by Sean Platt
“So?”
“It’ll give everyone a chance to be Enterprise. There’s no risk. Even Directorate will be able to play. They can have their Directorate cake and eat it — ‘it’ being a taste of Enterprise ventures — too.”
“Again: So?”
“What happens when the entire country begins to think like Enterprise?”
“I don’t see where you’re going with this,” said Gibson.
“It’s training,” said Nicolai, recrossing his legs. “It’s training the way people think. Beem will let you try on your own terms and fail on your own terms. It’s subtle, but everyone who wants to will learn by doing, with no risk.”
Nicolai could see that Gibson was confused, but he had seen the look in Rachel Ryan’s eyes, and Gibson hadn’t. Rachel wasn’t confused, and Rachel wasn’t speculating. Rachel was planning, and she was planning in the way a puppeteer plans. She thought it was all quite funny, the way the puppets danced at the end of her strings, thinking they were free. But the way she’d asked about Enterprise and beem had left Nicolai with chills and had made him wonder what might happen if the entire union were trained, over time, to believe that those who succeeded deserved their success…and that those who failed deserved to fail.
“What does that have to do with Carter Vale?” said Gibson.
“He’s everyman. He’s charismatic. Enterprise is worried that he’ll woo enough people back to Directorate to allow Directorate to keep the Senate.”
“Okay.”
“You asked why I’m here? Unofficially? Off the record, why I came to you?” Nicolai shrugged. “I’ll admit that the axe I have to grind against the Ryan family — all three of them — was the spark. But the timing has more to do with Shift, and my growing impression that it’s all just a game.”
“Sure.” Gibson looked tired. Nicolai was a valuable source, but he may have pushed too far, taxing his host’s patience. Gibson could only say so much in his relatively mainstream writings, and Nicolai’s giving him unusable backstory was therefore only so worth hearing — especially when it began to sound like conspiracy. As Nicolai watched, the writer’s expression added a codicil to his simple affirmative: So what do you want from me?
“Look, I know you’re lining up other books. The one about the sex industry and O…”
“It’s not about O. If it’s about anyone, it’s about the Youngs. Although if you can tell me anything about Alexa Mathis and help me make Sex 2.0 more about O…”
“But you also write about politics,” Nicolai interrupted.
“Opinion pieces. Not investigative ones.”
“You could weigh in, though, based on what I’ve said. You could weigh in in a way that casts doubt on Micah Ryan and Enterprise and suggests an appreciation of Carter Vale.”
“I thought you were on Team Enterprise.” There was now a slight edge to Gibson’s voice, and Nicolai wondered if the writer was taking this personally. Gibson, who made his living from book royalties, was firmly on Team Enterprise. He wanted more Enterprise senators in the Directorate-dominated Senate. He wanted more of the senators reflecting his part of the collective will.
“I’m on Team Enterprise for me, yes, and for you. But not for the majority.” Then he said what was really bothering him: “Especially not if Rachel Ryan wants it.”
“You said Vale was swinging things back toward Directorate anyway.”
“More help never hurt.”
Now Gibson looked closed. He was leaning back with crossed arms and legs. He watched Nicolai for a long moment, his sense of fascination at the Chunnel tale now mostly gone.
“I don’t get you, Mr. Costa,” he finally said.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve given me hours of information that I can’t use. It’s okay; the same thing happened with a great source I had for Plugged. But my other source was flaky, and so when he overdelivered and I underreported and he became annoyed and began pestering me, I understood it. You, on the other hand, are different. You’re the opposite of flaky, and I can’t shake the impression that you’re using me.”
Nicolai started to balk.
“You don’t want credit for you or your father,” Gibson went on. “You’re not forbidding me to cite you, but that’s okay because there’s nothing to cite. It’s all ‘FYI.’ Now we’re off-record, but you’re basically asking a favor. A favor, I’ll add, that would have me writing against my own party.”
