by Mary Weber
“Yeah, why?”
Sofi opened the car door, ducked into the seat, and promptly looked at the vehicle’s computer interface before tapping the screen and swiping through options. Twenty seconds later she’d accessed the Darknet via a backdoor hub and typed in the first free code she found. The car started as she disengaged the autopilot.
Heller’s tone tightened. “I don’t know what the heck you’re doing, but they’re out of the building and headed straight for you. Move.”
“I’m searching for the—Hold on, got it.” She disengaged the hover’s tracking device just as shouting echoed through the car lot. “Never mind about the credits. Stay put, and I’ll find you.”
Slumping in the seat, she flipped on a funk-pop music stream Shilo would’ve approved of and pressed the Drive button to back out of the parking space while the Corp’s private soldiers ran for her car. One grabbed the rear hood and pounded the metal with his hand while lifting a gun in the other. He yelled something.
Sofi shoved the hover into Forward, then jerked her head down as a gunshot took out her back window along with a portion of the front. Crud. She bobbed and punched in the accelerator and left the soldier behind in a rush to the far exit, where she veered out onto the busy nighttime street.
With one last look in the mirror at the men running for their vehicles, Sofi merged her way into the center of downtown traffic and let the zooming cars overtake her. Until the beat, beat, beat of her pulse gradually slowed as the false sense of anonymity surrounded her. And eventually, her gut climbed down from her throat—the city lights and hovercars and buildings engulfing her into their arms.
Twenty seconds later she blinked and refocused. They’d be coming for her. The hovertracking might be disabled, but the shattered windows would be all over the soldiers’ screens within minutes and they’d return her to whatever interrogation they’d planned, to extract information she didn’t have.
Then they’d cause her to disappear, with no one but Heller the wiser. And a brother who needed her now more than ever.
She swallowed.
“Heya, Sof. You still alive?”
“I’m here. Just need a minute.”
“Cool.”
Ignoring his relief, she used one hand to pull up the hover’s camera and centered it on herself. “Okay, I’m sending you a vid to upload on the public wave. It’ll come through in a few moments.”
Tapping the Record button, Sofi cleared her throat and enlarged the camera’s time stamp, then dialed a backdoor addy she and her team kept for private contact and synced it to the screen.
She swallowed and looked at the lens. “Good evening, folks.” She smiled and peered up at the traffic slowing ahead. “This is Sofi Snow, daughter of CEO Inola from Corp 30. It’s 8:59 on the second night of the FanFight Games, and this recording is following the terrible explosion today in the arena.” She paused. So far so good.
“I just wanted to tell y’all I’m alive and currently searching for my brother, whom I believe to also be alive.”
She could say that without endangering him, right? She had no proof, but it might make whoever had him think twice. If they had him.
“So here’s the thing . . .” She stared at the camera again. “If anyone listening was involved in the attack or with our attempted murder, you should know I will find you. I’m already aware of who you are. And for the rest of you”—she winked—“well, enjoy.”
Leaving the vid rolling, she swerved the lens to focus for a brief second on the smashed window behind her, then shifted it to focus on the empty brown passenger seat. And turned her funk-pop music up to blaring, in honor of Shilo and her gaming team.
12
MIGUEL
BY THE TIME EARTH’S WORLD WAR III HAD ERUPTED, EVERYONE knew it was coming. Controlled oil shortages and energy crises, a declining environment, and corruption at the highest levels had already set them on a collision course. That, along with twenty-four-hour hate-speech spewed by one offended online group or another, and a new breed of terrorism exploded. As did opinions on whom to blame among a vicious and disheartened population of 7.3 billion people.
The war lasted just over three years.
The resulting meltdown, however, took out one-half of Earth’s inhabitants and even more of its resources—until what survived was far more broken and barren than it had been even at the war’s end. With the nuclear holocaust’s radiation and chemicals infecting the devastated environment, Earth had effectively settled on a course for a dystopian society as individuals and governments fell victim to isolation and disease.
