by Kyla Stone
Elise flinched. Obediently, she unpinned her mass of curly, dark brown hair and shook it out. She always did what Declan wanted. They all did.
Amelia glanced back at Silas. He stared at them impassively, his gaze flat, revealing nothing. When they were younger, he would always stick his tongue out or make hideous faces whenever things got too tense. Not anymore.
A headache pulsed at the back of her skull. She'd endured these types of political dinners a hundred times before. Charming government health officials, senators and representatives, the occasional judge, the CEOs of smaller genetic research firms, and a few times, even Vice President Sloane.
She never said no. She always did exactly what was expected of her, even when she hated it. Maybe this once she could be sick. Maybe this once, she could actually enjoy her vacation.
“Are you all right?” Her mother peered into her eyes. “Do you want a pill? I have some in my purse.”
“Well, I—”
“Are you dizzy? Confused? Tingling or numbness anywhere?”
Before she could respond, Declan spoke. “You're taking your medication as directed?”
Amelia nodded.
“She's fine.”
“She could have caught the flu. A fever makes things worse—”
“Does she look like she has the flu?”
“But the waves,” her mother said. “Seasickness could bring another episode and—”
Declan raised a hand dismissively. “Last year was an anomaly. Her dosage was corrected. Do you doubt my abilities? Do you think a mistake was made?”
Her mother blinked, her hand fluttering to the hollow of her throat. “Of course not. I—”
“Then the matter is closed.”
Amelia swallowed. She wanted to argue, but what was the point? Her father always won.
Elise bit her lower lip. “What does she need to do tonight? I can do it instead. She doesn't feel good. I can tell by her eyes.”
Declan ignored his wife. His SmartFlex blinked. He swiped the platinum band and the digital overlay appeared. He read the message, his frown deepening.
“Holoscreen on,” he said to the room. “Channel thirteen.”
The holoscreen across from the settee flickered to life. A perky blonde held a microphone in front of BioGen Technologies, a sleek white spire of steel and glass. BioGen was her father’s biotechnologies firm, the parent firm to a dozen biotech and pharmaceutical companies as well as a bunch of genomics, robotic, and cybertech startups. Amelia could never keep them all straight.
“. . . While some argue that the effectiveness of the National Health Day universal flu vaccine push will take a few more days to be seen, other experts think the problem is worsening. Over three hundred thousand new cases of the bat flu and fifty thousand hospitalizations have been reported this week alone. Glen Saronson, official spokesperson of BARDA, Biomedical Advanced Research and Development Authority, said things may appear worse before they get better.”
A strong wind yanked the reporter’s bangs into her face. The reporter smiled, like this news made her day. “Declan Black, the founder and CEO of BioGen, the private contractor who engineered the universal vaccine, was awarded the Breakthrough Prize in Life Sciences two years in a row for his groundbreaking cancer cure—”
“It's a treatment, not a cure, you idiot.” Despite his scientific background, her father was a religious man now, ever since he’d started dabbling in politics and joined the Unitarian wing of the Republican party a few years ago. He didn’t curse, but he looked like he wanted to.
“—He’s received increasing criticism for the high cost of the treatment and his recent forays into politics, which include masterminding the GOP's latest super PAC and notable support for Unitarian Vice President Amanda Sloane. In other news, wheat rust continues to decimate crops in Africa, the Middle East, South Asia, and the United States. The aggressive spread of the fungus has been linked to its rapid adaptation to warmer climates and—”
“Holoscreen off.” The screen flickered and faded. “Imbeciles,” her father muttered. “If CNN would hire reporters with IQs above a hundred, we wouldn't have to deal with this dreck. Any idiot knows the rate of viral vectors was already significantly worse than any in the previous decade. It would take a miracle to right that ship overnight.”