“Questioning, not necessarily criticizing,” Nicolai corrected. “And like me, you’re in Enterprise for financial and ideological reasons, not political ones.”
“And yet,” Gibson argued, “your real motivations seem to be political.”
But that wasn’t true. Nicolai’s motivations were personal, not political. If what he and Kai had seen over the past week had taught him anything, it was that politics was a stage show. The true divisions were up and down, not left and right. It didn’t matter if you were Enterprise or Directorate. You were either Beau Monde, or you weren’t, and Nicolai’s growing impression was that the distinction amounted to being on a train that was about to depart or being left behind at the station. He wanted to be Beau Monde when the train fell into motion, and he wanted Kai onboard beside him. Politics was a means to an end. And yes, that did seem to make him a bit of a son of a bitch, but if it did, he was at least an honest son of a bitch. One who’d earned his seat, and might be able to help steer. And yes, it did mean that there was a certain amount of “using” involved…Gibson included.
Nicolai sighed. He’d always paved the way for himself first then had invited others to come with him only as long as they could keep up. It wasn’t selfish; it was extreme leadership. Enzo had been welcome to escape with him during the school riot right up until the fool had mouthed off, at which point he’d have been on his own anyway even if he hadn’t gotten himself killed. During his time with the crews in the East, Nicolai had allied with those who could get him where he needed to go then struck off on his own when those ways parted — again, always inviting worthy companions to come along if there were any. Today, it was all about Nicolai and Kai. It could be about Sterling too…but only if he would do what it took, like a true Enterprise thinker eventually must.
“You’re right,” said Nicolai. “You have what I’ve told you. Use it however you’d like.” He started to rise, but then Gibson’s posture changed. His body language moved away from offended and closed, as if he’d just realized that he, too, may have pushed too far.
“Wait,” said Gibson.
Nicolai paused, halfway up, his hands pushing against the chair’s arms. He straightened fully, meeting the author’s wide eyes.
“I can use it,” said Gibson. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“And if you do find out anything about Alexa Mathis? You run in high circles. I hear she’s still around, and if she is, ‘high circles’ are where she’d be. If you’re willing to share, I mean. I know you’re not a snitch. Only if it makes sense. I keep coming up dry. It’s like she’s been erased, as if O operates as a ghost ship.”
“Of course,” said Nicolai. The interview, so friendly in its first half, had adopted an oddly adversarial tone. Nicolai didn’t want to part on bad terms any more than Gibson seemed to. They were the same type of person, and in Nicolai’s opinion, theirs was a type the world always needed more of. He smiled. Gibson smiled back.
“And one more thing,” said Gibson.
Nicolai waited.
“If you need to get word out? The kind of word that’s more…‘controversial,’ say…than I’m officially willing to be…”
“You know someone I can contact?” Nicolai asked, reading Gibson’s face.
“Better,” said Gibson. “I know someone who contacted me just today, asking how he could contact you.”
York entered Leo’s hut-like house in the Organa village and took a long look at the old man. It was the first time he’d been alone with Leo in several days. Now
that he was, what was happening with Leo was obvious.
“How long, Leo?”
“How long until what?” Leo had a thin veneer of calm across his face, but York could see the way his fingertips were flexed on the chair’s arms, clinging, as if he thought his seat might be stolen.
“How long since your last Lunis fix?”
Leo sighed. It looked like all of a sudden he’d simply given up. “Not long. But I’m at a deficit. I’ve been trying to wean myself.”
“Not a good idea,” said York.
“Why not?”
“In a normal human brain, there are all sorts of neural pathways that become entrenched through daily activity. In a highly connected brain, some of those pathways atrophy as the brain becomes efficient about what it’s asked to do and inefficient about what other minds in the hive have learned to do for it. There’s a kind of neurological panic that occurs when those ill-used pathways are suddenly required again. Lunis bridges the gaps and lets you get by. The downside is that what’s underneath just atrophies further. Your brain is weak, Leo. There’s a good chance it can’t take what you’re trying to ask of it.”
