trying to collect information about these devices. My father commented to me the week before he was killed that he thought the neurostim devices might disrupt the connections between the prefrontal cortex, the thinking or logic part of the brain, and the limbic system, our most basic fight-or-flight survival center. Of course, at the time I was barely listening. Probably too busy painting my fingernails. Or maybe I was too overwhelmed by all the other things I could hear other than my parents’ speculation; my dad had only just installed my auditory chips.

  Now that I think about it, though, that kind of information, from prominent scientists like Valentine and Flore Blake, might have caused NeuroGo’s stock price to take a precipitous tumble. Except by that time, Sallese was out as CEO and had sold off his shares. Hadn’t he?

  Frustrated, I move to a few crowdsourced reporting channels to see how others are reacting to Sallese’s address. He repeated his call for “cooperation” from technocrats, hardly a witch hunt. Yet today at school, Bianca said her father wanted to leave the country. And Chen warned me that things were about to get a lot worse. Clearly they perceived a bigger threat.

  “—not sure what started all this, but now the terminal is shut down,” the Mainstreamer is saying as he presses his comband lens through a hole in a chain-link fence. “Airport administrators told a bunch of us that the flight, which was scheduled to land in Geneva tonight at four a.m. local time, was stopped on the runway and boarded just before takeoff due to a credible threat of terrorism. I don’t know about you, but I think some people got hurt out there.” The vid is being taken at Reagan National, and flashing lights shine off wet tarmac. The sleek silhouette of the hypersonic Air Suisse plane can be seen in the background, surrounded by emergency vehicles, including several ambulances.

  I use my comband to try to contact Bianca, but she’s off-line.

  “My buddies Ryan and Yuli just took off to investigate reports of two other incidents, one at a cross-country skycar rental facility in the Anacostia Technology Zone, not far from the Fortin tower site, and another at a Potomac boathouse on Water Street. Roy Abdalla, the chief of the DC police, has already posted a vid telling us that these incidents were related to the investigation into the recent bombings, but he also cautioned that they’re not gonna release more info until they get their marching orders from the FBI. Okay, he didn’t say that exactly, but we all know the truth. If you upstanding citizens have any additional tips for us, ping our channel and we’ll check it out. We’re your eyes out here, so follow us to get the good stuff.”

  I flick the channel to silent. What do all of these locations have in common? The airport, a long-distance skycar rental facility, and a boathouse on the Potomac. The technorats are trying to flee the sinking ship while the captain cries terrorism. But who really poked holes in this boat? And what’s to become of the poor terrified animals left aboard to drown?

  I open my own channel, feeling reckless. I activate the camera while the words and thoughts are only half-formed. “See this cravat?” I say, fluttering my fingers beneath the droopy folds of lace at my throat. “Verdict: devilishly disappointing. I’ve retied it twelve times now, and still I cannot get the silly thing to lie properly.” I pause, trying to be clever since I haven’t had time to dead drop new handwritten codes. “One would think I’d need a cathedral full of cannies just to fix it.”

  I’m not making any sense at all, but the National Cathedral is one of the meeting places we’ve used before, and I hope to god Chen is paying attention. I roll my eyes. “If any of you have suggestions, please tell me. I have friends who want to jump on this trend, but I can’t help them right now. Not with what I’m working with.”

  I’m risking too much. I blow a kiss into the camera and end the vid.

  Then I sit on the edge of my bed and imagine Marguerite watching, and what she would think. I wonder if she ever asks herself what I might think. I’m betting I know the answer. Shaking my head, I watch the comments flicker and pop into view on my screen.

  DrywBG: Hang in there~but not literally, pls.

  Ontop24923: You still look amazing don’t change.

  Lots of sympathy for me, poor little rich boy with a wardrobe issue. It’s frankly unbelievable. But also, this:

  Zerohour: I can help if you’ve got the raw materials.

  There he is. I know it. Unable to sit still for another second, I walk over to the wall and lay my hand on it. “Sophia.”

  “Yes, Percy?”

  “Is Yves available?”

  “Logs show he is on-site and unassigned.”

  “Excellent. Tell him to meet me in the carport in ten minutes.”

  “Shall I alert your aunt to your departure?”

  “You can tell her if you want, but she’s already approved my use of a car, and she already knows why I need it.”

  “Of course, Percy.”

  I tear the cravat from my neck and toss it toward my closet. Then, struck by the need to be prepared for anything, I dig out my treasure box, open it, and grab yet another blank slip of precious paper and my father’s pen. I have to assume all communications are being monitored, making this ancient practice one of the best ways to pass a message, so long as the recipient destroys it after reading. Electronic communications are too easily tracked, recorded, preserved, and I can’t use my AI ghost program unless I’m actually inside the embassy—combands can be externally monitored and remotely capped. And I need to be more careful than that, immunity chip or no.

  Not sure whether I’m playing a silly game or about to get myself involved in dangerous political intrigue, I leave my room and head for the carport.

  Chapter Twelve

  Marguerite

  The mood in El’s office, just off the Oval Office, is totally upbeat. We got to watch Uncle Wynn’s speech live, and we know he nailed it. I can already tell from the hits and comments on the White House channel but also by general traffic and trends on the Mainstream. The number one search term from the past hour is “Gia Fortin terrorist” or something related, El announces.