Two years ago, Declan's team of microbiologists and virologists had finally broken the code for the universal flu vaccine. Last year, he’d garnered support from the Center for Disease Control, the National Institute of Health, and the FDA to become the sole manufacturer. Part of the deal was a massive, nationwide initiative to offer the new vaccine free of charge to anyone on a government-supported program. It had consumed her father’s life for months.
“But that's good news, right?” her mother asked mildly. “Saronson backed you.”
Her father grunted. A few days after the initiative, the flu worsened. Certain talking heads declared it a failure. Amelia didn’t care about her father’s political maneuvering. She never had. But her father hated failure. He hated criticism. It pissed him off. And when he was pissed about anything, it was best to stay out of his way.
“It takes time for the vaccine to fight the infection,” her mother said.
Declan turned on her, the furrow between his brows deepening. “Did I ask you to explain my own job to me?”
“No, of course not. I only meant—”
“Even you could do better than these hacks.”
Elise placed a tentative hand on his shoulder. “It will blow over soon. The media needs something to talk about. By the time you announce your new position, the vaccine will have saved millions, and you'll be the hero of the nation again.”
He shrugged off her hand, straightened his tie, and buttoned his suit jacket. “Speaking of which, turn on the charm with Senator López tonight, Amelia. The Health Summit is in seven days. Get him in a favorable mood. We need him behind us, so we can act quickly when the time is right.”
When the time was right for what? But she didn’t ask the question. Enrique López was the Majority Leader of the Senate. According to her father, López had the power to unite the divided Republican factions behind a single agenda.
Her father’s current agenda was securing the nomination for secretary of Health and Human Services. The president appointed the position, but the Senate confirmed it. Her father was already one of the richest, most influential businessmen in the country. But it wasn’t enough. He always wanted more power.
“I really don't feel well,” Amelia said. “Can't I stay—”
Her father stared at her with hard, unflinching eyes. His piercing gaze always unsteadied her. Like he was looking straight through her, like he could see every red, pulsing organ, her vulnerable, trembling heart. She hated it.
“Don't tell me you're going to feign illness on me. Your mother treats you like you're made of glass. Is that true?”
Amelia went still. Her mouth was dry, her heart thundering in her ears. It was always like this whenever she did something wrong. Whenever he made her feel so small and stupid.
He took a step closer, towering over her. “Are you or are you not a responsible, contributing member of this family?”
Amelia's cheeks reddened, her skin prickling. “I am, but—”
“Declan—” Her mother started. But he raised a hand and silenced her.
“Mr. Black and Mrs. Black, I detect an increase in stress indicators,” the room AI said in a smooth female voice. “How may I make you more comfortable? May I suggest—”
“Activate privacy mode,” Declan growled. The room fell silent. The system wouldn’t monitor their biostats—body temperature, perspiration level, or heart rate—or interact with the room’s occupants in privacy mode.
Declan turned back to Amelia. “I expected more from you.” Disappointment drenched his voice. “Here I've paid for the most extravagant cruise in the world, with a staff of hundreds to cater to your every whim and desire. Aren't you at least a l
ittle grateful?”
She opened her mouth, but the words curdled in her throat.
“Speak, girl,” Declan demanded. “I asked you a simple question.”
But there were no simple questions with her father. Not ever. And he was upset. His eyes were hard, the skin around his mouth taut. His shoulders were thrust back, his legs splayed aggressively. She shouldn't have questioned him when he was already on edge. She should know better. She did know better.
“Are you grateful, or aren't you?”
“I'm grateful—”
“You're grateful.”
She froze. Anxiety knotted in her belly. She had no idea what she was supposed to say now. Anything she did or said would be the wrong thing. The silence stretched unbearably.
Silas rose from the settee and flicked off his VR glasses. “I've been meaning to tell you. I quit the team.”
Declan rounded on him, his attention instantly diverted. “Excuse me?”
Amelia sagged against the vanity.
“I quit,” Silas said defiantly. He rubbed at a yellowish bruise beneath his right eye, a battle scar from another fight on the ice.
