Reclaiming Shilo Snow

by Mary Weber

  She snorted and swiped a thumb across her own handscreen. “That’s because I didn’t intend it to end well.” Sofi suddenly eyed him. “And neither did you, if the police reports were to be believed.”

  With a smirk she pointed her comp at the door.

  The thing stayed up, staring like a gaping eyeball onto the inner workings of Delon.

  “Crud. Let me recalibrate.”

  Miguel nodded and shoved aside the brief amusement along with the internal nudge that every moment put them in great danger. I know. We’re trying. Instead, he stood silent as Sofi worked her tech genius, and assessed what he could see of the enormous station from their spot hidden in the shadow within a hall that was probably one of a thousand identical-looking hallways in this small catacomb section alone. Where do we need to get to?

  Where indeed.

  The thing might as well have been a freaking beehive. Each level lined with a complex system of rooms and openings shaped like honeycombs that led to who knew where, all filled with whiteness. White rooms, white doorways, and a metallic framework of stairs and walkways in perfect unified layouts assembled into the five levels he could see—two above and two below where he stood, all set facing inward in a perfect square like a hotel complex. All beneath a vast black ceiling, mirrored by a black void below that one could fall into forever. The chasm likely led to one of the planet’s cores or fusion engines.

  Admittedly, the place was beautiful. With its detailed, lacy use of silver and glass and black metals that gave way to those white interiors reflecting from each room. Probably would’ve made the place feel rich and sterile if not for the dead bodies kept in glass vats in the med quarters they’d snuck through earlier.

  Sofi tried again to get the door to shut. Nothing. “Okay, forget it.” She attacked her comp again as the screens outside, along the station walls, started to flicker with pics of her face. Hordes of tall, unblinking, human-looking Delonese were already assembling to study them, like drones.

  “Girl-Sofi is believed to currently be with beloved Earth ambassador Miguel.”

  “Yeah, yeah, we know,” she mumbled, poking her device.

  Delonese Lead Ambassador Lord Ethos’s voice echoed through the station so loudly it rumbled the grates beneath their feet. “We ask all citizens who locate them to alert us immediately, in order to return them to their shuttle before it leaves.”

  Miguel looked at Sofi. They weren’t going to let them anywhere near that shuttle. “Sof, are you still able to track where each Delonese is in this place?”

  “Already on it.”

  He nodded and tapped his own handheld. And kept his voice down. “In that case—Vic, I’m pulling you on-screen.”

  His handcomp dinged, and a tiny holographic head popped up a few inches off of it with short red hair and glassy blue eyes couched in thick lashes that, even in this situation, expressed herself as being the fanciest artificial intelligence he knew. The flame lipstick she wore around puckered lips only solidified it.

  The AI popped a virtual wad of pink bubble gum. “Okay, I’ve managed to work back in, but—”

  “The best thing would be to reaccess the station’s system from somewhere in here,” Sofi whispered, still working on her own screen. “Can you find us the safest place with a portal?”

  The AI paused and cocked her head as if assimilating the requested data as fast as she could. After a moment—“Not without your tech friends, Ranger and Heller. Ranger’s been shut out, and Heller’s, well—a traitor. And the Delonese are rewriting the codes you created, Sof.”

  “Explains why our tech keeps going out.” Sofi’s voice was calm even as her shoulders stiffened at Heller’s name.

  Miguel peered past the hall entrance at the Delonese citizens all standing in lines, still frozen in front of those telescreens. They needed to move. “Vic, just get Ranger online and find us a place to hole up. We’ll have to hack their codes without Heller.”

  The AI blew her fake pink bubble gum to the size of her sassy face and let it pop. “You got it.”

  Sofi nudged his arm. “Miguel.” She held up her handscreen that now showed her program pulled up, displaying a mass of lights representing every single Delonese’s location in this giant section. He squinted. A single group of them were converging on his and Sofi’s location. Their voices were growing louder along the balcony, clogging his earcom’s translator. “We don’t have time to wait for the maps,” Sofi murmured. “We need to get to a tech-room now.”