  “That’s kind of a fun unintended consequence,” he says with a chuckle.

  “How is it ‘fun,’ exactly?” asks Audrey Savedra, our joyless veep. She’s leaning against the wall, holding what appears to be a cup of coffee, looking sharp and pinched in her pantsuit. I’m assuming it is not by choice she’s here tonight but instead that it’s a matter of optics. “We aren’t in favor of mob justice.” She arches an eyebrow as she looks over me and El. “Unless I missed an important policy meeting.”

  “No, only the one where we had our humor chips upgraded,” says El, walking over to her and offering her a glass of champagne, which she waves away. “Come on, Audrey. It’s Gia’s fault that the public hates her. Wondering if she’s behind these attacks is more of a step than a leap.”

  “What’s the difference, if there’s no evidence to support either?” She stares at me as she says this, as if I’m the one responsible for any misunderstanding. “Communication is reality. You have to be responsible for what you put out there. You can’t just pop off.”

  “Wait, me?” I ask. “I haven’t ever popped off!”

  “Funny, I thought that was how you got this gig in the first place.”

  “Madam Vice President, go easy on Mar, for pity’s sake,” says El, starting to sound annoyed. “And let her get ready for her one-on-one audience with the president.”

  Audrey’s brown eyes widen. “She is meeting with—?”

  “Yep.” He walks over to a tray and then hands me a glass of sparkling juice. As I sip, he holds up a finger, then leans past one of the Secret Service cannies to make eye contact with Uncle
Wynn. “You ready?” he asks, then nods.

  He turns to me. “You ready?”

  My palms are clammy against the slick sides of my glass. “I totally just realized he’s the actual president.”

  El cracks up. “Just realized, Mar? Come on.”

  “I’m allowed to be starstruck.”

  “Sometimes I forget you’re only seventeen.”

  “Now you come on,” I say, laughing too. “You wouldn’t have to do this much damage control for someone who was a responsible adult.”

  “Maybe, but we also wouldn’t have captured ninety percent of the eighteen-to-twenty-four demographic. So here’s to youth.” He raises his glass full of champagne. Then he sets it on his desk. El never drinks.

  The Secret Service cannies move aside, and I get a clear view of Uncle Wynn standing in front of his desk, talking to a few senators who supported him during the election. But when he sees me fidgeting in the doorway, he smiles. “Excuse me, gentlemen, ladies, I have an important meeting.” More cannies usher out the politicians, and soon it’s just me and the president.

  Suddenly I remember that fake vid Bianca made. I remember the sounds and the sight of bare flesh in a backseat. The back of a head of silver-and-auburn hair. My feet in the air. My stomach turns.

  He frowns when he sees the look on my face. “Hey, kiddo. You okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say, my voice weak.

  His expression is all sympathy, all warmth. He opens his arms. “Come here.”

  I start to walk forward, and I hold my breath as he enfolds me in his bearlike body. The hug is firm but brief, and he steps back as if he senses it’s not helping.

  “Come sit down. There you go,” he says as he guides me to one of the fancy couches in the room. I am sitting on history, and all I can think of is how embarrassed I am about that vid. I glance over my shoulder toward El’s office to see him watching. He, too, gives me a sympathetic look, like he knows what’s just happened. He mouths something I can’t quite make out. I turn back around.

  Uncle Wynn is sitting across from me, a good ten feet away. “El told me about that prank your classmate played.”

  “How did you know I was—”

  “Oh, Marguerite. Give me some credit. I didn’t get here by being a fool. And I want to tell you how sorry I am that you’re getting beaten up this way because you fought for my campaign.”

  “I’m fine.”

  He nods. “I promise you, it’s going to get better. Kids can be mean, as you know. But the best thing is just to kill ’em with kindness. I believe that. You can’t fight mean with mean or hate with hate.”

  “I know.” He’s told me that many times, especially when I was ragging on Gia Fortin for getting nasty in the campaign.

  “Petra always used to tell me that. I was more hotheaded when I was young.” For a moment, a familiar grief darkens his expression after he mentions his late wife, but then he hooks an ankle over his knee and leans back. “Not that it isn’t tempting sometimes to fight fire with fire.”

  “Like over the last few days?”

  “You have no idea,” he says wearily. “I’m so angry that all these people were killed on my watch. It’s killing me. One of the worst things about it is that the ones who should care the most? They don’t seem to care all that much.”

  “Gia Fortin?”

  He tightens his mouth and looks out the window. “She’s refusing to cooperate with the investigation, and her stonewalling sets a terrible example—the FBI’s getting nowhere.”

  “El told me Dr. Barton attempted suicide just after she urged people to work with them.”

  “Yes, terrible. She was a patriot.”

  Was. “Her daughter Kyla goes to my school. She’s really nice.”

  Uncle Wynn nods. “Her mother—she was one of the original creators of the Cerepin. Did you know that? Brilliant woman. Lots of opinions on how this tech should be used.”

  “Was Gia mad that she sided with you?”

  “That woman is mad at anything that threatens her profits.”

