Cracked Open

by Susan Kaye Quinn

  “You good?” I ask quietly.

  “Yeah.” He brushes off his server’s uniform, and I hand him an earbud. It’s one I smuggled in earlier in the day before the security screeners went up. Ethan pops it in his ear and contacts Wright. I know from rehearsals that he’s giving her a status update. I could jack into the bud, but we didn’t do that in the simulation, and I don’t want to give him any hints that something might be different.

  His check-in is short. “Presidential ETA is fifteen minutes,” he tells me.

  I frown. “That’s sooner than expected.” And it seriously crimps my plans for getting Sammi out before the real show begins.

  Ethan shrugs—the residual brain chemicals make him more easy-going than normal—and then he’s back on script. “I’ll be in position. Make sure Renell is where he needs to be.”

  “Understood.” It’s my rehearsed reply.

  Ethan slips out of the gym. According to the plan, he’ll grab a tray and circulate back into the party. Renell should have already arrived and will be making the social rounds. He needs to keep the pretense of a normal partygoer right until the president arrives, but he also needs to be near the front of the crowd, so he’s within jacking distance. Renell won’t be flipping modes until the last possible second, and his range is only about fifty feet. We’ve tested it, so he knows where he has to be. Ethan’s range is longer so he can hide further back in the party, even as far as the main house. My range wasn’t of importance for the mission, so Wright didn’t force me to test it. Which is good because it’s easily three times the distance of Ethan’s, and I don’t want that particular knowledge in Wright’s hands.

  I use that reach now to find Richards.

  The extra security Tiller has hired all are helmeted, but in my first stroke of good luck for the evening, Richards is helmet-less—it’s Tiller’s way of showing off. He wants his guests to feel secure, so he’s having his head of security parade around inside the shield, playing deputy host without a helmet. My light-weight mind-brush shouldn’t be felt by any of the hundreds of people, but it takes a moment to find Richards. My second stroke of good luck is that he’s already inside the main house, near the kitchen. I’m not close enough to jack, so I head his way. As I close in, I plant a mild impulse for Richards to head toward the north wing. Nothing too strong, so it’s not noticed by the staff around him. Richards makes up some story in his head to explain the urge—he forgot something in Tiller’s office—and heads that way. I pick up the pace. With just a little more luck, I can get in and out quickly, and Sammi and Juliette can be on their way before—

  “My dad wants to see you.” Juliette’s voice in my ear jerks me to a stop. It’s a scrit from her, coming through on the earbud.

  I jack into my phone, WHY? Then I keep moving.

  “He wants both of us together. Some kind of announcement.”

  BUY ME SOME TIME.

  “Hurry.”

  Crap. I sweep the rooms around me. With no one nearby, I break into a jog, zipping through the northeast wing, crossing into the main house, and heading north. Richards has already arrived at Tiller’s office, and he’s about to swipe in, but he’s hesitating because he can’t remember what he came for. I’m close enough to jack him, and no one’s nearby to tell, so I jack in hard and direct him along the north wing to meet me at the doorway that leads to Sammi’s cell. This part of the estate is normally deserted, and now all the action is focused on the kitchen and the party. Which is good because Richards and I are both at a dead run now. We arrive at the industrial steel doors at the same time. I instruct Richards to press his palm to the scanner, and I’m almost shocked that it works. We pass through the shield, through the second set of doors, then we’re running again. I didn’t exactly memorize the way, but Richards knows it, and he’s under a hard jack now, so he’s practically a puppet at the end of my string. We quickly reach a plain white door—it looks like the one for Sammi’s cell, and Richards thinks it is. His palmprint works, but when the door slides open… the room is empty.

  I curse and kick the doorjamb.

  “Zeph. Dad’s calling Richards.” The software renders Juliette’s voice in a flat monotone, but I can hear the panic in the words.

  I jack into my phone. SAMMI’S NOT HERE. PLAN B. Then I jack Richards to answer the call from Tiller blaring through his own earbud

  Yes, sir, Richards answers reflexively. He’s looking straight at me, but my hold on his brain doesn’t let him do anything with the fact he and I are standing in Sammi’s cell.