Which was when the private Corporations emerged.
One by one they scrambled to scrape up the last of the brightest scientists and best tech, and re–set up shop, even while the original governments mounted a weak stand against them.
Thus, the Fourth War.
In comparison, it was a blip on the radar due to the emergence of the Delonese planet and the offer of help from their race of rather tall humanoids who’d wormholed from light-years away in search of similar beings. How they’d done it—shot their planet through a wrinkle in time into a perfect orbiting position beyond the moon—no one understood. And the Delonese weren’t interested in explaining, especially once the questions turned to demands.
Unfortunately for Old Earth’s regime, the introduction of Delon’s technology was sufficient confirmation that a new system was indeed needed. The people of Earth wanted healers instead of politicians. Social business systems instead of governments. Within two years, new country lines were drawn, new statespeople set in play, and a new world emerged, united by those who owned the cities and products that people needed for survival.
And overnight, the thirty strongest Corporations—which produced the medicine, technology, media, and food necessary for continued existence—became the new ruling powers. All while the Delonese interacted behind the scenes, providing assistance far beyond Earth’s means. Taking the world from a ravaged state to a synthetically recovered wonder.
That was the reality a little less than a decade ago.
Now, seven years later, at the age of nineteen, Miguel was entering his third year as a commissioned ambassador, and the Delonese were trusted allies. Or supposed allies. As were the United World Corp members whom Miguel was currently surrounded by as he stood inside a windowless, wood-paneled room at the International UWC Building.
He cleared his throat and took a breath before he turned to scan the Session Hall and his fellow political players. Including Claudius, who was striding through the refreshment doorway.
“Miguel! How are you?” His earcom translated Ambassador Danya’s greeting as a woman matching his six-feet-six height approached and extended a graceful hand.
“Danya.” He grinned and leaned in to kiss her cheek, ignoring her offered gesture before adding loudly, “How are Salim and the kids? How’s the South Middle East region?”
Ambassador Danya laughed and pulled back with a look that said Miguel’s lack of decorum was only allowed because it was him. “It’s the East—busy as always.” She dropped her voice. “Two of the five Corps just finished a bidding war over a start-up that’s got a new growth hormone. Very messy. The UW even sent in their peacekeepers over it. Although I hear that’s nothing to the ten European Corps constantly encroaching on each other’s citizens and territory.”
Without a pause she seamlessly switched to Miguel’s earlier loud volume. “But enough of that, because the kids are growing! Little girl just turned three and boy is five, and the adoption for both was just finalized. And Salim is brilliant as ever.”
“Of course he is. I expect nothing less.” Miguel’s smile broadened in genuine warmth for this lady who’d become a beacon of honor to him ever since he’d first been elected by the Corporate CEOs. Even in his days when he’d been less than, she reached out to him. It was something he’d quickly come to admire in a place that often duplicated the very governments they’d sought to do away with.
>
He patted her hand before he nodded at two friends sidling over. “Alis, Finn. You know Danya.”
Ambassador Alis and Senator Finn from the Icelands region, both in their late twenties and sipping sparkling water, tipped their shaved heads. “Lovely to see you again, Danya,” Alis said.
“Same to you, friends.” She offered a slight bow. Then smiled and glanced, unblinking, at Miguel. “Peace, dear boy. I’ll speak with you again.” She strolled off toward the Hall’s cushy, red front-row seats, adjusting her blue head covering around her face as she went.
The warm ceiling lights glinted off Finn’s smooth scalp while he cleared his throat. “All right, Miguel, tell the truth. Did you make money off today’s game yet?”
Miguel quirked a brow. “Finn, you know I never talk moolah.” He winked at the three Corp CEOs walking by who nodded him a greeting. “Unless, of course, you’re selling something,” he added, earning a hearty laugh from the duo.
