Beneath the Shine

by Sarah Fine

  This is all right, though. It could be useful.

  I can also see the coms she’s made, the posts, her search items. I could check to see if she’s looked me up.

  I will not do any of these things. From what I can see, Marguerite is living her life under an electron microscope. Whether she knows it or not, she hasn’t had secrets for an age, except those locked in the maze of her own mind. But anything she’s done, said aloud, or seen, this device has recorded it. Someone has drilled himself a peephole, and he’s watching her like the festering pile of faux humanity he is.

  Time to look up Elwood Seidel.

  Marguerite believes in Wynn Sallese. I’m not sure I do, but after watching him I understand why she does. But Elwood? He’s the one who had Bianca murdered, and that means I need to know more about him.

  I turn my clone version of Marguerite’s device to dormant and then I switch to my own secure channel. With the further layers of shielding security inside this embassy vehicle, I have no fear of detection. I look up Elwood Seidel, and I see he’s originally from Mississippi. His parents ran an online venture selling chain-saw wood sculptures (I will admit I had to look up what exactly that was), which seems to have gone out of business when he was a teenager. He attended state school and majored in business, worked as an account manager at a few companies, and then, about ten years ago, was hired by NeuroGo in their business-expansion department—in charge of finding new markets and uses for the neurostims. When Wynn Sallese left the company three years ago, El went with him. And when Wynn sold his entire interest in the company . . . El did nothing of the kind. At least, not that I can find. He must still hold NeuroGo stock. A lot of it.

  Interesting.

  More research simply reveals what Marguerite disclosed, that El is the one who discovered her, that he was the architect of Wynn Sallese’s surprisingly and devastatingly successful populist campaign. Marguerite was not the only Mainstreamer he hired, but she was the most effective, the least scripted, the youngest, the one who seemed to have the least to gain. The most genuine. Today in her eyes, I saw her idealism crumbling, crushed by terror.

  I’m about to put her in more danger, but I think, with luck, she’ll be instrumental to my own plan.

  She’s probably in the car on the way home from school, just as I am. I go back to my clone and use its internal signature to send her a system notification, an invitation to run a malware scan. It will provide the cover I need—while it’s running, nothing will be captured. She activates it immediately, which makes me smile. As soon as it starts, I send a shot-message programmed with a six-second erase path.

  38°56’22”N 77°3’52”W

  9pm

  Wondering if I’m about to cement my future in hell, I return to my most immediate concern: I have tried to ignore my injury, hoping it would simply go away with a bit of time, but my ribs still feel as if they’re about to splinter. And I’m having trouble breathing. I slathered on my foundation this morning to cover up the pallor, but now I’m sweating through makeup that was supposed to be bulletproof, literally. I’m going to contact the cosmetics company and let them know there’s a nasty vid in their future if they don’t improve their formula and be more honest in their claims. Ugh.

  I lean back against the seat. What I need is a medical scan, but my parents told me I should never get one. They said medical records are never completely private and that sooner or later a scan would draw attention that I wouldn’t want. They made me promise, just like they made me promise not to get a Cerepin, because connecting myself to a network would have major consequences. It all seemed paranoid then, but after reading my father’s note last night, I understand what would happen.

  Good thing he gave me the tools to fix myself. It’s time to give that a try.

  Charles lands and rolls into the embassy carport. As I make my way past the fleet, I lean on Yves’s hood. “I’ll need you again tonight.”

  His headlights flash.

  I walk to my room, carefully minding my gait. But once I’m inside and have my privacy settings on, I collapse into my chair. It’s possible I would heal with time, but time is something Kyla and Winston and Finn and every other technocrat in the city do not have. I need to be strong enough to finish this. Groaning, I limp over to my closet and dig out the paper with the menu access code my father left me.

