Beneath the Shine

by Sarah Fine

  “You know what they say about grass,” he says with a charming smile, releasing my hand. “Shall we head to homeroom?”

  He is remote and polite as we head up the stairs, which is a better reaction than I get from most. I should feel better that at least one person is being nice to me, but in some ways, this is worse, because even though he’s standing next to me, he seems miles away. I sit silent in my half-empty homeroom and am actually relieved when it’s time to slip into a cubicle and interact with Aristotle, who invites me to discuss how our current economic situation parallels that of eighteenth-century France and how it diverges. When the AI’s done with me, I slink out the front and hop into the waiting car.

  “How was your day, Marguerite?” Jenny inquires.

  “Weird,” I mutter. Even though I was braced for drama when I got to DC, I had no idea how cracked it was going to get. Now most of my classmates are afraid to even show up—or they’ve already bailed with their families.

  Oh, and the president’s chief of staff is a psychopath.

  And one of my classmates is dead because I trusted him. Maybe more than one. Kyla is still MIA.

  I haven’t eaten since last night. My stomach is too wobbly, too prone to turning inside out every time I think of Bianca. I stare at the rain-flecked windows and do my best to think about what El has asked of me—I’m supposed to help him catch the person or people who helped Anna and her family escape, but what I’d really like to do is help that person out. If I do, though, I’m dead, and my mom . . . I’m completely trapped. I need to check my channel once I have some privacy. I haven’t seen any of the comments or reaction to my last vid. I can barely remember what I said, only that my heart was pounding the entire time I was streaming it. I need to take a look, though. I need to think about how to handle—

  El is standing in the doorway of the brownstone as I get out of the car. “Welcome home,” he says.

  “Where’s Mom?”

  He grins. “Making cookies.”

  “Don’t you have a job? Doesn’t she?”

  “We’re heading back to the White House shortly. I just wanted us to be home to greet you after your school day.”

  “Right. What’s happened now?”

  “Your vid happened, Marguerite. Now please get in here instead of standing on the sidewalk in the rain.”

  As I tromp up the stairs, I see his eyes are bright, and my heart sinks. “Did Christmas arrive early?”

  “You could say that.” He gestures me into the sitting room.

  “Marguerite?” Mom calls from the kitchen, from which wafts the scent of chocolate chips. She’s actually baking? “How was your day?”

  “Fine, Mom. How are you feeling?”

  “Better!” She comes into the room carrying a plate of cookies, which she sets on the coffee table nearest me. “Have one—they’re still warm.”

  I take one because she looks better than she has in months.

  She sees me watching her, and her fingers rise to her nape, where the neurostim is blinking. “It’s really helping.”

  “I can see that,” I say, feeling melted chocolate coat my fingertips. I shove the cookie in my mouth just for something to do.

  Her comband buzzes, and when she looks down at it, she starts. “Oh! That’s Mazin. I need to—”

  “Go ahead,” says El. He looks over at me as she bustles from the room. “The president’s new scheduling secretary. Chose him myself.”

  Like he’s warning me not to even try to get around him. “So,” El begins, taking a cookie of his own and sitting down across from me. “Clever angle of attack on that vid this morning, Mar. For a moment, I couldn’t figure out if you were working with me—or against me.”

  “I meant to do that. I wanted to draw them out, not drive them away. How am I supposed to help you catch these people if I can’t get them to interact with me?”

  “Exactly. That’s what I realized, too.” He takes a bite of his cookie, which leaves a smear of chocolate on his lip. “Because you succeeded, young lady. You succeeded.”

  “I did?”

  “See for yourself.” He moves the cookie plate off the table and waves his hand over it, waking the screen up.

  Obediently, I lean over and let it scan my face, which brings up my channel. I activate the vid, and while it plays, I read the comments. A chill runs through me as I read FragFlwr: Catch me if you can.

  “Oh my god.”

  “Who woulda thunk it?” El says gleefully.