  In Richards’ mind, I hear Tiller’s earbud transmission. Zeph’s missing. Find him and bring him to me.

  Roger that, sir.

  I curse again, but I suppose this is fixable. I march out of Sammi’s cell and retrace our steps through the north wing. Richards follows behind on his mental leash. Meanwhile, I dig through his mind, searching for any information on Sammi. Apparently, she’s been helmeted and shuffled out of the north wing, but from there Richards handed her off to a detail of his thugs. They’re supposed to meet with Tiller for his special instructions.

  Crap. I’m really hoping Sammi has figured out how to bust out of her helmet.

  We reach the rugged steel doors—I make sure they close behind us then walk Richards forward through the main house until we reach the stairs at the front. This is the path Juliette and I usually take to her room. I stop Richards, wipe the last few minutes from his memory, and jack him to close his eyes. Then I go up the stairs about four steps, while I plant a short sim about him getting the call from Tiller and searching the main house for me. When I release him from my jack-hold, he opens his eyes, startled.

  Okay, what do you want? I broadcast, shocking his mind with suddenly finding me in front of him, coming down the stairs.

  Tiller’s looking for you. He frowns, his mind still confused, but it’s already making up a story about how he’s been mentally calling out my name, searching for me, and he’s finally found me.

  I brush past him. I’m coming. Just took a while with the tie.

  Richards finds it utterly believable that I’m incompetent at bowties. He strides next to me, escorting me toward the back. He wants you and Juliette both outside.

  Okay, okay. Do you want me to run? I smooth back my hair and straighten my jacket, hoping it doesn’t look like I’ve been sprinting through the estate.

  Richards brings me out the back of the main house, through the open space between the southeast and northeast wings, and finally, we’re out in the main backyard area. Although calling it a backyard seems ridiculously understated. The infinity pool catches some of the color from the late afternoon sun, the lake sparkles in the distance, and there are beautiful people in formal clothes everywhere. The giant screen that rises out of the pool is playing a loop of an enormous American flag flapping in an imaginary breeze.

  According to Wright’s plan, my part is mostly done. I’m not technically needed during the party. But I’m supposed to be on hand, making sure nothing goes wrong and jacking anyone who inadvertently gets in the way. At least, that’s what we practiced. Wright’s hidden plan of having Renell kill the president isn’t going to happen—instead, he will link into the president’s mind and warn him that he’s in danger. Renell’s got a highlights reel in his mind, ready to play for the president, showing there are forces within the DOD who want him dead. And that Renell and his fellow jacker friends are here to keep the president safe by mindguarding him. It has to be Renell because his family is well known in reader circles. His record is spotless. He’s not a runaway, ex-Clan member, mutant jacker like me. The president, if he believes anyone, will believe a scion of an old-money family.

  My true job in this party is making sure the president survives. And making sure no one kills Renell. Which is why I need to keep special tabs on Ethan and shut him down just before all this happens. Because he’s the biggest threat here.

  Where it goes from there is anyone’s guess.

  I stride up to Till
er. Juliette’s standing next to him in her amazing dress, doing a good job of looking sullen, not panicked like her texts.

  Sorry, I’m late, sir, I broadcast for Tiller’s benefit. And Juliette’s. Couldn’t get the tie to work.

  He brushes that off. You’re here just in time.

  Juliette’s lips are pinched. She has no idea what he means.

  Time for what, sir? I glance around the party, but there’s no organization to it. No sense that the president is here. I fully expect a legion of Secret Service guys to flood in with him, so if that’s not happening…

  Time for the show. He grins.

  The flag on the screen fades away and is replaced by the logo for Tru-Tech, Tiller’s dark anti-jacker tech company. The one that’s apparently perfected his jacker-conversion shock tech.

  Oh man.

  A murmur runs through the party, but everyone dutifully faces the screen.

