by Eliot Peper
She barked a laugh, but it burned her throat. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I feel the same way. But if you’re not trying to seduce me, why are you here and not shutting down the club?”
He shook his head, conflicted.
“Look,” he said. “I don’t want ask you to do this—it’s not your job, and that was a close one, like, really close. You need to rest, recover. It’s just . . . well, it could really make the difference for us. I mean, look at you.” He met her eyes in the mirror. “You can’t do this forever. Not like this. I mean, no offense, but you’re no Vasilios the Greek. And I can’t, either, but right now we’re just not pulling in enough. I pay you out. I pay the other fighters out. But it all just comes around again, and we can’t break the cycle.”
“Enough pussyfooting, Rizal,” she said. “What’s this about?”
He let out a long sigh, and his nervous energy ebbed.
“There’s this guy who’s buying up fight clubs,” he said. “It’s all hush-hush, but I’ve heard from some of the big-time owners. Dar es Salaam, Oaxaca, Vancouver, Pokhara, Milan, Ulaanbaatar, all of them changed hands in the past year. They stay open. The show goes on. Customers never know the difference. Sometimes the old owner even stays on as general manager. But from what they’ve said, it’s enough money to retire on, to quit the business, to start a new life.”
“And?”
“And he’s here, tonight, with a bunch of business associates.” Rizal pointed down at the floor. “I think he’s scouting the place. He watched your fight, pulled me aside to say he was very impressed. They’re in the VIP lounge now, and he asked to meet you, have you pour a few drinks for them.” Rizal winced. “Look, that’s why I didn’t want to bring it up. You’re a fighter, not a waitress. You almost died out there tonight. It’s not fair or honorable for me to demand more of you. But . . .” She could feel the ache in him, the weight of dreams left unfulfilled. “I just—look, if he were to make an offer, the kind of offer that would let me just peace out and spend more time with Aurelio and Isko, then you—Pixie, you know this joint better than anyone. Fighters come and go, but you’ve stuck around for a long time, too long. I’ve had a good run, a dozen years doing this. If you wanted, if the money was good enough, you could take over this place, you know, manage it. It’s a way out of the ring, maybe a way to lay your hands on some real cash.”
Emily could tell Rizal that she wasn’t doing this for the money. She could tell him that she had more money than she knew what to do with, just a tiny portion of the fortune she and Javier had skimmed off financial markets like a careful bartender scraping excess head off a frothy pint. With root access to the feed, it had been child’s play to identify hedge-fund managers leaching value from the economy and subconsciously urge them to see the wrong patterns, form the wrong theses, make the wrong bets. She and Javier would take the other end of their trades, and capital ceased to be an obstacle. But Rizal didn’t know that, couldn’t know that. That was a different time, a different life. To Rizal, she was Pixie, a refugee from whatever unspeakable life had driven her to spend her nights in this cursed Camiguin basement. The only way that Emily wanted to leave the ring was in a coffin, but Pixie might jump at an opportunity like this.
Turning away from the mirror, Emily looked straight at Rizal. He had taken her in, trained her, and given her the scourge with which to beat her guilt into submission. She had been careful never to find herself in his debt or cultivate camaraderie, but she could not deny him this.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
CHAPTER 5
As she followed Rizal up the corridor, Emily considered her options. She didn’t relish the task of schmoozing with an up-and-coming racketeer and couldn’t help but wonder what clan he hailed from. Triads, maybe, or next-generation Le Milieu. It was hardly surprising that somebody was trying to corner the fight-club market. Just like in any other industry, illicit startups often rode hot new trends straight into the maw of consolidation by powerful incumbents. Refusing acquisition usually meant starting a war, so only the most ruthless rose to the top.
Running an illegal enterprise meant you had no legal recourse, so crime was the ultimate laissez-faire marketplace. Emily had seen that dynamic at work in LA before the fires consumed Southern California. Navigating the world alone at fourteen years old required breaking the rules to follow the rules. She’d forged documents, smuggled stolen intellectual property, liaised with gangs, played peacemaker in battles over turf, and pulled off intricate cons whose audacity required both the arrogance and innocence of youth. She’d even had to hire a local fixer to pose as an aunt in order to register for high school. The world wasn’t built for minors to make their own decisions, so to control her own destiny, she’d had to operate under the radar.