  “El said before I came in here that Mainstream searches indicate people might think she’s affiliated with terrorists. Like she paid them to blow up the Department of AIR.”

  Uncle Wynn casts an exasperated glance toward the door of El’s office, now closed. “He shouldn’t be spreading that around while the investigation is just starting. It makes people afraid, and fear makes them less likely to come forward.”

  “The vice president wasn’t happy about that, either.”

  He grunts. “Well, Audrey isn’t happy about much these days. She’s realizing she’s outnumbered. And she and El are like oil and water. She’s a scientist by training. Methodical. Cautious. And El? He’s energetic and loyal to a fault, but sometimes I think that boy shoots before pulling the gun from the holster.”

  I guess that would be what Audrey referred to as “popping off.”

  I sit up a little straighter. El and I are kindred spirits, in a way, so when Uncle Wynn says something like that, I don’t feel good about it. “You’re right. Surely Gia wouldn’t do something that terrible.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “We don’t know that she didn’t. I’m just saying we shouldn’t jump to conclusions, and we shouldn’t encourage others to, either.”

  Now my cheeks are hot. Uncle Wynn smiles when I press my palms over them.

  “El let me know that you’ve got a friend in Gia’s daughter, Anna.”

  “She’s not a friend, really, not yet, but I think she could be. She’s been kind when she didn’t have to be.”

  “Has El leaned on you to use that connection?”

  I bite my lip.

  “Just be a friend, Marguerite. If you just be yourself, she’s going to understand that you wouldn’t support an administration that wants to hurt people or destroy businesses. She’ll know someone like you could never get behind something like that. Just be her friend.”

  He’s so right. El had me trying to bring her around, but she’ll see through that in an instant.

  Uncle Wynn rolls his shoulders, looking a little haggard. “I’m certainly trying to be a friend to her mother. It ain’t easy.” He laughs. “Did you know we’ve known each other since business school?”

  “Really? Wait, how come no one mentioned that before?”

  “It was so long ago. But it’s true. NeuroGo came out of a class project about products that could improve lives. And if you can believe it, that’s when Gia came up with the concept for the Cerepin. Dr. Barton might have done a lot of the technical innovating along with her husband, but Gia had the idea for the original device. She even suggested we merge the two products—she wanted to use my idea for the neurostim in her device. A few years later she tried to acquire NeuroGo. Offered me four trillion! I didn’t think it was a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “We didn’t share a vision. You shouldn’t ever partner with someone if you don’t share a vision. That’s why we work so well together, Marguerite.” He slaps his big hands onto his big knees. “Now, isn’t it past your bedtime, young lady?”

  “Seriously? I’m seventeen.”

  “It’s a school night!”

  “Not anymore. Classes are canceled.”

  His brow furrows. “Why? We’ve got things under control. Local officials in DC didn’t issue an advisory on that.”

  “I don’t know if it was the administrators so much. I think a lot of people were freaked out by the FBI request to interview so many technocrats, including a lot of my classmates and their families. They’re especially freaked out that Cerepins are being used to track people.” And they don’t even know about Dr. Barton’s attempted suicide.

  The president rolls his eyes. “Technocrats strike again, I suppose. That’s who runs the schools in DC.”

  “I think they’re overreacting. If they’d just cooperate and get it over with, the investigation could progress smoothly.”

  “Mm-hmm.” He stands up. “Fear is no
friend to logic, that’s for sure. The only people who need to be worried right now are the ones responsible for these bombings. Those people should be very nervous.”

  Something about the calm, matter-of-fact way he says it lets me know he’s got this covered, and this familiar, soaring pride practically carries me back to the door of El’s office. Wynn gives me another hug, and this time it isn’t weird. The Secret Service cannies close the door behind me, and I realize I’m the only person in El’s office. He’s standing out in the hallway. I start to head out there, but then I realize he’s talking to someone.

  “Sounds like you got there just in time. Keep a tight leash on it, though. Otherwise we’re gonna have a panic. It’s bad enough already, and we need them to stay put until we get to them. Especially the big fish.”

  I stay very still, straining to hear who he’s talking to, but the other person’s voice is just a low buzz.

  El chuckles, a grim sound I’ve heard many times. “Yeah. A real tragedy. It’s almost as if those people have some major bad karma, am I right?”

  Karma?

  “No, don’t move in until I make the call,” he continues. “We’ll let this settle down first. But let me know if they even twitch.”

  El looks over his shoulder, and I heave a smile onto my face and wave. He looks down at his comband, and I see a picture of a man wearing a suit and collar band. “Tell him I’ll be there in an hour to see how everything’s going.” The comband goes blank. “Hey, you!” He turns to me, wearing a grin.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Aw, Mar, aren’t I allowed to have a social life?”

  “That didn’t sound social.” In fact, it sounded kinda ominous, in a way that’s making my chest tight.

  “I’m out of practice.” He glances at the doorway to the Oval Office. “Done already?”

  “I think the president was ready to go to bed.”

  “Can’t blame him. Been a long couple of days. How about you? Ready to go home?”

  “Sure, but can I ask who you were talking about? I heard you mention karma, and—”