by Julia Huni
The view goes black again then resolves to a distinguished looking man in his late sixties. He’s probably younger, but this job requires gravitas, so aesthetic mods lend him an aura of age and authority. “Warden Peters. How may I help you, Sera Morgan?”
“I need to see Bobby Putin.” My voice comes out high and thready. I clear my throat and try again. “I’ve just seen his doppelganger, and I want assurance it’s not him.”
“Sera, I assure you I spoke with Ser Putin just this morning. He’s still safely locked—”
I cut him off. “The court records of his conviction and sentencing are clear. If a representative of the Morgan family demands confirmation, you’re to provide it, no questions asked. I am Dame Morgan’s official representative. You’ve seen my credentials.” I gesture at his desk. He would have had to review and accept several confirmations while I waited on hold. “Show me the cell.”
He holds up his hand in surrender. “One moment, please. Do you wish audio?”
“NO!” I take a deep, shaky breath and try again. “I don’t want him to know I checked. I just need to see that he’s there.”
“Yes, Sera.”
The view goes back to the logo then clears to a prison cell. I recognize it from my visit when he was sentenced. The cam sits just above eye-level in the visitor’s chamber, facing a transparent wall. On the other side of that wall is Bobby’s domain. Fifteen square meters, all but the bathroom in full view. Even the bathroom has a cam, but I don’t want to see that.
Bobby has acquired some nice furnishings in the months since his conviction. He has an enormous bed lofted overhead, with a staircase made of shelves leading to it. The shelves overflow with old-fashioned books. A plush couch sits under the bed, with a half-dozen plump pillows and a low table. The other end of the room holds a desk with a comfortable chair and a beautiful lamp. A door at the back leads to the bathroom. He’s hung expensive-looking prints on the walls, and a thick carpet covers most of the floor.
Bobby lounges on the couch, paging through a large, colorful book. Soft music plays in the background. If it weren’t for the transparent front wall, this could be any top-lev apartment.
“Triana!” Angie pushes open the door. “Triana, where are you?”
At the sound of her voice, Bobby’s head pops up. He grins directly at the cam then gives a little finger wave.
Twenty-Three
Terror grips my stomach in an iron clench. Trembling, I slap the interface and shut down the call. The warden is going to get an earful from me—as soon as I get over the shakes. I double check the connections—to make sure I’m not still being charged for the interstellar call—and close all the files except the vid that spooked me in the first place.
“Triana, dear, you look terrible.” Angie totters across the room and takes my hand in her warm ones. “And you’re cold. What happened? Who is this nice young man?” She peers at the paused video.
I try to speak, but nothing comes out. Holding up a finger, I hurry to the liquor cabinet. I fumble with the bottle, unable to unscrew the lid. Angie takes it from my hand and pours a shot of something. I’m too freaked out to notice what. I toss it down. My throat sears, and I choke, tears pricking my eyes. Angie pounds my back until the coughing stops. Warmth spreads from my belly up into my chest, and a nice fog filters through my brain.
“That was not a nice young man.” I stagger to the closest couch and drop onto the hard surface. I forgot how uncomfortable this couch was. “That was someone who looks very much like Bobby Putin.”
“The top-lev serial killer?” Angie asks.
I nod. “When we were on S’Ride, I thought I saw him several times. Seems there was a fad to get aesthetic mods to look like top-levs.” I shudder. “Imitation Bobby Putins everywhere. One of them must have come here.”
“But it’s not him.” Angie perches on the edge of the sofa and pats my hand. “He’s in prison.”
“Yes. I checked. He’s still there.” My heart rate has slowed in a sea of alcoholic fumes. “It freaked me out, but I’m okay now.”
“Maybe we should stay home.” Angie’s tone belies her words—she really wants to go.
“Don’t be silly,” I say. “Bobby’s on S’Ride in the Attica Super-Max. That vid is just a weirdo look-a-like who hasn’t gotten modded back yet. Or maybe he enjoys looking like a serial killer.” I laugh. It comes out kind of hysterical, but that’s okay. Thanks to the drink, I’m feeling cozy and a bit floaty. “We’re perfectly safe, especially with the avenger boys to protect us.”