If this group was bothering with a due-diligence site visit, the decision was already made. Rizal would be receiving an offer he wouldn’t be able to refuse, and Camiguin would fall under the wing of the black-market prince holding court in the VIP lounge at this very moment.
Emily would make an appearance, pour some drinks, and get the hell out of there. She doubted Rizal would receive enough money to actually retire, which was fine with her because she certainly didn’t want the headache of managing the club. She couldn’t care less whether it was profitably or efficiently run. She didn’t want to have to bribe officials, keep customers happy, or schedule staff. The only thing that mattered to Emily was getting into that ring again and again, trying to wipe her slate clean with blood.
Ahead of her, Rizal took a deep breath and opened the door. The sound of raucous conversation spilled out into the hall. English, but that didn’t mean much. Any group buying up fight clubs on every continent would have diverse members and partners, and default to the lingua franca.
“Ahh, Rizal,” a voice called out, the others wilting in its wake. “Have you managed to fetch our mighty champion? We’re all waiting on pins and needles to sing her praises. Well, Midori isn’t. But that’s just sour grapes.”
Emily could have sworn she’d heard that voice before somewhere, but she couldn’t place it. It was a rich tenor, thick with self-assurance. American, probably.
“The woman of the hour,” Rizal said, regaining his flair for showmanship. “I give you Pixie.”
Steeling herself, Emily twirled into the room, scanning the interior as she spun. Five men, four women, all in tailored suits. Tiny porcelain cups in front of each of them, bottles of top-shelf baijiu on the sidebar, the smell of liquor thick in the air, scratchy blues emanating from a retro vinyl turntable in the corner, walls covered in ghostly abstract prints at once violent and erotic. All they needed were some gratuitous courtesans and bodyguards to complete the set of traditional gangster glad-handing accoutrements.
And there, sitting at the head of the table . . .
Lowell Harding.
Emily froze.
Lowell raised his cup between thumb and forefinger, and everyone else followed suit.
“You snatched away my champagne earlier,” he said, looking her up and down. “But I must say you put it to quite spectacular use. Midori is sulking because her money was on Niko, but I always bet on the underdog, so you’re in my good graces. Bravo.”
They drained their cups.
Emily covered up her stare by giving him a wink.
CHAPTER 6
They had never met in person, but Emily was all too familiar with Lowell Harding. Lowell had grown up in a ghost town outside of Odessa and followed in the footsteps of many a proud Texan by leveraging a few lucky wildcat strikes into an oil-and-gas empire. Dag had spent years in his service as an Apex lobbyist, securing drilling concessions from the Arctic Council and buying up real estate in areas least exposed to the ravages of climate change. Emily had watched it all through Dag’s feed as she pushed him ever so gently toward a tipping point. The oil flowed out, the money flowed in, and the carbon dioxide emissions accelerated global warming, which caused the val
ue of the real estate holdings to skyrocket. This was the wicked flywheel that had earned Lowell his billions.
Ultimately, Dag had sabotaged Lowell by trading Emily and Javier’s precious exploit to Commonwealth in return for the promise of a carbon tax. That tax had rendered Lowell’s operation unprofitable, but Emily had no idea what he’d done after the breakup of his conglomerate. At the time, she had been taking the first steps on the path that led to Camiguin. Following the downfall of a plutocrat hadn’t been high on her list of priorities.
But somehow, that onetime plutocrat was right here, right now.
Lowell had put on weight in the intervening thirteen years, and his hair had turned solid gray. Lines creased his face, and his reddish nose spoke to an enduring fondness for alcohol. But there was still a mischievous spark behind his bright-green eyes and an edge to his chortle that made it difficult to judge his level of irony. He was laughing right now, as one of his colleagues imitated the expression on Niko’s face as Emily’s coup de grâce slid home.