  A vid starts playing. I don’t want to call it a propaganda film, but it’s totally a propaganda film. Anti-jacker. Shots of the National Guard surrounding Jackertown. Menacing music as tough-looking jackers cut down little old ladies in the street. That has to be actors—I mean, I’ve never seen a jacker make a face like that, much less on camera. And who kills little old ladies in the street? Then laughs about it? I mean, sure the Clans are ruthless, but that’s just stupid. Not to mention leaving witnesses. Then a shot fades in of a young girl marching down the street and cutting people down… and I feel all the blood drain out of my face.

  Tiller’s using footage of my sister. In his propaganda reel.

  The crowd is gasping and making sounds of disapproval, but I can hardly hear it over the rushing sound in my ears. I shouldn’t be surprised when my face flashes on the giant screen, a hundred times larger than life, tears streaming because my sister, the jacker, is lying dead in my arms.

  Holy mother of God.

  A few at the party glance my way, but my broadcasted thoughts are mostly blank. Which has to be appropriate for the stunned look on my face.

  Juliette is furious. What are you doing? My God, just when I thought you couldn’t go any lower…

  It’s not done, Tiller thinks coolly, then he goes back to ignoring her. And he’s right. The vid plays on, the menacing music lifting into something triumphant as a full spread of Tiller’s anti-jacker wares are displayed for the now-clapping crowd. Helmets. Shield technology. Jacker-tuned tasers. Even thought-grenades, which I thought was secret technology, but apparently, it’s all out there now. Then, in a dramatic, one could say loving, sweep of the camera, a shiny black orb pans onto the screen. The words surgical strikes and precision deterrent and advanced technology float across the screen.

  Juliette stole something of mine, Zeph. Tiller doesn’t look at his daughter, but he slides a glance at me. She’s my daughter, so she only loses things she doesn’t need. But don’t make the mistake of thinking you would be so lucky.

  I… I don’t know what you mean, sir. I would never—

  He waves me off. I know. Jackers have already cost you too much. But I expect you to keep her on the straight and narrow going forward.

  The whole exchange is so chilling and so bizarre, I can hardly think what to broadcast. Yes, sir. That’s all the man wants from me anyway.

  Juliette’s seething, but I can see the terror in her eyes.

  Tiller only has eyes for his propaganda film, which is now showing the orb break into a dozen pieces, all flying around a testing chamber and slamming into test dummies. When each lands, it delivers a shock that vibrates the headless, fabric dummies and makes them smoke. One fully catches fire. The crowd gasps and applauds and seems to think this is a fine show, not a display of cruel power and violence.

  “Scott requests an update on the go time.” Jiaying’s voice is even and calm. Unlike my pounding heart.

  I jack into my phone. STANDBY. But the time has to be soon. I’d almost forgotten to check in visually with Ethan, per our protocol. He’s standing near the south end of the pool, next to the entrance, holding a platter and serving the occasional guest with an inscrutably professional expression on his face. He gives me a pinched look but also the small nod that’s part of our rehearsed routine. He’s in place and ready for when the president arrives. I scan the crowd, searching for Renell. I almost panic when I can’t find him, but then I see him air-kissing some elderly lady and smiling at her equally elderly husband. He’s working the crowd, just like he’s supposed to. As he moves to the next person, he briefly makes eye contact with me and gives a small nod. That’s the rehearsed signal. I rub my chin like I have a fascinating thought. That’s our secret signal that everything’s in place, and Renell should proceed with the plan. Our plan. The one where we try to bring this whole nightmare to an end.

  He turns away with no reaction then smiles at the next person who greets him.

  A small measure of relief relaxes the tightness in my stomach. This can work. This has to work.

  “Anna says they’ve been spotted.” Jiaying’s words jolt me.

  MORE INFORMATION, I hastily scrit. My stomach is instantly a rock again. I pretend I’m watching Tiller’s vid, which is going into the tech details of the orb, breaking its pieces apart for the audience’s education and persuasion. State-of-the-art Anti-Jacker Measures floats across the screen.

  “They’re going in.” Jiaying’s voice is flat, but it makes my heart race. “Guard spotted them. It was move or lose the possibility of surprise.”

  Crap. UNDERSTOOD. I can’t link anything to Juliette, so I scrit her. OPERATION KID RESCUE IS UNDERWAY.