Angie raises an eyebrow but doesn’t ask. “Let’s get going, then. I’ll leave a message for Serena. We’ll meet her at the bridal studio at two.” She jumps up and pulls on my arm.
I heave myself off the sofa and follow her out the door.
“We’re ready to go!” Angie sings out across the courtyard. “Come on, avenger boys!”
Andron and Ferrigi exchange a look then steer Angie toward the rear of the house. “We’re taking one of the family carriages,” Andron says. “I’m not doing the public transport thing again.”
“Works for me!” Angie skips a little as we walk through the rear passage. We take one of the side doors into a big garage. Four bubbles—or carriages, as they insist on calling them—hang from their charging cables in the ceiling. Angie marches straight toward the largest: a six-person deluxe model. “Let’s go!”
“Are you sure we should take that one?” Ferrigi asks. “It’s a luxury model.”
“My husband and I bought this carriage.” Angie draws herself up to her full height, her eyes on level with Ferrigi’s solar plexus. “I can ride in it whenever I want.”
“Right. Sorry.” He waves at the access panel, and the door unfolds into a shallow ramp. “After you, Lady Angie.”
I follow Angie into the carriage. “Is that true?”
Angie makes a face. “Don’t be ridiculous. I haven’t bought a carriage in decades. That’s the best part of being the matriarch, though—you can do whatever you want.”
We take seats at the back of the vehicle, while Andron and Ferrigi get in front. “Where to, ladies?” Andron asks.
Angie and I exchange a look. We hadn’t gotten that far in our planning. “Let’s go to the station where you got picked up,” I say. “It’s a good starting point.”
“I thought we were going to a dress fitting,” Ferrigi says, his eyes narrow.
“We are,” Angie says. “We just want to drive past there on the way. Come on, you can humor an old lady. We won’t get out of the carriage.”
Andron and Ferrigi mutter to each other for a few seconds, then Andron swipes the interface. “Palizo Station.” The system repeats the name then asks us to fasten our restraints. When our straps are all cinched down, the garage door opens, and the vehicle slides out. The transparent upper half of the bubble darkens, dimming the hot sun and protecting us from prying eyes.
We skim down a narrow alley behind two other large homes. The backs of all three houses are covered in flowering vines. “Those things grow on every building on the planet,” Angie says. “It takes an army of gardeners to keep the front of the house clear.”
“But they’re pretty,” I protest. “Why get rid of them?”
“The blossoms fall off later in the summer—it’s a mess.” She clucks her tongue in disgust.
At the end of the alley, the carriage curves out onto the street and loops around to the front of the house. A half-dozen paparazzi drones stationed in front of the house turn our direction then ignore us. I guess they don’t have an accurate inventory of the family’s vehicles.
We settle into our seats as the carriage picks up speed. It merges into a more heavily trafficked street. “I’m surprised those drones didn’t follow us.” I peer through the overhead. “I was sure they’d recognize me.”
“They can’t see inside the carriage.” Angie pats my arm. “And you don’t really look like yourself, anyway.”
“What do you mean?” I put a
hand to my hair. My springy red curls feel remarkably docile. “What did you do?”
“Your friend Vanti gave me one of her black-market aesthetic mods. I slipped it to you when you weren’t looking.”
I stare at the old woman. “Is that why you kept trying to get me to drink something? What do I look like?”
With a grin, Angie hands me a mirror. I catch a glimpse of white and close my eyes. I almost can’t bear to look. Finally, I pry my eyes open and face the mirror.
Pale gray eyes peer from between heavy laugh lines. Soft white curls wave back from a wrinkled forehead. Maybe I’m experiencing a drunken hallucination. I reach up, and the woman in the mirror touches her nose. “You made me old,” I whisper.
Angie’s grin widens. “It’s perfect! Who would suspect a pair of old ladies out for lunch?” Her voice is low, and she glances at the two men as she speaks.
“They don’t know who I am, do they?” My eyes dart from Angie to Andron and Ferrigi. “That’s why they were willing to come with us. They think I’m safely back at home.”