  I press my thumb to the flower at the top twice to skip past his handwritten words to get to the code that unlocks my internal memory. Swaying, I focus on the words that appear to float a few feet in front of my face:

  Health and Safety:

  Bioscan

  Site management

  System update

  Self-destruct

  All my options are enabled. Lovely. When I chuckle, it hurts enough to make me wince. I blink a few times, adjusting my vision as I read. Here goes nothing.

  “Bioscan.”

  It’s like electric ants crawling all over my body. I stand stiff, unable to move even though I want to sink to the floor. The sensation is everywhere at once, from the bottoms of my feet to my balls, for god’s sake, my chest, my face, behind my eyes, in my armpits, along my screaming ribs.

  Synaptic chip malfunction in the 5th intercostal nerve due to electrical input that exceeds system parameters, says the message that pops up a moment later. Do you accept this diagnosis?

  “What the hell else am I supposed to do?”

  If you refuse to accept the diagnosis, the program will close.

  “No, don’t do that. I need help.”

  For help, select site management and follow the prompts.

  “Site management,” I say, melting into a chair now that the paralyzing scan is complete.

  Another menu pops up.

  Site Management:

  Nerve block

  Disengage affected augmentation chip(s)

  Initiate nanorepair

  I consider my options. Nerve block seems like it will stop the pain, but I consider pain valuable information. And I’d be terrified of turning off any of my augmentations, even though I don’t know what all of them do. With them, I can control my body. I know what’s going on with it. I know how to change the way it moves and looks. Without the augmentations, I will fall apart, possibly literally.

  “Initiate nanorepair,” I say.

  Please remain stationary until the process is complete, say the words that hang just in front of me. Initiating.

  I yelp as a grinding pain bursts into my awareness in an area just to the right of my spine, in the middle of my back.

  Please remain stationary flashes pink then red in front of my eyes, warning me. I grit my teeth and do my best not to writhe. It’s not easy, because lord, the pain. The cure is worse than the disease. The agony crawls along my rib cage, and I realize that my initial pain is gone!

  But only because it’s been dwarfed by the fire engulfing my entire chest.

  Please remain stationary is just solid crimson now, blocking my view of the room.

  Then this programming equivalent of the devil helpfully provides me with a timeline for my suffering, and I watch the minutes count down.

  “Percy, I am sensing that you are distressed,” says Sophia.

  “For god’s sake, shut up,” I say from between clenched teeth.

  “The ambassador would like to know if you would like to join her for dinner.”

  “Yesss,” I hiss.

  “Are you in need of assist—”

  “Privacy,” I shout.

  “I could lower the temperature of the room. You are generating sufficient body heat to cause the ambient temperature to exceed specified parameters.”

  “Damn the specified parameters,” I snap.

  A cloudy drop of sweat lands on the front of my gray sweater. Now the cosmetics company is in for it. I mentally compose a vid trashing their new product line while the nanocreatures I had no idea I was harboring work to repair the nerve damage caused by that neural disruptor barb from last night. This is g
oing to be a diva rant of epic proportions, if I do say so. Right now I’m wishing I could set fire to the cosmetic company headquarters. Sweat runs in rivulets down my face. It’s stinging my eyes, and the only thing that’s not blurry is the words being projected against my lenses.

  “Fine,” I say peevishly. “Lower the temperature. And then leave me alone.”

  The pain disperses quickly as the final ten seconds count down. When the clock disappears, I slide from my chair and land in a limp, sweaty heap on the floor.

  Nanorepair complete, my internal system helpfully informs me. Synaptic functioning restored.

  I close my eyes in exhaustion as the words fade. I’m not sure if I’m glad I did that or deeply sorry. Since I can breathe normally now, I suppose it was a good decision. I wonder what else those nanocytes can do. If I have to be injured to find out, perhaps it’s a question best left by the wayside.

  I have enough to worry about. This morning, Winston told me he and his family will be ready to go tonight, but Marguerite told me Elwood was planning to initiate more arrests. So much for due process and democracy.