Emily wanted to strangle the idiot, but when everyone looked for her reaction, she took an ostentatious bow. Now was not the time to act out of anger. Whatever was going on here, she needed more data before she could decide on her next move. Ideally, she wouldn’t have to do anything at all besides wait the table. She was in hiding. She didn’t want Lowell popping up out of nowhere and shattering the perfect isolation she had found on Camiguin. She didn’t want the memories, didn’t need the fresh infusion of guilt.
What was Lowell doing here anyway? Could he have detoured into organized crime after his business collapsed? Emily wouldn’t put it past him, but given his history, it seemed unambitious. Then again, Rizal had said this was the guy buying up fight clubs in every time zone. So what was his angle?
Fighting the questions like a gardener hacking back weeds, Emily forced herself to return to the present. She would play her part, get out of here, and forget this ever happened. A few weeks of recovery, a few months of intense training, and she’d be ready for her next fight. Who knew? Maybe it would be her last.
“Who’s thirsty?”
Emily hoisted a bottle of baijiu from the sidebar and poured shots to rowdy acclamation. This seemed to signal the closing of a loop, because the group picked up the conversation they’d been having before she had made her entrance.
“They won’t do it,” said an aristocratic woman with a Turkish accent. “It’s all smoke and mirrors, just making noise to make a point. Plus, they get to rally popular support at the same time, burnish their brand. Give it a few months and everyone will have forgotten.”
“Is that really something we can leave to chance?” The speaker’s nasal voice was at odds with his gigantic build, and he slouched like his size made him uneasy. “Marie Antoinette didn’t take the revolution seriously until the guillotine. The best way to fend off threats is by fighting them directly from day one.”
“Really, Jason? The French Revolution? Don’t you think that’s a little melodramatic?” said a young Japanese woman with mismatched irises. “We all know what’s really going on here.” She looked around at the others and then leaned forward. “Lowell is our little Count of Monte Cristo. He’s been harboring a grudge against Rachel for years and wants to exact his revenge. This situation presents a perfect opportunity to rock the boat. Simple, really.”
Just like that, Emily was invisible. These were people used to hovering underlings. Staff just faded into the background. To them, Emily was a novelty, a dancing monkey who filled their cups and massaged their bloated egos. She leaned into anonymity, pretended she wasn’t there. The respite was necessary. The world was spinning ever so slowly, and her neck was growing stiffer and more swollen by the minute.
“Amen,” said the Turkish woman disdainfully. “I’m not looking to get drawn into someone else’s feud. I’ve got enough of my own to deal with, thank you.”
“All right, all right, enough.” Lowell slapped the table, jogging the cups. “Midori isn’t wrong. You all know Commonwealth fucked me long and hard. I mean, shit, I was like the runt at football camp. They destroyed my oil interests in one fell swoop. That terms of service update cost me billions. So it’s no surprise I want to fuck them back, finish them like Pixie aced that asshole earlier tonight.” He gestured to Emily appreciatively. “I’d like to topple Rachel off her goddamn high horse and watch it gallop off into the night, or maybe tame it, take it back to the Ranch, and savor every smack of the riding crop. But”—he held up a finger—“this isn’t some petty eye-for-an-eye bullshit. You know I wouldn’t waste your valuable time for that. The people in this room, and those you represent, control nearly a fifth of total global assets. Forgive me, Pixie”—he gave Emily a faux-apologetic look—“but you folks didn’t come here for the entertainment. You came because you’re worried. No, not worried. You’re scared shitless.” He smacked the table again, and the little cups danced. “Freja?”
The name jogged Emily’s memory. The severe-looking Dane was Lowell’s right-hand woman, the consigliere and operational genius who implemented his successive schemes. A fifth of total global assets. Emily did double takes on the rest of the faces around the table. If only she could access the feed, she could find out who they were. But even without a digital assist, she realized that Lowell wasn’t the only person she recognized. Midori Kawakami was the heiress to a biotech fortune. Jason Lewis was a legendary private equity investor. Barend Laurentien was a member of the Dutch Royal House and third in the line of succession to the throne. Lex Tan oversaw both Singaporean sovereign wealth funds. If the rest sported similar résumés, this group might as well own the planet.