  Juliette’s phone buzzes, and she somehow produces it from her flowing silver dress. She frowns, flicks a quick look to me, then pockets it again.

  I check out Ethan, but if he’s alarmed by a sudden communication from Wright about an attack on the Great Lakes Naval Station by an armed militia of jackers, it’s not showing on his face. I’d brush his mind, but he has to be on full alert—he’d feel it for sure.

  The vid switches to a clip of Mac Simpson, the reader bigot who’s running against Kira for the Senate. He’s talking about the danger jackers present to everyday Americans. Real Americans. The kind who are mindreaders, the way nature intended. This is the guy Wright would jack the POTUS to endorse. Then Simpson is replaced by a larger-than-life image of Tiller. His smile is huge, and his thoughts scroll at the bottom just like on a tru-cast. He informs the crowd that a special demonstration of his latest, ground-breaking anti-jacker technology will come soon. That they should take care not to be alarmed, that everything is perfectly safe and controlled, but for the first time, he would reveal this new hardware to the public in a dramatic enactment of its possible uses.

  Crap, crap, crap! I know he’s talking about Sammi.

  Juliette’s hands are clenching and unclenching the sides of her dress, and I’m freaking out, too. I start mentally scanning everyone—not the crowd, but the security guards around the glassed-in perimeter wall, the staff going in and out of the house, anyone else lurking in the nooks and crannies all around the large lawn and pool. Tiller must have Sammi stashed somewhere if he’s getting her ready to come out for her “demonstration.” The only way in or out is through the heavily guarded and security screened side entrance and the doors leading back into the estate. Avoiding Ethan, I lightly brush over the minds of everyone in my reach, but everyone’s either helmeted or a reader. I visually check the helmeted minds, but I can’t see all of them.

  Then the giant image of Tiller on the screen fades out, as the flag fades back in. A swell of patriotic music rises, and an announcer proclaims, “Ladies and Gentlemen, the President of the United States.”

  A gasp of surprise and delight goes through the crowd. They turn toward the guest entrance as a rush of Secret Service guys floods through and fans out. They make Tiller’s regular security look like amateurs. The Secret Service guys have helmets, but they move with such precision, you’d think they were mindlinked. They must be connected on
comms to give the same effect.

  The first politician through the gate isn’t the president at all—it’s the Secretary of Defense, the silver-haired guy I saw not three days ago in Wright’s surgical theater of jacker torture. He doesn’t wave or smile, just strides in with his military bearing. That alone earns him a smattering of applause.

  Twenty paces behind him, a taller man strides through the entrance. His expensive suit says politician, and he’s young and attractive enough to look good on the tru-casts, but it takes me a moment to place him.

  Vice President Torquin, Juliette informs me.

  This guy gets more applause, and a couple shouts of appreciation from what sounds like female voices.

  I nod, and now I remember. It’s not like I follow politics, but when President Ashton ran for a second term, there was a flurry of scandal or something when he ditched his previous Vice President and picked this Torquin guy. Something about appealing to younger voters. Or, looking at him, anyone attracted to hot guys.

  He’s the new one, right? I ask Juliette. Given I’m hip-deep in political intrigue via the Department of Defense, I really should know more about the politics of my country.

  He’s part of a long political dynasty in New York. His family goes way back. Pre-Change old money and political influence.

  New York politics? Whatever. The next guy, on the other hand, thoroughly captures my attention—it’s the smarmy guy who was hanging out with the SecDef while Wright was showing off my abilities.

  Who’s that? I ask Juliette.

  But she just shrugs.

  Tiller’s thoughts float over hers. Jeremy Ailsberg. Chief political strategist for the president.

  I just blink… then frown as Jeremy’s thin legs carry him stiffly across the grass. He gets no applause, and I suspect no one else knows who he is either. But my mind is whirling. What is the chief political strategist for the president doing skulking around with the SecDef on secret jacker projects… especially projects supposedly aimed at assassinating the president? I’d assumed all along, ever since Renell told me about Wright’s secret instructions for him, that she was the one angling for more power. Or maybe the SecDef. But as freaked about it—and determined to stop it—as I am, I never stopped long enough to consider why someone would want to kill the president.