by Mary Weber
He dropped his pencil and pulled out his handheld again. Still nothing from Vic. ¿Cómo? Where was she? He adjusted his shoulders and tuned back in to the VP who was saying, “Two of our own team died today, and we want to get to the bottom of it as much as everyone here.”
Good gad, give it a rest. Considering they’d not even had twenty-four hours to investigate, Corp 24’s posturing was rhetorical. Perhaps it was time to move the meeting beyond what they didn’t know and probe into at least what somebody knew. Whose drama was this? What were they attempting to achieve?
Especially since the UW’s behind-the-scene scans of these meetings made to analyze everyone’s stress secretions and lies would be analyzed throughout the night and then the UW investigators would probe deeper in the morning. At which point he could have Vic access their files.
Meaning . . . if he wanted answers, it was time to stir the wasps’ nest.
He lifted his hand to flag the speaker.
“Ambassador Miguel?”
He rose to his feet. “I believe I speak for all of us that not only are we committed to finding the who and why of this brutal attack, we refuse to allow this to start a war between us.”
The audience’s reaction was swift. They rose to their feet in unified applause.
“Thank you, Miguel,” Inola said once the members were reseated.
“With that in mind”—Miguel stayed standing—“I propose we lay down our defensiveness and do what we came for. I propose we push past the decorum to the hard questions.”
“Yes, thank you!” a senator from up front said.
“Agreed!” multiple of the assembly added.
Inola furrowed her brow. “What exactly did you have in mind?”
Miguel shrugged. “Fácil. Let’s talk about if there’s anything the thirty Corps or their players have that would warrant such an attack.” He looked around. “Espionage perhaps? Stolen property? Anything worth attempting a cover-up?”
The gasp that rocked the room was the exact response he’d hoped for as he turned back to Inola on the platform and smiled. Then sat down.
Five CEOs, along with multiple leaders, promptly shot up in protest. “Madame Inola, I find this highly insulting.”
“This is irregular to say the least. Suggesting we dig into personal business, let alone assuming such things.”
Miguel watched the strikingly tall Ambassador Danya turn and look back over the sea of heads at him, an expression of amusement on her tan face, the same look, he noted, on Alis and Finn and a few others, along with old Kosame in the row ahead of him.
“You have guts—I’ll hand you that,” Claudius said.
Miguel eyed the individuals standing. Ms. Gaines. Corp 13’s Hart. A few senators. “You know we’re all thinking it.”
A hand went up and an ambassador asked, “Or could it have been solely the gamers or players? Is there a general unrest we’re unaware of?”
All of the Corp CEOs shook their heads. No. The players and gaming groupies knew the risk and wanted the money and fame that went with it. “If anything,” said a VP, “outside gamers could’ve sabotaged it for a chance at becoming replacements. But that’s very unlikely.”
“What about basic terrorism then? Just because none of the usuals have taken responsibility doesn’t mean they won’t. What of Calentine? Or Swara’s men?”
“That’s a possibility,” a few agreed.
“Or what about the rumors surrounding Corp 16 attempting to steal tech-suit designs?” a male senator by the name of Denzel asked. “Or Corp 13’s backroom deals to branch out into human genomes instead of just cold fusion?”
The assembly gasped even louder than before, and Miguel actually laughed.
Clearly he needed to meet Denzel in person. He watched CEO 16’s face turn so red and bulbous the poor man looked as if he might have a heart attack. Good thing his company had created the cure for that years ago. Nearby, Corp 13’s Hart wasn’t looking much better.
The voices rose and the accusations began flying, but before Miguel could make out a clear response, a message buzzed on his handscreen in a pattern that wasn’t Vic’s. Something told him he didn’t have to look to know what it would be, but he peered down anyway. And suddenly felt the eerie sensation of nameless eyes watching him.
Blame Corp 24.
He glanced up. At Inola. At the vice presidents and CEOs in the room. Even as the ceiling teles flashed a red ribbon across the screens, alerting an impending bulletin update. His stomach twisted.
Two seconds later Senator Finn spoke up. His voice hesitant. Uncomfortable. “Or what about whether Ms. Snow herself was involved?”
The room turned to stare at him.
“Forgive my insensitivity here,” Finn clarified. “But I’m asking about the possibility that Corp 30, and specifically the girl, Sofi, was behind the attack.”
“I hope for your sake you’re not suggesting my company and dead daughter were in any way responsible for the bomb that took her and her brother’s life,” CEO Inola said.
“Not me. But there is some evidence that supposedly suggests . . .”
Miguel frowned. What is Finn doing? Too late—he could already see it dawning on others’ faces. His suggestion taking root. It’d be easier to blame the “dead” girl and knock her mother down a notch in the same swoop than dig too deep. He glared.
Sofi’s mother lowered her tone. “In that case, Senator Finn, I suggest you get me the evidence. Until then, the idea is off the table. Because as it stands now, my children are dead.”
As if in unison with her words, the televids from earlier panned over the Colinade’s empty wreckage that’d since been cleaned up—while that impending message banner on the tele kept blinking.