Freja sniffed as if she wasn’t any more impressed by the company than by what she was about to share. “We hear from our internal sources that they’re calling it ‘progressive membership.’ You’re all familiar with how Commonwealth has layered on incremental benefits for feed users since they declared sovereign independence ten years ago. Global open immigration for members, feed credits replacing national currencies, subsidized information infrastructure for critical services, blah, blah, blah.”
“They’re hollowing out the nation state,” fumed Barend. “Governments are basically just figureheads now. They can’t do their job with Commonwealth undercutting them right and left.”
“Good riddance,” snapped Jason.
“Please,” said Freja, “none of us want to hear you two rehash that particular debate. The point is that whatever your political philosophy, the feed blackout demonstrated that no country could function without the feed, and since then Commonwealth has held the ultimate trump card. We’re in the same boat. Our companies, our assets—everything goes poof if Commonwealth pulls the plug.”
Jason downed his baijiu sulkily, and Emily refilled his cup. The argument reminded her of late-night conversations with Javier and the rest of their crew, everyone snuggled around the fire at the farmhouse on the Island, passing around bottles of grenache, and waxing lyrical about the state of the world, safe in the knowledge that they could trust each other implicitly, a luxury none of them had ever enjoyed with anyone else. It never ended there, of course. They would get up the next morning and actually do something about it. She felt an echo of the fierce pride she’d experienced when, after years spent curating the feeds of carefully selected legislators, Frances and Ferdinand had gotten their groundbreaking anti–human trafficking proposal signed into law. That single piece of legislation had saved thousands of lives and dealt a severe blow to traffickers worldwide. They were a team, a family. A family that was changing the world. Until Emily ruined everything. Pain lanced through her back, nerves sizzling like bacon, and she gritted her teeth and basked in it.
“And this ‘progressive membership’ thing?” asked Midori.
“A faction within Commonwealth believes that the next ‘problem’ they should tackle is global inequality, arguing that it is the single most important way they can improve the lives of members across the entire f
eed,” said Freja. “So they’re planning to change how feed membership works. Instead of every member paying the same amount every year for access, they’re going to peg each user’s membership fee to that user’s net worth. The richer you are, the more you pay, and the bounty will fund an expansion of benefits for the poorest members.”
“It’s fucking Piketty on algorithmic steroids!” Lowell threw his cup, and the ceramic shattered against the wall. Emily twitched, training kicking in at the violent motion, but she managed to cover it. “I’m sure you’ve already heard whispers. Commonwealth is going to use their panopticon to tax wealth. Not income, not profits, not inheritance, not real estate, not even capital gains. Wealth! Your snazzy offshore accounts and shell companies are all on the feed. Every financial market is hosted on the feed. Every transaction closes through the feed. Your companies are run via the feed. The global economy operates on the feed. Your schmancy art auctions and wine collections are tabulated on the feed. How will you hide any of it from Commonwealth?”
“Wealth taxes were always a pipe dream because nobody had the tools to track something so amorphous,” said Freja, impervious to Lowell’s outburst. “So governments managed what they could measure, and people like us leveraged the loopholes.”
“The feed changes all that.” Lowell dropped his voice an octave. “Commonwealth will use it to calculate the live net worth of every member and algorithmically redistribute your private property to the fucking masses.” His gaze swept across the faces around him. “It’s worse than the French Revolution. It’s software socialism. It’s right there in the bloody name: Commonwealth. I know you know this already. You have your own informants. So wake the fuck up and stop complaining that I’ve got a goddamn chip on my shoulder.”
Silence.
Emily had to give it to Lowell—his sense for theatrics was nearly up to Rizal’s standards. Everyone traded uncomfortable glances. Minds were racing with desperate intensity, iterating game theory, and decoding subtext. The atmosphere in the room thickened with everything left unsaid. Emily could imagine each of them descending in a downward spiral of burgeoning paranoia, cataloging their portfolios, estimating their exposure, figuring out who to call, what resources they might be able to bring to bear, how they could head off such a nightmare scenario. Obscurity was wealth’s most potent shield. Without it, the playing field became uncomfortably level.