  The Delonese soldiers were suddenly bearing down right beyond the hallway. Their words growing clearer than the others.

  Miguel stepped back and swiped his screen so Vic’s face disappeared, and he started pulling Sofi down the hall where the lights were dimmer—toward one of the side rooms.

  Too late. The boots stopped with a sharp snap in front of that main hall door.

  Diablos. He stalled and pressed them both against the video wall beneath one of the thin shadows. Only to hear a chuckle as soon as their bodies touched the smooth surface.

  The thing vibrated, then morphed into a shot of their faces.

  “Hello, Ambassador Miguel and Girl-Sofi. Nice of you to appear.”

  4

  INOLA

  “All in favor say aye.”

  From the front row, Inola added her voice to the day’s final decision before acknowledging CEO Hart’s gaze across the circular room. The broad, sixtysomething-year-old man with a mole on his left cheek gave a slight brow raise, which she met with the slip of a nod while keeping her wiry posture relaxed.

  His tiny eyes hadn’t stopped darting to her and her Corp 30 vice president, Macy Gaines, since Gaines had pushed the vote to name Sofi a terrorist. Inola sniffed. Nor had he stopped slugging back those drinks in front of him, as confirmed by the glassy eyes and reddening snout.

  If she didn’t know better, she’d say his darting gaze was part of the flirtatious coaxing he was known for, rather than an insistent need for reassurance. Reassurance of what? That both their Corporations’ endeavors would remain intact? That Gaines’s exploding a bomb on Inola’s children was forgiven in light of the “greater good”? Or that Inola’s private Delonese genetics program was desperate enough to keep paying Hart for his continued investment?

  She fought the urge to laugh. What a mess. The man had no idea what was quite likely about to befall them all.

  If he did, he’d be more concerned with their lives at the moment than with their business arrangements. Good gad.

  Inola caught view of Gaines, half hidden behind two Eurasian senators. She was shifting in her seat, like a coyote trying to hide a dead squirrel. Inola forced herself to ignore it and tuned back to the podium. Focus. Pull the facts before you act.

  “The ayes have it,” announced the UW chairperson. “Let the record show Corporations 24 and 30 are banned from participating in the Fantasy Fighting Games until all investigations of their players, the bombing, and integrity have been concluded.”

  Inola nodded agreement as murmurs of approval hummed through the air.

  “Chairperson, if I may.” A senator from the back stood. “Of course Corp 30 would agree—and thank you for that, CEO Inola. But considering it was Corp 24 whose player set off the bomb—as now seen by every person here—why aren’t we placing a full embargo on Corp 24 instead of just freezing their sport’s privileges?”

  A number of members among the crowd, as well as those sitting in via telescreens attached to the ceiling, added their agreement. So did Hart.

  The chairperson lifted his hand for silence. “A full embargo didn’t earn the required votes, thus sanctions will not be handed out yet.”

  “Then perhaps we should revote. Because I’d argue their Altered device hitting the market this week will wreak havoc in the hands of the public. The panic it’ll cause will only make our peacekeepers’ jobs harder and possibly start a war.”

  Altered. The “wonder wand.”

  Somebody had been bound to create it.
A Delonese genetic detector that could instantly read a person’s DNA for alien additions or influence. Despite the fact there was no evidence of humans ever having their DNA “altered,” the ongoing fears after the aliens’ arrival eleven years ago were still alive and well. As were the protestors taking up every corner of her streets in reaction to the Delonese attendance at the games.

  The chairperson’s hand went up again. “The UWC has launched an investigation into the ramifications of the Altered device on Earth and Delonese relations. That is the current decision. Although . . .” He peered in the direction of Corp 24’s vice president now standing in for their newly fired CEO. “Let me be clear that we as a united body strongly discourage its distribution.”

  He glanced down at his notes. “Annnnd it appears, with that, we have concluded our morning meeting. So I bid you all a good day.”