“I’m truly unsure,” Inola continued, “how by any stretch of the imagination it can be assumed Sofi had a hand in it or chose to commit murder-suicide for the purpose of—what?” Her tone had stretched to the brink of patience.
Not that Miguel blamed her. The reasoning was ludicrous. There was no productive purpose behind such an act. And yet . . .
And yet . . .
Her company was clearly hiding something.
“Or perhaps it’s exactly as we all saw,” Ambassador Alis said from beside Finn. “That along with the girl, Corp 24 really is to blame. Clearly—”
“Again, we’d invite proof,” Corp 24’s VP jumped in.
Miguel frowned. Not quite the accusation he’d expected from Alis’s normally bipartisan mind. He shifted and ignored them. What was Corp 30’s interest in maintaining the ruse of Sofi’s death—even from her own mother?
He lifted his hand and flagged the forum. Let’s push the issue.
“Miguel, you can’t be serious,” Claudius groaned.
“Perdón, Madame Inola, but—”
That red banner flashed brighter across the overhead news screen. Blink, blink, blink.
Corp 13’s CEO Hart stood and interrupted. “In fact, I do have it on solid authority your daughter is alive, ma’am. That’s not to say she’s responsible—”
Cripe.
Inola’s face went pale. She peered at Hart, and in that second Miguel could read her soul as plain as day. The look was one of unbearable hope that wished by some stretch of insanity he might be right.
The next moment her expression melted into disgust.
Before she could reply, the impending news bulletin turned the entire roomful of telescreens red—in effect saving Hart from her wrath as it inspired a hush through the audience.
Sofi’s tired face suddenly appeared on the screen. Black eyes, brown skin, full lips, a cheek scuffed up and a cut above one eye. Miguel froze. Sofi? It looked like she was in a hovercar.
A vortex opened within his chest as the assembly let out a collective yelp. He searched her eyes, her expression, her furrowed brow—and shoved down the ache and hunger they evoked in him. She was clearing her throat as the camera jiggled slightly. Miguel narrowed his gaze. Was the hover’s back
window blown out?
She enlarged the camera’s time stamp to show it was either a very good fake or else was made an hour ago.
“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 and gave time for Miguel’s lungs to find air.
“I just wanted to tell y’all I’m alive and currently searching for my brother, whom I believe to also be alive. So, here’s the thing . . .” Sofi stared down 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. Her funk-pop music took over all sound as the city lights strobed across the lens.
CEO Inola’s face had blanched. Even from Miguel’s position, an expression of merciful relief and reddening, tear-glittered eyes was noticeable. Only to be followed by dawning horror.
Fortunately, no one had the gall to suggest what half the room was thinking. That Sofi’s being alive could negate everything her mother had just said.
“Actually, CEO Inola—”
“Actually, what a wonderful surprise,” Ms. Gaines exclaimed from her seat. Her hands were on her cheeks. “Oh, Inola, on behalf of the room, we are so relieved. And we as your Corp 30 team and UW community”—she turned to the senators behind her and then the crowd—“will take full responsibility to see she’s recovered safely.”
Miguel’s handscreen clicked and a pic popped up right as he turned it over. It was one of the damning photos from the paper in his pocket. His gut dropped. He pursed his lips and looked up.
A senator from South Americana had raised a hand. “I think it’s clear we not only need further investigation as we’ve all agreed, but we need to find your daughter, Madame, and hear her side of things. I move to request she be brought in as soon as possible.”
“I second that motion,” said another voice.
“Agreed. Although I, for one, would also like the Delonese’s assistance in this,” Ms. Gaines added. “I believe it wise to take advantage of their skills in rooting out the truth from within the individual Corps.”
“Yes,” voices buzzed.
“They’ve been a balanced resource in the past. I second that motion as well,” Ambassador Danya added, and over half the room raised their voices in agreement.
“Do we have a majority then?” Inola said. “Yes? Good. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe we already have a UW team set to meet up with them day after tomorrow. Ambassadors Miguel, Claudius, Lee, and Danya, I propose we tack our request onto their previously scheduled agenda. All in favor?” Inola peered around the room. “Excellent.”
Miguel’s handheld purred and another pic came through. Crud.
It purred again. Another pic.
Sí, sí, he got the message. He looked across the audience. The meeting was winding down. What did they want him to do—stand up and accuse Corp 24 right now? It’d be seen as a stall.
A moment later it was followed by vid streams flooding his in-box from Vic and the note: Corp 24 kid, Alis, and Delonese coding.
Ambassador Alis? What about her and Delon?
He stared at the message while the photos practically burned a hole in his spine. After peering over at Alis, Inola, and Ms. Gaines amid an atmosphere growing more palpable—like static in the air—he rose to his feet and squared his jaw. Let them think what they wanted. To heck with whoever was sending their manipulations.
He was the player, and he refused to be played.
“Miguel,” Claudius hinted.
“Perdón, but since that’s settled,” he said loudly, “I request permission to take leave of this meeting as I believe I may be sitting on new info regarding Corp 24 and their player.”
Both true and hinting at an accusation. Which will hopefully buy time.