“I must have misheard you.”
Silas lifted one shoulder in an insolent shrug. “You heard me just fine.”
“You are no longer playing Division I hockey, is that what you're telling me?” Declan's voice went low and cold. “The sport for which the University of Maine and a dozen other universities are recruiting you?”
“I don't need an athletic scholarship to pay for college.”
Her father's brows lowered into a dark, straight line. “How, pray tell, do you intend to pay for it? Surely you don't still expect your mother and I to shell out a million dollars only to be wasted on a selfish, undisciplined miscreant?”
Silas stood tall, fists curled at his sides. He was all tight, bristling energy. Like he was waiting for it. Like he wanted it. Like their father’s harsh words didn’t even bother him. “Maybe this miscreant won't go to college.”
Declan took a step toward him, his face darkening in rage. “No son of mine—”
“Declan—” her mother started.
“Stay out of this!”
Amelia dug her fingernails into her palms. Leave him alone! She wanted to scream. But her throat closed around the words. She said nothing.
Someone knocked on the door of the suite.
“We're ready for you, Mr. Black,” said Ed Jericho, her father's head of security. The tall, muscular Nigerian stood in the doorway, hesitating. He eyed Silas's bare chest and shorts, then glanced around the room. “Everyone good to go, sir?”
“Almost, Jericho,” her mother said brightly, instantly composed as she smoothed her dress. Her gaze flicked to the violin case he carried. “Thank you for remembering. Amelia is looking forward to playing tonight.”
The tension in Declan's face melted away, the mask he wore for everyone but his own family slipping into place. He transformed from blistering condemnation to gregarious and charismatic in the blink of an eye. He grinned broadly as he strode up to his chief of security. “Jericho! How are your sea legs?”
Everyone called him Jericho. He'd been with Declan's security team for the last six years, since Amelia was twelve. With smooth, dark brown skin, his strong, angular face matched his broad shoulders and confident swagger. He was cordial but aloof, always professional and all business, exactly the way Declan wanted him.
Fine, sir.” Jericho frowned.
“Why the long face?”
“I’d feel better with my Glock, sir.” He'd been in a foul mood since they boarded, when ship security had forced him to stow his guardian drone and refused to let him wear his holstered gun clipped to his belt. They made him store it in the small gun safe in the office of the chief security officer instead.
“No one is authorized to carry a weapon on a foreign-flagged vessel outside of U.S. jurisdiction.” Declan clapped him on the shoulder. “Relax. You're going to frighten the guests.”
Jericho's frown only deepened. “Voyager Enterprises claims all their security personnel are trained law enforcement or ex-military in their native countries. I'd bet my ass half of them have never even shot a gun before. They wouldn't have a clue what to do if they stumbled on a crime scene more serious than a drunken brawl.”
“That's why you're here, along with the half-dozen other private security agents onboard. Besides, these are our people. Now relax. And that's an order.”
“Yes, sir.” Jericho glanced at Silas, his expression shifting to concern. He and Silas went hunting together sometimes. He’d taught Silas how to shoot. “What happened to your eye?”
“You know hockey. Brutal sport.” Declan adjusted his gold cuff links and turned to Silas, the faintest flash of disdain in his eyes. “Don't bother coming to dinner.”
Jericho followed Declan and Elise into the corridor, leaving the door open for Amelia.
She checked herself in the mirror. Face. Hair. Nails. Posture. Dress. Check. She took a deep, steadying breath and pasted a smile on her face.
And there she was. The girl her father wanted.
She grabbed her clutch off the vanity and glanced at her brother.
Silas stared back at her, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. She couldn’t believe he’d dared to quit. He liked the fighting, he told her once, but that was it. He hated the hours of practice. He hated all the arrogant jocks. But he excelled at the game, playing power forward and enforcer with finesse.