Leo nodded. “I know that, I guess. I used to be a biology teacher.”
“So why are you weaning?”
“I don’t like the dependence. I don’t like that I’m reliant on something that I have to take every day just to be normal. Once upon a time, I was just a regular guy. I didn’t need Lunis, and I didn’t need The Beam.”
York chuckled. “Weren’t we all.” His smile fell as he watched Leo’s struggle, his small movements betraying him. They’d done studies on Lunis and Lunis dependency back at Quark. The results were as fuzzy in York’s mind as the rest of his recall, but as an impression he seemed to remember a feeling that was hot and blood red. “But you’re addicted now, Leo. You can’t just go off of it.”
“A mind can be made strong again.”
“Maybe. But I’ve heard — and I seem to remember, though it’s hard to put a finger on it with my own ‘not so strong’ mind — that withdrawal can make users violent.”
Leo nodded.
“Because of the panic,” York added.
Leo nodded again. He’d stood, but he looked uncertain on his feet. He didn’t look like he might fall or swoon but did appear not to know what to do with his body. It was like there were too many variables. How should he hold his legs? How should he hold his hips? What should he do with his swinging arms? So York sat, hopefully leading Leo to do the same. Put the man’s body back in a box, and he might be able to focus. Slowly, Leo did.
“You should go to a detox, Leo.”
“I’m not the only one going off it.”
“Everyone trying to quit should go to a detox.”
“It’s the whole village.” Leo hung his head. “The whole goddamned lot of us.”
York felt his own spark of panic.
“Why would they do that?”
“We’re low,” said Leo.
“How low?”
“Very. Dominic supplies us. He brought a small emergency pack, but it was supposed to bridge us to a big shipment. Apparently, that big shipment was held up on the moon. It won’t be here anytime soon, and in that time, we’re going to run dry. I started weaning when I saw the writing on the wall a while ago and knew that, for me at least, it was about more than surviving a drought. It bothered me that Lunis had me so tightly by the neck. I should have told the others days ago. Weeks, even. We should have all begun cutting down. They would have had an easier time of it if they’d already begun, and what we had would have lasted longer.”
“Jesus Christ, Leo.”
“It’s going to get bad, isn’t it?”
“I think so. Do you know how sometimes you’ll be afraid in the dark for no reason, like you think something is watching you that you can’t see? It’s an animal kind of fear, tied to the amygdala if I remember right. Like an intense feeling of dread.”
“Is there anything we can do?”
“I’m not a Lunis specialist. Offhand, I’d say your best bet is not to try and fight through it unprepared, but to find a way to get more.”
“We can’t get more. Not for a while.”
York looked at Leo. He was breathing and waiting for the uncomfortable moment to pass. It was an impossible conversation to have. The village was fucked. There was nothing anyone could do. The truth hung between them like a bomb.
“Tell me about who you really are…Steve,” said Leo, forcing a change in subject as they stared in futility’s eye.
“Leo…”
“Please just tell me. We can sit here and talk about how exactly Lunis withdrawal is going to screw us or how bad the inevitable will be, or we can try to be civil while we pretend we’ve got a chance…for at least a little while.”
York shook his head. “I can’t remember most of the details, Leo. I’m sorry. My mind…well, I don’t know if it’s gone or just hiding. I keep waiting to get my memories back, but most of the memories I have are still of my years as Crumb. It’s cruel. I seem to have had this amazing life, yet my most vivid memories are of eating cereal and thinking about squirrels.”
“Okay. Tell me about why you’re back in the village then.”
That, at least, York remembered. “Someone is after me,” he said.
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why then? Is it because of the stuff in your diary? Is that why you were locked down, or whatever it was?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then how do you know someone is after you?”
“Leo, I don’t know.”
“But you do know. I can see it. You came back here to hide, so at least part of you knows something. Somehow. Even though you don’t know how you know, you have an impression, don’t you?”