  The delegates waited for the gavel to fall before breaking into a mass of voices—some, like Gaines, arguing more strongly for the embargo on Altered, and others suggesting they shut down Corp 24’s and 30’s entire United World privileges until it was proven they’d no involvement with the FanFight attack.

  “Or at least until Sofi is retrieved and taken into custody from Delon,” Corp 5’s CEO murmured.

  Inola disregarded him and slid her seamless amaranth coat on.

  “Madam Inola!” Gaines’s voice clipped out higher than necessary as she strode over, her silver hair matching her tone in height—in what Inola’s dead husband would’ve called “Politician’s wife hair,” due to the fact that at one time, every politician’s wife in the old south had sported a permed bouffant hairdo and worn a blue blazer. The irony was not lost on Inola. Political hair, and a heart consigned to hell.

  Gaines stopped in front of her. “Even though our Corp 30 players have been excluded from the Games, I assume we’ll still see you at today’s FanFights? Or shall I attend on behalf of us to show our support for the other Corporations?”

  She’d said it loud enough to gain half the room’s attention.

  Inola sniffed. Nice play.

  She’d always known the thirty-year-old woman was a shark. It’s why she’d hired her. But using the circumstances to hedge her way into Inola’s CEO seat? Not going to happen. Inola had built this company, and she’d be shanked if the same woman who’d privately confessed to the bombing last night, before publicly pushing today’s vote to blame Sofi, was going to steal it away.

  She put on a smile. “Thank you, Gaines. You may attend if you’d like. Regretfully, a number of urgent items have arisen in need of my attention—not the least of which is our ongoing United World communications with the Delonese, the bombing, and the internal care of my Corporation in order that we may continue to support the other Corps in areas that are vital. Please be sure to enjoy yourself, though.”

  Gaines’s already narrow expression shriveled beneath that silver hair. A second later she eased back and nodded. “Of course. As you said, I too am looking out for our Corporation’s best interests.”

  Before the woman said more, Inola moved on to the senators, ambassadors, and vice presidents who’d already flocked around, in their usual hopes of staying in her good graces.

  “Madam Inola.” A senator from the Eurasian region reached out a hand. “We’re so sorry about Sofi. I can’t even imagine how difficult this must be.”

  “To be betrayed by your own daughter,” another crowed. “Let us know if we can do anything.”

  “I’m shocked I’d not heard about Sofi hitching a ride to Delon,” Senator Finn murmured, close to her ear. “Had I known, be assured I would’ve contacted you.”

  Inola’s brown skin bristled. The young Icelandic senator, with a preference for keeping his head bald and encouraging his fans to run their hands over it, had practically thrown Sofi to the wolves during Thursday’s United World meeting by being the first to suggest her responsibility for the bombing and murders. The theory had taken root in those who loved nothing better than seeing Inola taken down a notch. And in those who lived for drama as long as it didn’t personally affect them or their kids.

  However . . .

  Considering Finn and Ambassador Alis were near inseparable—and Alis had been on the second shuttle to Planet Delon yesterday—

  Did Finn know about her kids, then? Did he know who’d really planned the explosion, and why?

  She watched his expression carefully and said evenly, “Thank you, Senator. Have you heard from Ambassador Alis? I know she was a last-minute addition due to another’s illness.”

  He shook his shiny head. “No. But since she and the other ambassadors are due back tomorrow, I’m sure we’ll know more then. I’ll contact you the moment I receive news, of course.”

  Straight. Clear. With no hint of apology.

  She nodded. Considering her position granted her immediate updates, his offer was superfluous. But his physical clues had answered her question. While he obviously hadn’t heard from Alis, he knew more about the situation than he was telling.

  “For what it’s worth, I hope she’s okay.” His voice dipped low in feigned virtue. “Your daughter, I mean. And that all this chatter”—he glanced around—“isn’t true.”

  She offered him a sharp smile framed in blood-colored lipstick that said she’d remember this. Especially when it came time to further, or ruin, his career. “Enjoy the fights today.”