It was the one thing their father acknowledged him for. His son, the hockey star. His daughter, the virtuoso violinist. Except she wasn’t. Not anymore. And now, neither was Silas. He defied their father. He’d actually said no. If only she could say no, too. No to the constant dinners and galas, no to being paraded around like some prized object, no to the knot of anxiety always snarled in her stomach.
She longed to exchange her dress and uncomfortable heels for pajamas and a night nestled on the couch next to her brother, ordering room service and watching old horror movies like they used to. “Silas—”
“Go on. You wouldn’t want to disappoint dear old Dad.”
She wanted to thank him for what he did, for drawing their father’s wrath away from her. But his face was closed, his mouth twisted in contempt. She knew his moods. This wasn’t the time.
She left Silas behind, just like she was supposed to.
She played the part of the good daughter perfectly.
4
Gabriel
Gabriel Ramos Rivera followed the hover cart loaded with the last of the suitcases. He took the cart from the laundry area below deck to the Oceanarium. It was still under construction, and ladders, cans of paint, and canvas tarps were strewn everywhere. The artist hired to paint the underwater seascape mural on the ceiling was ill, so the theater was dark, silent, and empty. The perfect location.
Gabriel directed the hover cart down the middle row of stadium seating, the newly installed plush chairs still sheathed in plastic. He loaded the suitcases’ contents into unlabeled cardboard boxes and shoved them against the wall beneath a ladder.
He paused to run his hands through his dark curly hair, wiping the sweat from his brow. It was day two of the cruise. He’d spent his breaks between security shifts in preparation. Finally, everything was almost ready.
It was time to meet Simeon. Gabriel made his way through the narrow crew corridors and metal stairwells. Thick veins of exposed piping snaked along the ceilings, the lighting harsh and flickering. Going from below deck to the main passenger areas was like emerging from a cave into paradise.
If only that paradise was the real thing, and not a glittering façade hiding the rot underneath. Gabriel clenched his jaw. Soon. Soon the truth would be revealed to the whole world.
Simeon Pagnini waited for him at the entrance to the Coral Gardens on Deck Eight, located between the art gallery and the designer clothing shops. Four stories above them, shafts of sunlight streamed through the transpa
rent roof.
“Is it done?” Simeon asked.
“The supplies are safely stowed.”
“Excellent. And the room numbers I requested?”
Gabriel pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Simeon. Paper never left a digital trail. “What else do you need me to do?”
“Walk with me,” Simeon said, gesturing toward the garden. Subtly shaded topiary bushes were trimmed into the shapes of different coral, from brain coral to purple fans, elkhorn to sponges. A path inlaid with shifting, shimmering mosaic tiles wound through the tall shrubs.
“I’m pleased you’re so eager.”
“Of course. I’ll do anything. You know that.” Gabriel had known Simeon for years. Simeon was his dad's old army buddy. When Gabriel’s dad died six years ago, Simeon stepped in. He took an interest in Gabriel, making sure Gabriel’s cold, indifferent aunt actually fed him and his little brother, Micah. Simeon bought him a new tablet for school and paid for years of after-school computer classes and specialized tutoring.
“The security agent, Jericho, could be a problem,” Simeon said. “Shadow the CEO, figure out his schedule, find out when the bodyguard is otherwise engaged. We may need you for certain security surveillance tasks, in case we run into any issues.”
“Consider it done.” They exited the Coral Gardens and walked past the Italian bistro. A metalhead bussed a newly vacated table, stacking plates left nearly half-full of linguine carbonara, cavatappi with sun-dried tomatoes, and caramelized quail.
Gabriel’s stomach twisted in revulsion. So much wasted food, each plate worth two hundred dollars or more. These rich bastards just trashed anything they didn’t like. Or the gluttons ordered two or three meals at a time, only to eat a few morsels. The food on that table alone could feed a family for a week. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “What else can I do?”
“Let’s put those handsome features to good use,” Simeon said. “You might be able to get some valuable information out of the daughter.”
Gabriel grimaced. “You can’t be serious.”