  My heart is trying to escape my rib cage by way of my throat. How could he be so stupid and obvious? Or . . . maybe this is proof it isn’t him? God, I don’t know how to handle this. “How do you know he—or she—isn’t just trolling?” I ask, trying to keep the tremble from my voice. “That’s kind of what he does.”

  “Because we put a trace on it.”

  “And?”

  He chuckles as he sits back. “It’s untraceable.”

  I squint at him. “How is that even possible?”

  “We’re trying to figure that out, but in the meantime, doesn’t it make sense? Who has an untraceable account? I’ll tell you who—someone who is capable of smuggling the most high-profile family in DC out from under our noses. Except . . . you got him to talk to you.”

  “Sort of? I mean, not really. He’s been trolling my channel for months, always leaving snide little remarks, accusing me of being a puppet and stuff like that. More like he was trying to make me look bad.”

  “I’m not so sure. Maybe this person was trying to lure you out.”

  “Yeah, but a comment war doesn’t help the cause!”

  “I know, but this is different. If this person really is involved, we need you to get in the mix with him.”

  “Or her. It might be a her.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Why do I need to get into any mix at all? Seems like you already think this is the smuggler.”

  “Yes,” El says, his feigned patience sounding a lot like Aristotle. “But the security around that account is tricky. It’ll be tough to pinpoint where the user is unless you’re interacting with him at the time.”

  “Seriously?”

  El shrugs. “Our technical team told me this morning that it was the only way, because unless there’s an active signal, the account doesn’t even seem to exist. It’s like dark matter. Just a blank.”

  “Nothing is blank on the Mainstream!”

  “Right, not as it’s happening. But this account must have some sort of piggyback AI ghost that automatically erases its electronic trace as soon as the person has signed off.”

  “But what about the ghost itself?”

  He smiles. “Good girl. That’s what we’re trying to trace now. But we need you to get us more data so we can nail this guy.”

  “To the cross?” I mumble. Because I’m guessing what happened to Bianca is nothing compared to what he’ll have done to FragFlwr.

  El’s brow furrows. “Don’t be snide. Just respond to his comment. Try to start a conversation. I’ve got someone from the tech team on standby now, so do it at a time that makes sense and see if you can really get an interaction going.”

  My terror is so heavy that I’m suddenly exhausted from carrying it. “Where are we going with this, El? You can catch this one person, maybe, but you can’t put every technocrat in jail. You can’t kill them all just because they piss you off.”

  “Piss me off? That’s what you think this is about?”

  “All I know is that the president told me he didn’t want more people to die.”

  “But these are terrorists, Marguerite.” He says it so calmly. Like it’s obvious on whatever twisted planet he’s living on.

  “Is Kyla Barton a terrorist? She was nice to me, El. She was sweet. And her mom helped you guys.”

  El snarls, his mouth ugly on his narrow face. Maybe it always has been. “Collateral damage is an inevitable part of war.”

  “What the heck?”

  “If you don’t th
ink we’re at war, you haven’t been paying attention.”

  “Collateral damage? They’re people, El! Did you kill Kyla’s family, too?” I stare at him. “Are you going to kill me, even if I help you? Are you going to kill my mom?”

  “Your stupid friend’s not dead, Marguerite! Jeez! What kind of monster do you think I am?”

  “Really? Kyla’s okay?”

  “It’s classified, but you’re smart, aren’t you? You know there will be serious consequences if you betray me again. If I let you see her, will that help?”

  Knowing Kyla’s all right won’t erase the guilt I feel over Bianca, but now that Anna’s gone and Percy may or may not be El’s next target, it might help me figure out what’s going on and what I should do. “Yes, it would help, and the deal is understood. Plus, I have nowhere to run. And even if I did, my mom . . .”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll take you to her myself. But after you see that she’s alive and well, you’re going to go after FragFlwr for me. With every ounce of cleverness in that pretty little head of yours.”

  “Anything you say,” I reply. “You’re the boss.”