“I’ll do my part to substantiate before I bring it to the committee, of course. And in the meantime, I’ll be hosting an informal fiesta tomorrow night. Something to celebrate our unity and get our minds off today’s tragedy for a few hours.” He flashed the smile he’d used to seduce many of them over the years. “Consider yourselves invited. 8:00 p.m. My rooftop.” His hand waved elaborately. “And please—dress for fun.”
With that he strode out amid voices coated in relief and interest after so much tension.
“Want to tell me what that was?” Claudius hissed as soon as they’d reached the hall.
“That was me buying us time.”
“Yes, but you just baited them on both sides. Good heavens, Miguel.”
The Session Hall doors shut as Miguel stepped into the elevator and swiped for the ground floor.
The music started up.
“So what was that really?”
“That was me stirring up the wasps’ nest.”
15
SOFI
“TO ANSWER YOUR QUESTION, WE’RE ON A TRAFFICKER ship.” The boy’s thin breath stuck to the skin on Shilo’s arm, making it clammy.
Shilo opened his eyes and peered through the dark, only to see the kid’s outline blend with the others. “Headed where?” someone whispered.
No one answered.
Shilo sniffed. Stories of Earth kids taken by traffickers were more commonplace than anyone would admit, even he knew that. None reported by the news, of course—but on the net, and on sleepovers when kids told scary tales, or as hearsay surrounding black-market sales.
None of those versions turned out nice.
Rumor was, those taken either were never seen again or occasionally escaped and were found naked and witless in some dirt patch. Although they couldn’t remember where they’d been or how long they’d been missing.
“I’m scared,” a kid whispered. The voice was fragile and shaken by sobs. A lot of them were by the sounds. All scared just as much as he was. All probably sensing what the older ones were trying not to admit: that while they were alive right now, when they got to where they were headed, they’d all wish they weren’t.
Shilo gulped and tried to blink real fast so his eyes wouldn’t cloud up, even though the dark would hide the tears anyway.
He swallowed. “It’ll be okay,” he said to the crying kid. “We won’t let anything happen to you.” He rested his head against his knees with his nose tucked into his elbows. Shilo inhaled, and even through his suit the scent of wheat fields and dirt and sunshine dragged images of the farm into his head. Home.
The swishing noise started up again and the gas returned for no reason, and Shilo retreated into oblivion.
“Sofi?”
Sofi’s stomach clenched and her eyes cleared. She looked around. She was still in Mom’s Basement, amid the gamers and bodies jostling to the music around her. What the—?
“You sure you’re okay?”
She blinked and looked at Heller, her fingers going to her necklace. What just happened?
It was like the dream she’d had of Shilo earlier at the Corp building. Except this time she’d been wide awake and about to walk into a chat room. She shook her head. One moment she’d been talking to Heller—and the next she’d been in a trafficking airship with Shilo, seeing the kids he saw, hearing the whimpers and questions he heard. Feeling his fragility.
Warm vomit rushed her throat. She blinked again.
“Well, now you’re weirding me out.”
“Sorry. It was nothing. Just a dizzy spell.” Just a fluke. An emotional reaction to seeing her brother on-screen yet again. To seeing him being watched by Delonese med personnel. She shivered as her hatred of the aliens flared.
Deep breath.
Except . . .
Except if it was nothing,
then why was her head screaming the visions were so freaking real? Why was she suddenly recalling rumors about Delonese telepathy, or the obscure, random questions Corp 30’s therapist used to ask about whether she and Shilo ever shared thoughts? Sofi straightened her spine and tucked her hair behind her. It was crazy. She knew that.
But she also knew what she’d seen at the Colinade.
And Heller was right—the Delonese were the only ones who could’ve erased Shi’s online existence like she’d just seen.
Clearing her throat, she clamped her lips and resumed her trek down the hall while replaying the vision and those pics of the Delonese watching Shilo at the FanFight. If she let her mind roam with the idea that he was with the aliens, then it led to the obvious question of why. Why would they want her brother? What would they even do with him?
The immediate answer made her sick. She shoved aside the rumors, and gossip, and comments made at black-market dealings and on anarchist net sites. They’d only served to fuel her disgust and heighten her fear for her brother.
“Sofi!” A bearded guy in a red beanie waved them into a chat room crammed wall to wall with Luca and Heller’s tech friends. From the look of it, a few were battling the newest net-war game while the rest watched the tele where a slide display had just appeared, flashing pics of the players who’d failed out of the FanFights in the past two days. It was the Basement’s tribute—a rebellion of sorts against the media’s recapping each day only in honor of the victors.
“What’s up?” Heller high-fived bearded boy.
Ranger, as his friends called him. Sofi had known him all three years she’d known Heller. The twenty-five-year-old pointed to the screen, his expression solemn. “I’m betting half these players are headed for the market.” He nudged Sofi’s shoulder. “Hey, friend, glad you’re alive.”
She nudged back. “Hey to you. I’m really sorry about N.”
He nodded and kept his suddenly misty eyes on the tele. She wasn’t actually sure which of the three he’d been dating for the past year but knew enough to realize they’d been serious. More serious than she’d ever been. And while he clearly wasn’t interested in elaborating just now, his pat on her hand said he appreciated her heart.