“Don’t be silly, dear,” Angie says. “Their job is to protect you. They weren’t going to leave you at home alone. But they both agreed this was the safest way to do it.”
I look in the mirror again. Even my own mother wouldn’t recognize me. Of course, she’d never in a million years allow herself to look this aged, so the possibility I might would never cross her mind. But even Kara or O’Neill wouldn’t—
“How long does this mod last?” My voice is strangled.
“Until you do another one, I guess.” She considers me for a few seconds then shrugs. “I didn’t ask.”
“But I have to attend Lili’s wedding tomorrow. I can’t go looking like this!”
“Sure you can.” Angie laughs. “You’ll have to fight off the old geezers, though. You’re pretty hot for eighty-five.”
“Eighty—did you tell Vanti the mod was for me?”
“I might have suggested it was for an old friend.”
I drop my head into my hands. “Whatever.” I look up. “I can just find an aesthetician to reverse it. And you’re right, it’s a genius disguise.”
“Here’s the station.” Andron spins his seat to face us. “Not much to see.”
We peer out the window. I half expect to see the man who looks like Bobby Putin, but of course, he’s not there. The station is completely unremarkable. “Can we go to the Sanctuary? Or, better yet, let’s backtrack our steps to the subway station that blew up.”
“That’s out of the question,” Ferrigi says. “This little detour was bad enough, but I’m not taking you to a crime scene.”
“You’re definitely the party pooper of this couple.” Angie waves at the two men.
“We aren’t a couple!” Ferrigi’s eyes bulge a little.
I giggle. “Would you rather be paired up with one of us?” I give him an outrageous wink.
Angie flutters her eyelashes. Ferrigi turns purple, while Andron chokes back a laugh.
“Where’s the dress place?” The hulk glares.
“I can almost imagine him green, can’t you?” I ask Angie. She snorts a laugh.
“I have the address.” Andron pats the hulk’s arm. “I won’t let the old ladies be mean to you anymore.”
I can’t hold in the giggles. Ferrigi glares, and the giggles turn to laughter. The more I try to get it under control, the funnier it all seems. I laugh so hard my stomach hurts. Then it goes queasy. “Maybe we can get some food? I had a huge shot of something on an empty stomach, and I lost count of how much Angie drank.”
“I so deserve a raise. No one told me I’d be babysitting two drunk old ladies.” Ferrigi turns his seat around, putting his back to us.
“There’s a nice restaurant right up the street,” Angie says. “One of my favorites. Turn right up there.”
The car drops us in front of a little diner and trundles away to park. Andron opens the door, and Ferrigi follows us inside. As the hostess seats us, I overhear a woman telling her companion, “When we’re that old, I want two hot hunks to take us to lunch.”
We sit in a booth, with the guys on the ends of the benches and Angie and I against the wall. Andron turns out to be an entertaining conversationalist, but Ferrigi remains stoic. They watch both entrances to the restaurant, even when they’re talking or eating. The food is tasty but unremarkable.
“We should get moving,” Ferrigi says when the bill is presented.
Angie swipes her holo-ring at the payment icon, and it turns green. “I need to visit the little girls’ room.” She makes shooing motions at Andron. “You coming, Lois?”
“Lois? Oh, yeah, I need to go, too.”
Ferrigi takes my arm as if to help me out of the wide bench. “No funny business, Sera. Vanti warned me about you.”
“Did she?” I try to raise one eyebrow, but aesthetic mods don’t seem to change muscle action. “We’ll be right back. Don’t get your knickers in a wad.”
He gives me a confused look and steps out of the way. I follow Angie to the restroom located near the back door. We take care of business then pause over the sinks.
“I think we should sneak out the back,” Angie says as she washes her hands. “Give those boys a good run for their money.”
Thanks to the alcohol, comfort food, and time, my encounter with Bobby has faded to a fuzzy memory. “If we had a place we wanted to investigate, I’d totally agree with you. But I have no idea how to get to that bombed subway station, and I’m sure it’s been blocked by peacekeepers. I do my best sleuthing via the net, anyway.”