  He nods solemnly. “I’m glad you’ve figured that out.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Percy

  It’s dark in this alley, though thanks to dear old Dad I can see clearly. I meant to get here earlier, but I had to have a leisurely dinner with Auntie, and I had to convince her I’d be with my imaginary girlfriend tonight. She hasn’t made the connection between my nightly forays and the rumors that technocrats are being smuggled out of Washington, and I make sure to distract her every time she gets close.

  There are no streetlights on in this part of town, which is adjacent to the tightly guarded zone where the Fortins and many other technocrats live. Especially tightly guarded tonight, as it turns out, because federal cars have ringed the zone. The place is being cut off, isolated. I wouldn’t be surprised if they blocked transmission of signals soon—it’s getting that extreme. Yet no one is talking about it on the Mainstream, which makes me think the channels are being monitored and wiped by federal agents.

  This is not freedom. It’s not justice, either.

  It’s also going to become increasingly tough to get anyone out of this city, even with an unmarked embassy car. The authorities are on the lookout for a vehicle with a diplomatic chip, and even though I’m in Jacques tonight while Yves gets his ID switched out to a larger vehicle, shedding his previously surveilled metal skin at my request, it’s still a risk. But I have every reason to believe that my quarry tonight isn’t in that little closely watched enclave.

  A shadowy form hovers in a doorway up ahead. His back is lit from behind with a faint blue glow, a metallic sort of light that practically hums along the fibers of my nerves, sending sparks up off the wires. I shiver and straighten my jacket.

  The sign above the doorway just reads “Game.”

  “We’re full tonight,” he says, turning my way. His Cerepin nodule blinks quickly, red and blue.

  “I’m just looking for a friend.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  “Mine is in a bit of trouble.”

  He scowls. “Police came by this morning.”

  My heart rate rises precipitously. “Did they find what they were looking for?”

  He thinks I can’t see his face. He thinks the dark will hide the glint of suspicion and interest in his eyes as he takes in my hair, my clothes, my face. He’s trying to use the facial recognition feature of his Cerepin, but my facial implants are activated and he won’t find a thing. They make me look different enough—and they never take on the same shape twice. “Name?” he asks, squinting at me. The system rarely fails. “Who’re you with? You a cop?”

  “I go to school with him,” I say, because this fellow knows who he’s protecting. Winston gave me the tip after our Aristotle lessons this morning, scrawled in his blood on the very scrap of paper I had given him earlier.

  I forgot that no one carries pens or even owns them. Without paper, there’s no reason. Winston shoved me in the chest, and when I looked down, the paper was half sticking out of my lapel. I slid it the rest of the way in and smiled at him. “Keep your promise, or I’ll run you over with my dad’s car, freak,” he said in a low voice and pushed past me.

  For a lad who can’t keep his collar even remotely clean, it was actually fairly respectable subterfuge.

  On the scrap was only one word. I flick my gaze up to the sign over the door. “A friend of his sent me. I’m here to help.”

  “Right.”

  “You know at least one family has made it out of the city?”

  The guy pulls his shoulders up to his ears and glances around. I hold up my hands. “I assure you, no one is listening.” I have my auditory shield activated.

  “Believe whatever you want, but I’m just gonna pretend you didn’t say that.”

  This is taking too long. “I’m going to come in and speak to Hammond. Don’t try to stop me.”

  The guy’s brow furrows. “I don’t want any trouble. I’m just . . .”

  “He’s paying you to protect him. How much will his family pay to have him back, do you think?”

  Again the guy looks around. “I could be recording you, buddy. You realize that?”

  “No, you can’t,” I say, annoyance creeping into my voice. In addition to my auditory shield, I’m wearing my patches. All he’ll capture is himself, talking to a ghost, with only white noise for sound. “Now. How would you like to be remembered?” I take a step forward.

  He takes a step back. “Fine! Whatever. Come on in.”