“Actually, on that note, I’ve been meaning to ask—”
“Leaders and statespeople, please take your seats,” a robotic voice translated into their earpieces. “We will now get started.”
Miguel waved at Finn. “Later, because I’d love to hear it.” He patted Alis’s shoulder and whispered, “Chat soon, love.” Then strode over through the maze of political-businessmen as they whispered “Hello” and “Good to see you, Miguel” until he reached where Claudius was settling into a chair along the back wall.
His friend held drinks for them, old-skool Bloody Mary for himself and spicy-sweet tea for Miguel. “Got your fancy drink, amigo.”
“Says the cuate sipping his through a hemp straw.” Miguel swiped his cup from Claudius’s hand. “Next you’ll be insulting anything fried,” he grumbled. “Speaking of which . . .” He glanced at the cherrywood door through which the drink station was located. “How hard is it to get a vote passed for food cafés that’ll carry more than synthesized fruit?”
“Statespeople and Corp heads, we are grateful for your attendance,” the robo-voice said. “On behalf of all of us, and particularly Corps 24 and 30 and the North East–Americana region, we thank you for attending.”
“Heard back from Vic yet?” Claudius whispered.
Miguel shook his head as an ambassador on the left babbled to her seatmate, “Ever seen all of them together like this?”
Miguel glanced around the warmly lit, expensive wood room with its high ceilings and plush seats, packed full with a few hundred people.
“Nope,” came the neighboring reply. “Kind of makes you wonder how many of them are here just for the entertainment.”
Claudius looked at Miguel and tipped his head toward the two conversing.
Miguel took a casual sip of his drink and nodded, then paused as the té de manzanilla hit his tongue. Even fake, it evoked a sense of childhood from his California home—despite the fact that most of California no longer existed, thanks to one too many nuclear-induced earthquakes during World War III.
He and his family had barely escaped them for the Old Colorado region—where his citizenship changed to Corp 19, which produced patent-owned artificial wood and steel for everything from buildings to housing to hovercars. It was there at the ripe age of eight he’d begun to learn politics and media sway while other kids clung to their mamas’ apron strings.
Claudius leaned over to Miguel. “I was thinking that guy has a point about some of the senators being here more for entertainment. If someone wanted to expose those . . . photos . . . this would be an ideal audience.”
The blackmail photos Miguel had placed last minute in his breast pocket took on a few pounds. He glanced at Claudius. Yes, he’d caught the undercurrent and knew what he might be in for, and he was about to say as much when a prick of awareness stalled him. For as casual as they appeared, the senators closest to them had their heads tilted too near, too taut. Too invested.
He presented an innocent smile. “Exactly. Meaning this ought to be interesting, eh? For instance, shall we bet on whose faux leather pants will get in a bunch first? Because how is Corp 24 looking so calm when we know it’ll be them?” Miguel tipped forward and got louder. “Good gad, these are the questions I need answered. This is why I’m here!” He lightly lifted his drink in the air. “We want enlightenment, dangit!”
Claudius offered him a sardonic eyeful even as he laughed quietly along with the two rows curved in front of Miguel. One of the delegates, an old woman senator from Corp 11’s Asiatic region, turned and patted Miguel’s knee. “Me too, sweetie. Me too.” She took on a confidential tone. “Only thing better would be if our dress code wasn’t so strict. All these men’s shoulders and legs are so dang covered, there’s not enough skin. Makes it hard for a woman to get a date from these meetings.”
Miguel chuckled and swept up her hand for a kiss. “Kosame, you are my goddess.”
The eighty-year-old winked. “Ain’t that the truth. And better not forget it, boy.” Then she went back to looking toward the platform situated in the circular room’s center as the robo-voice began naming off each individual in the room as introduction.
Miguel eased back and studied faces as they were called upon. His skin prickled. He had to agree with Claudius—it was the perfect environment. The place was packed with every governing member from all thirty Corp Nations, either in person or via telescreens along the walls. Senators, VPs, CEOs, and Earth’s ambassadors—their skin color and cultural style and hushed chatter of translated languages made the energy all the more electric.