  I take a quick shower and check my comband as I towel off. No messages, but that means little, because no one I need to hear from would be stupid enough to send me anything over standard channels. Not even a coded message. Not now. I wonder if Chen knows he’s been made.

  I need to warn him.

  Quickly, I use the towel to turn my black hair into a wild mess, and then I lean over my desk screen. The effect is ghoulish. I’m shirtless, and there are circles under my eyes. Perfect. I grab the bottle of damnable foundation and hold it next to my pale face, then I start to stream.

  “Do you see this, fans and friends and followers? Do you see it? This is the substance that has utterly ruined my day. Revgen’s Bulletproof Perfection, in Fair, though I’m guessing every other shade is just as impotent. A warning to any and all. This product claims to protect your skin. It claims to be bulletproof, but all I can tell you about that is after wearing this for a few hours, I wanted to shoot myself in the face! Avoid it at all costs. Be careful not to accidentally pick it up. Because you will get burned.”

  I am nearly yelling at this point, eyes bulging. I must look completely unhinged. I feel a little sorry for Revgen, because they’ve provided me with the perfect cover, just not the kind they were shooting for.

  Oh. I’m still thinking in vid mode. I send my vid into the stream and sit back down to wait for comments.

  Scrolling, scrolling. The comments say I look great without makeup, offer suggestions for a different foundation, and then this:

  Haruki656: Epic rant, P. Maybe you should start wearing a mask, though? I would if I had an ugly mug like yours. JK

  “Very funny.” At least I know he’s okay. He’s gotten the message. The rest will have to wait until tonight.

  “Percy, the ambassador has a message for you. The president of France has recalled all diplomatic personnel to Paris. Your aunt wishes to discuss this with you at dinner. She said to bring an open mind.”

  “Tell her I’ll try to find one at a discount.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  “Someone should activate your humor setting, Sophia.”

  “It is activated, sir.” There’s a pause. “Ha.”

  “Oh, lord help me. I’m starting to like you.”

  “Don’t worry, sir. It won’t last. You’ll be telling me to self-destruct before you know it.”

  “Go convey my message, you saucy minx. And stop being so deadly on the nose.”

  I have to do this tonight. I’ve already got most of the pieces in place. I just need to follow the steps. It might kill two birds with one stone, or more accurately, save both. But it will require every single detail to go perfectly right between now and then.

  I can only hope it’s not too late for all of us.

  I happen to be very good at details. While Yves transports me to the meeting place, I tuck the most important one into a storage compartment between the seats. “Depending on how things go, I need you to take this to a friend after we’re done tonight,” I tell him.

  “Yes, sir. May I ask whether you mean if things go right or if they go wrong?”

  “It’s going to look like both, depending on where you’re standing.” I tell him exactly what I need him to do.

  He acknowledges the orders as he starts to descend, then says, “There are twelve federal cars in the neighborhood below us.”

  “We’re meeting the passengers at a mass-gen facility.”

  “When we get close enough, they’ll detect my signal block and know this is a diplomatic car. They’re on the lookout for us.”

  “Then we’ll have to be quick, old man.”

  “I am neither old nor a man.”

  “Just go with it.”

  He is silent for a moment, then: “What you’re doing is quite risky, isn’t it?”

  “Nothing worthwhile isn’t.”

  “I’m not sure the ambassador agrees. She told me to make sure that you return with all limbs intact and lipstick on your collar.”

  “My own or my lady friend’s?”

  “I didn’t ask for specification.”

  I smile as we start to descend—I can see Winston peering out the window of the facility, a place where people without home fabgens can download and gen their garments. It’s closed now, and Winston figured it was a good place to lie low until we got here. Winston’s father knows the owner and got the code.

  But as we pull up to the curb and Yves informs me that the federal cars closing in are equipped with restriction broadcasting that blocks AI-piloted vehicles from exceeding the speed and altitude limit, I begin to wonder. Yves throws open his back door, and I gesture frantically for Winston, his father, his mother, and his two little sisters to jump in. They cram themselves in the back, looking frazzled and terrified. “It’s been quiet,” Winston says between pants.