  He stomps up the two steps and through the door to Game. I follow him between two walls of aquariums that hold those glowing canny fish that became so popular as pets after dogs and cats were banned, first from the District and then from several other states. There’s only a narrow aisle between the bubbling tanks, and at the end of it is a door. “Name’s Hash,” the guy says.

  “Nice to meet you.”

  He gives me a peeved look. “I’m trying to be nice.”

  “You’re trying to get my name.”

  Hash opens the door. “This way.”

  I am suddenly on guard. My muscles draw tight. My lungs expand to oxygenate my blood. Adrenaline makes my limbs tingle. I feel electric. We head down the steps to a hallway lined with open doors leading to rooms where people sit in reclining chairs, their eyes open and staring at the ceiling while the tiny lights on their Cerepins flash.

  “They can play the game here without sending signals all over the city. Data stays in this room. Server’s on-site, and their ’Pins can be switched to hard connections.” He peers at my temples. “You don’t have one?”

  “I’m a rebel.”

  He grunts as we reach the last door on the left. “Hey. Hammond. Friend to see you.”

  “What?” yelps Hammond. I step into the room to find him sitting up on one of those reclining chairs, ready to bolt.

  “Calm yourself,” I say, and he does a double take and leaps off the chair to press himself up against the wall, as if that’s going to help him.

  “Who are you? Do I know you?”

  I’ve distorted both my voice and my face, so I simply say, “A friend. Your family misses you very much, Hammond. Let me take you to some people who can help reunite you with them.”

  “Why should I trust you?”

  “If you don’t, the feds or the police will find you sooner rather than later. They’re tightening their grip on the city with every passing hour, and the government doesn’t seem to be much for due process these days.”

  He looks confused, and I see that his Cerepin is dark—normally it would define terms he doesn’t know, but . . . “They’re not going to be careful with you, Hammond. You won’t get a lawyer or a trial. They want your mother, and they’ll use you to get her. They’ll do whatever it takes.”

  “That’s why I’m here, hiding! They left me behind!”

  “You were late, as
I recall.”

  His eyes go wide, and Hash looks at me with respect. “You’re the one,” he says.

  I gaze at him steadily.

  “I won’t tell,” Hash says quickly. “I think you’re a hero. Everybody here does. But—”

  “Just help me get Hammond to safety.”

  A sharp beep from Hash’s Cerepin jolts me. “It’s the cops,” he says. “Their scanners set off my early warning. They said they’d be coming back with a warrant. You guys better clear out. I need to go warn the others who’ve been hiding here.”

  I grab Hammond by the grimy collar of his otherwise expensive crew neck. “Which way?”

  Hash points to the door across the hall. “That connects to the next building, and there’s a back exit. But there’s surveillance.”

  Which means they’ll pick up Hammond, but not me. Hash’s Cerepin beeps louder. “They’re at the door. If I don’t get up there, they’re gonna come in hard.”

  I can hear the shuffle of their feet and one asking if they should use their canny’s battering ram. “Go,” I say, and Hash jogs back the way we came, banging on doors and issuing terse commands to run. I drag Hammond in the other direction, happy for the head start. “This would be easier if you’d move your own legs.”

  “I’m trying!” He claws at my hand, and when I look, I realize I’ve actually lifted him up off the ground. His toes are scraping the cement floor as he dangles. I drop him quickly and blink at my hand. He’s not a small kid. Am I actually that strong?

  “This way.” I peel silver patches off my shoulders and slap them onto his as we slip through the door and run along one hallway, then another, until we reach a staircase that leads up. We’re far enough from the entryway of Game that I can’t hear Hash’s voice, which is good.

  “What are these?” Hammond asks, cringing as I press a patch to the top of his head.

  “It will keep you from getting picked up by the surveillance. We’re going to move you out of the city tonight. Some of my friends are waiting across the Potomac to get you to safety. Your family already made the same journey.”

  “So you know they’re alive?”

  “That’s what I’m told.” Apparently Gia contacted Chen from Toronto to let him know they had all made it—and wanting to know where her son was.