“Wonder how our Delonese friends feel about being left out?” murmured a senator to Miguel’s right.
Claudius raised a brow and peered at the empty seats that the alien guests only rarely received an invitation to occupy.
“Probably the same as we would if this had occurred on their planet while we were visiting,” Miguel answered. “They’d want to discuss it before inviting our opinion.”
“Statespeople and Corp leaders,” the overhead voice interrupted. “We are now set to continue with tonight’s order of business. Please welcome CEO 30 from region North Americanada to the podium.”
Across the room the attendees froze as Sofi’s mother, Inola, stepped to the platform. The telescreens circling the top of the room provided the audience with her professional photo and stats.
Not that any were needed. The woman was a legend. A phenomenon looking as young and foreboding as ever.
In fact, she looked like Sofi.
Her thick, long black hair hung loose around her shoulders and back, setting off her professional blue suit and jacket. More than the long hair, though, it was the cheekbones and eyes that matched her daughter’s—the eyes wide and dark and darting around to read the audience without giving her own soul away.
“My friends, I thank you for attending on such short notice,” the woman began. “Also for the care many have reached out with—to me, my company, and the beloved others who lost people in today’s attack.” Despite her words, Inola’s tone and expression were stoic. Calculated. As if she were reciting a medical chart.
“As you know, at 4:03 p.m. during our third united and highly successful Fantasy Fighting Games, an explosion went off and killed eleven members, players 1 and 24, gamers 2, 24, and 10, and Corp 30’s team, including my children. We are all still in shock.”
Miguel studied her emotionless face through lazy eyelids. From what he could tell, she was speaking the truth. Interesante. More than interesting, it was strange. The woman apparently had no idea her daughter was alive.
An uncomfortable pressure formed on the back of his neck.
He frowned. Vic said it was CEO Inola’s own Corp who had Sofi. He checked his handscreen—still no messages from the AI.
“With that in mind,” the woman continued, “I’ve asked you here to waste no time in getting to the bottom of this—both as a committee and as allies. I request you speak frankly, and if not . . .” Inola lifted her head and swept the room with her fierce gaze
, although it avoided reaching Corp 24, Miguel noticed. Astuta. She’d let the others crucify them for her.
“Our joint UW attorney general has already begun a formal investigation,” she finished. “So, with that said, I now open the floor for conversation.”
Except . . . the room didn’t open up to conversation.
It didn’t open up to any talking whatsoever.
He glanced to Corp 24’s section for their reaction—only to have his gaze alight on the shiny, bald head of his friend Ambassador Alis, who was looking rather cozy with the group.
Claudius nudged Miguel. The individuals assembled were about as likely to be first at jumping in to discuss the woman’s dead kids as to mention Corp 24 was to blame for it. Because if that wasn’t sensitive enough, the very presence of the woman herself was—particularly for those senators who’d only recently joined the UW.
Above her, her life-history profile had returned to scrolling on the tele.
Raised in her native nation, Inola was one of the world’s foremost medical researchers, and everyone knew it. She’d married early and put herself through three of the top scientific universities before World War III broke.
Unfortunately, as the photos depicted, the war not only took her husband but left her a radiation-ridden baby girl—and a small venture in a company focused on the genetic targeting and dissolving of cancer at a cellular level. It was a breakthrough that changed the course of every person’s life on Earth, even in the midst of tragedy.
Miguel took a sip of his tea and assessed the expressions of the UW’s members. Because, seriously, how do you not acknowledge that in figuring out how to address the woman before you?
The photos continued, showing that, shortly before the vaccine’s discovery, Inola had remarried—this time to a college professor from upper Old Canada. But somewhere between the births of her second and third children, her daughter died—the girl’s body too far gone for the cure her mother had created.
Now here was that same woman once again talking about the deaths of her other children.