  Yves slams his door shut and hurls us into motion. “Two blocks and closing. It’s possible they were waiting for us.”

  “Get into the sky,” I say, peering at the view offered by the rear camera.

  “There’s a sky access strip three blocks ahead.”

  “Be there now,” I say, because Mrs. Hethermill screams and then her little girls do the same as three federal cars turn the corner.

  “They’ve activated the speed restriction, sir.”

  I curse. “Manual override.”

  Then I place my hands on the panel in front of me, which lights up at my touch. I’ve never driven a car before, but in theory, I know how it’s done. Speed restrictions can be defied only in manual mode. I tap my left index finger, and we all lurch forward as I bring us to a sudden halt.

  “Wrong button,” shouts Winston.

  “Obviously,” I say, tapping my left ring finger this time. Yves shoots forward just as the federal cars draw even. My heart rate is 159 beats per minute and rising quickly. My respiration is even but rapid. My palms are sweating as I twist my right hand to steer.

  “Oh, god, they’re going to shoot us,” Winston’s mother wails.

  “Please shut up, Mrs. Hethermill,” I say loudly. “You’re scaring your children.” I torque my right hand, and Yves neatly executes a sharp right turn, then accelerates with a press of my ring finger as we barrel down a hill.

  The federal agents begin to fire magnetic disruptors at the wheels. “Air,” I say to Yves. “I don’t care what you have to do.”

  “Flight button,” he says. “Left thumb.”

  With a jab of my thumb, we are launched into the air at a strange angle. I right us with a jerk of my hand, just in time to avoid colliding with the side of a building.

  “They’re in the air behind us,” says Mr. Hethermill, who sounds only slightly less shrill than his wife. “If they catch us—”

  “None of that talk.” I dive back toward the ground again in a move that makes my stomach swoop.

  “You’re exceeding my safety parameters
, sir.”

  “Well,” I say. “I guess this is the day for that.”

  We land hard back on the road again, and I accelerate into a tunnel with six lanes and scattered traffic.

  “There will be agents waiting on the other side, sir.”

  “Yes.” I jab the flight control and rise high enough to fly over cars—but I have to swerve to avoid a mass transport gliding along in the center lane. The Hethermills all scream in unison. “Winston, this is a new side of you,” I say as I turn Yves around in the air and shoot back the wrong way. I don’t even know how I’m doing this, but it’s rather fun. Yves is beautifully responsive, like an extension of me. I feel his machine soul humming beneath my hands as we bullet through the tunnel over oncoming traffic and zoom over the tops of two federal cars grounded at the entrance.

  They can’t turn fast enough to follow us. But then Yves flashes a proximity warning.

  “Three federal agents closing from above.”

  “Can you go any faster, Yves?”

  “I am already exceeding my—”

  “Exceed them a bit more, dammit,” I shout.

  Yves compliantly accelerates and the proximity warnings go silent, but I know the fed cars won’t give up or go away. They practically saw me load this family into the car. This family with the teenage boy and the two tiny girls in the back, the ones with the red tearstained faces that peer at me with pleading eyes every time my gaze slides past the backseat cams.

  I imagine them with water in their lungs and scorch marks on their bodies. That is the kind of evil we’re dealing with. The kind that stabs an innocent couple to death. I know who my target is now. I’m going to see this through.

  Those are my crimson, throbbing thoughts as I soar through the sky over DC, barely avoiding several law-abiding cars operating well within the parameters of safety.

  Here’s the thing—it’s hard to beat someone who’s not. The fed agents are depending on their perfectly programmed AI-piloted vehicles to catch up with me, but I’m flying very much like a human right now—emotional, risky, and flawed. Almost fatally. When I clip the side of a flying transport and send us spiraling toward earth, I yell, “Yves, take over!”