She screws up her face. “We have a golden opportunity, though. We shouldn’t waste it. I have an idea.” She opens the door and peeks into the hallway. With a cheeky grin over her shoulder, she turns left and stops. “Oh.”
Andron leans against the wall beside the back door. “You ladies weren’t planning on ditching us, were you?”
“We paid for your meal,” Angie says. “We don’t owe you anything.”
A grin flashes across his lips. “You’re right, but I owe her mother.” He points at me. “If I lose her, I lose my job.”
Angie winks. “I’d hire you.”
“For what? A bridge partner?” I shake my head at Angie. “You’re more trouble than I am.” I turn to Andron. “I want you to remember that later.”
“That doesn’t sound good. You planning on causing me trouble later?” He sweeps a hand back toward the restaurant’s main room.
I sigh and shake my head. “No. I rarely plan the trouble I get into.”
Twenty-Four
The carriage slows as we approach the city center. The bridal studio is located in a wide pedestrian square near the courthouse.
“Here on Grissom, even the contracting ceremonies are done with a bit of pomp,” Angie says. As we exit the vehicle, a woman dressed in an enormous white gown with a three-meter long veil emerges from a boutique. Three women in hideous purple floral dresses buzz around her, arranging bits of the gauze and silk. The woman in white pauses for a vid, twisting and turning for a flock of drones to catch every angle, then she saunters across the square toward the blocky government building. A group of men in bright red suits wait on the steps.
“Is that where we’re going?” I nod at the store she just left. A huge sign over the door proclaims it Beyond the Veil Bridal.
Angie sniffs. “No, they’re a bit tacky. Lili chose The Knot. It’s over behind that crowd. Much nicer.”
“Beyond the Veil sounds a little morbid. Isn’t that what they call the afterlife?” I hurry after Angie—the woman can move!
She laughs. “Yup. Hey, look, there’s Yuri!”
Andron hurries to catch up to Angie and holds out his arm. “Hang on. There are too many people here. Something’s up.”
“Yeah, that’s Yuri,” Angie repeats. “He and Ro were covering a senator’s press conference, remember?”
“How can you tell it’s Yuri and not Ro?” I squint at the man. He’s
standing inside a bubble of holograms, directing drone coverage like a symphony conductor.
She shrugs. “I just know. Family instinct. Yuri!” She ducks under Andron’s outstretched arm and trots across the square. Andron makes a comic lunge, missing her entirely. He stumbles and backpedals furiously. With a little hop, he regains his footing and takes off across the plaza.
“Stay together,” Ferrigi barks, herding me toward them. “We need to find an alternate route.”
We catch up to Angie and Andron, standing outside Yuri’s virtual bubble. Twenty or more vids surround him, each showing a different view of an empty stage and a huge crowd. As we watch, he flicks one and swipes it behind his back. The others reform to fill the space.
“Can’t talk, Grandma!” he says. “Yuri’s up by the stage.”
“I thought you said this was Yuri,” I mutter.
She shrugs. “I was wrong. Let’s get closer.”
“Let’s not.” Ferrigi grabs Angie’s wrist. “We need to find an alternate route to the venue.”
“We can’t.” I point at one of the screens in Ro’s bubble. A sign reading The Knot is clearly visible behind the stage.
“They must have a delivery door.” Ferrigi pulls Angie away.
“Let go of me, young man!” Angie hollers. People in the back of the crowd turn and stare. Angie swings her arm and twists her hand against the hulk’s thumb.
Ferrigi cries out and drops her arm. “Hey, I’m trying to protect you!”
Angie steps back into a martial arts crouch, her knees creaking loudly enough to hear over the restless crowd. “I don’t need your protection.” She brings her hands up, ready to fight. The bag swings wildly from her wrist.
“Angie!” I touch her shoulder. “We don’t need an audience.” I nod toward the crowd as more people turn to gawk.
“I don’t like being manhandled!” Angie winks at me and whispers. “I’m making a distraction. You sneak around to the front and see what’s going on. I got this.”
“Angie, we don’t need a distraction. We can just walk up there.”