York exhaled through his nose, feeling the trimmed hairs in his gray beard tickle his lip as he vented full-body exasperation. Most of his knowledge about himself had come from a book he didn’t recall writing. He knew how to use his body to get around. He knew who Leo, Leah, and Dominic were, as well as the other Organas he’d gotten to know during his time as Crumb. He knew, somehow, that someone was after him. But beyond that, he knew almost nothing, including where his fear of pursuit had come from or what it meant — all of it a twisted knife of frustration.
York pressed searching fingers into his mind’s soup. The feeling was still a thick gray fog. He felt like he was stumbling forward with his hands out, groping for his future, unable to see either forward or behind. He was a man in a capsule. He’d worked with West. He’d conducted ominous studies on Lunis that he didn’t recall. There had been a powerful group called Panel, and one of his strongest feelings about that Panel was resentment — but exactly what he’d once resented was unavailable. Childhood memories pocked the fog in a random pattern, useless. He was the Beam’s father but could barely tie his shoes.
“The vaguest of impressions, yes,” York replied, shaking his head. “But it seems we both have things on our minds that aren’t worth discussing.”
“Serenity couldn’t help you to remember anything?”
“She tried. But no.”
“Have you asked her about herself? Have you asked her why she looks like Leah?” Leo’s inquiries were all over the place. He had some of his wits, but so many were missing. His questions were almost like whistling in the dark, forcing any kind of conversation so he wouldn’t have to be alone in the waiting quiet.
“Why she looks like Leah to you,” said York. “She doesn’t at all to me.”
“Does that say something about me, do you think, or about Leah and Serenity?”
“Serenity seems to think she’s part of Leah. She has impressions about The Beam — and particularly something Leah once did inside of it that led to what she thinks of as her own ‘birth’ — that sound more like religion than anything I seem to remember working on. She says that Leah is like a sister. As to the rest?” He shrugged.
“Is she human?” Then he seemed to decide this required clarification. “Serenity, not Leah.”
“I don’t know.”
“And her students? Those kids at her school?”
“I don’t know, Leo. I don’t know any of it. I can’t figure myself out, so I haven’t been trying to figure her out. Okay? I’m sorry, but I don’t have the answers you’re looking for.”
Leo looked disappointed. “Oh.”
York sighed. It seemed like a natural place in the not-quite-a-conversation to stand and excuse himself to handle the errand he still needed to handle, but Leo looked positively lost. More: He looked sad. York’s problems had a different flavor than Leo’s, but he knew how it felt to struggle with himself — with an enemy he could neither escape nor evade. He was in the village to hide from whoever was after him but couldn’t hide from the black hole in his mind where so many details should be. He could sympathize with what Leo must be feeling. They were both looking for something that wasn’t there.
“Leo,” he said, relaxing his body in the chair to show Leo he wasn’t going anywhere just yet. “I know it must be odd for you to talk to me now. I’m a stranger, but I’m still familiar. It’s the same for me. I know you very well on one level, but it’s like I never saw who you really were until now. I have to take a step back, blink a few times, and look at what’s around me with fresh eyes to truly see things. You should do the same.”
“Regarding you?”
“Regarding everything. You may feel like you’re in a pit, but I’d trade lives with you in a second. It’s not just my lost memory or this sense of pursuit, either. I helped to father the modern age, but I spent my life in a lab. You’ve actually lived a life. In many ways, we’re on opposite sides of a fence: me making the opiate and you shunning it. At the time — according to the Steve York in that diary, anyway — it seemed only logical to do what I felt I was born to do, which meant working with the best to make things the world had never seen. But now I’m…hell, I don’t even know how old I am…but I’m an old man, and even if I’d never been blanked, I’d have had no real life to speak of or remember. What happened during my time outside of Quark’s walls? Were there people in the world other than Noah West and lab techs? I could have worked anywhere, at any time. I have nothing. No life, nothing.”