  She returned to the group in front of her and pretended to check her handscreen before looking up. “My apologies, but if you’ll all excuse me, my car’s waiting.”

  She stepped through the crowd, trying to ignore the pressing aura of hunger that was near insatiable. Always. For her attention, her appraisal, her investment in their never-ending projects—when the truth was, there wasn’t enough of her to go around. And for whatever reason, that reality was something they couldn’t understand.

  That at some point, she just had to say no.

  She’d learned it two years after taking over Corp 30. Otherwise her work would suffer and those depending on her would end up like—

  A shallow lump moved into her throat. Like what? Sofi? Shilo?

  The familiar discomfort flared. For the mother she’d been versus the mother she could’ve been.

  Shoving it down, she firmed her jaw and slipped out of the round room’s private exit where her hovercar was waiting in the sunlight, with a door that opened at her approach.

  “Afternoon, madam,” Jerrad, her head security officer, said.

  Inola slid into the back, where the late-morning rays momentarily played across the seat, then let the door close behind her, engulfing her into the car’s cool, dark cocoon. “Afternoon, Jerrad. We’ll head home, please.”

  “As you wish.”

  The black-haired officer was of her generation—meaning old enough to have lost two fingers on his right hand before science could make new ones and to have refused to trust any vehicle to command itself—pulled away from the United Corporations Building and onto the steamy streets. He swerved around the Manhattan traffic and businesses and extra crowds in town for the Games.

  The city rose above them—her city, thanks to her Corp’s nearly single-handed restoration of it following the Fourth War—glittering in all its tall, majestic skyscraper glory. The buildings made of glass and flex metal were covered with giant telescreens advertising everything from prepaid flights to Delon, to cancer creams, to the new homes she’d built to help deal with the persistent homeless issue. And, of course, advertisements for the final round in the FanFights that were set to resume in a few hours.

  Jerrad slowed the car at a stoplight, and Inola lowered the window a few inches to catch the homey scent of steamed whale-fish and soy sauce from one of her preferred street markets. And caught site of a FanFight advertisement scrolling across the tall silver building ahead.

  “Tune in to the Fantasy Fighting Games tonight!” A robotic voice floated off of it.

  “For eighteen months now, they’ve brought our worl
d together like never before! And this season is no exception.”

  The robot was right—they had brought the world together. Inola herself had been at the helm of the FanFight creation, seeing it as the natural progression of a world raised on video games, sporting events, and i-reality superstars. Half virtual reality, half live action—the Fantasy Fights consisted of real players duking it out in a glorified Roman coliseum while gamers controlled arena nanobots from behind the scenes to create live, interactive scenarios. And for the kids who won? They earned relief from poverty and empty lives.

  But for Inola’s kids?

  It’d kept them safe from the Delonese noticing them too much.

  Until last week apparently.

  She kept her chin leveled with the road as her car began to move again and the ad switched to display the massive outdoor stadium with the background music pulsing. “Tune in to see why it’s the biggest turnout in its eighteen-month, three-time history! With over ten thousand in the stands and a million more watching as players fight for their future in the arena! And the winner goes on to the Fantasy Five to fight challengers from around the world—challengers of your choosing—in the ultimate match!”

  Inola frowned. The lump that’d been tickling her throat swelled and she shut the window.

  “Am I to assume you won’t be attending the fights, madam?”

  “Correct. I’ll be working.”

  Jerrad eyed her through the mirror. “Working on work-work or them-work?”

  She didn’t need to see his full face to know what he meant.

  In the quiet dim of the car, that throat lump grew—carving toward her stomach with an ache she’d not experienced since losing her daughter Ella. Before she’d left her husband, Ben, and her little family to come save the world.

  Before she’d made a deal with the Delonese that she could not take back.

  She blinked and tried not to bank on the sliver of hope Sofi had given a few days ago. That Shilo was somehow truly still alive and a measure of her family still existed. She shut her eyes. Sofi, you know how to work this. You’ve trained eighteen months for this. Figure it out.