by Eliot Peper
“She sent me a dossier, but I haven’t opened it yet,” said Emily.
Javier stopped and turned around. “You haven’t even looked at it? Wasn’t this whole thing your idea?”
Emily laughed. “Hardly,” she said. “I might have given her a push, but the rest is all Rachel. She’s a force of nature. That’s beside the point, though. I’m going to read the dossier, but I needed to finish something more important first.”
Javier narrowed his eyes. “Something more important than the future of Commonwealth?”
“Right,” said Emily. She unslung her backpack and removed a brown parcel, handing it to Javier. He looked at the parcel, up at Emily, back at the parcel. Turning it over in his hands, he carefully removed the tape and unfolded the wrapping paper.
“It’s everything I can remember since the day I left,” she said. “Every single thing. This is why it took me a week to get up here. There’s a lot . . . Well, there’s a lot I’m not proud of. There’s a lot that might change who you think I am. There’s a lot that did change who I am.”
Javier’s slender fingers traced Dag’s portrait of Emily on the cover. Her expression was thoughtful, melancholic. On the flight up, Emily had inscribed “From:” in glitter at the top. Javier flipped through the thick bundle of handwritten pages, seeing Emily’s abysmal penmanship, glimpsing where tears had smudged the ink. Starting had been painful, like pulling splinters. But once the words began to flow, she hadn’t been able to stop. In an anonymous hotel room surrounded by discarded takeout containers, she had written until her hand cramped and she passed out on the desk in the early hours of the morning, only to take up the thread when she emerged from the blank nothingness of exhausted sleep. Day after day after day, she milked every last drop she could from memory. In making her doubts, compulsions, and neuroses explicit, she had shed ballast and glimpsed freedom, emerging from the hotel room buoyant. Javier turned the homemade book over in his hands, and under a glitter “To:” saw the portrait of himself.
His big eyes found Emily. Dark brown struck through with gold. She worried she might drown in them, wished she could.
“This is just the start,” she said. “I know you’ll have a million questions. You deserve answers. You deserve the truth.” She remembered the expression on his face when she’d bluffed her way into that Houston drug den to claim him and Rosa. Her voice broke. “Honestly, Javi, you deserve a much, much better sidekick than me.”
Javier ran a hand through her hair and then leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers.
“Em,” he said. “You’re not my sidekick. You’re my sister.”
CHAPTER 43
Javier led Emily into a bedroom in the main house and left her there to unpack. She didn’t have much, so it didn’t take long. Once her change of clothes was stashed away in a drawer, she unlatched the window and looked out at the purpling sky. The birds were out, ducking and weaving through the gathering dusk, their calls clattering into one another like wind chimes.
Sucking in a deep breath redolent of brine and soil, Emily summoned her feed and finally opened the dossier that had been waiting for her there.
Per your suggestion, wrote Rachel, I have been investigating alternative governance structures for the feed. I’m sure you saw the announcement of the upcoming Commonwealth constitutional convention. What I did not mention in the press conference is that I need your help, and, given the passion with which you called on me to empower people to participate, I don’t see a way for you to refuse such a request. As you are no doubt aware, we have many experts at our disposal. However, outside consultants lack an intimate familiarity with the mechanics of the feed, and my closest advisers have their own history and incentives within the Commonwealth organization. You are both an outsider and an insider of sorts. You are also, to my chagrin, an accomplished social hacker, and that’s precisely the kind of person I need to vet the ways in which we might lose ourselves in this maze of institutional engineering.
Can you prove yourself to be as effective a rule maker as a rule breaker? In the course of investigating some of the paths we may want to consider, I came across a twentieth-century political philosopher named John Rawls who wrote that “the fairest rules are those to which everyone would agree if they did not know how much power they would have.” It is with this sentiment in mind that I ask you to tear apart everything we develop with the unwavering ferocity I glimpsed in our little chat over oranges. It’s time to doff the black hat and don the white, to, as you so eloquently put it, “lend a hand instead of fomenting revolution.” If the only way to defeat my opponents is to empower them, then consider yourself duly equipped.
The message was the prow of a cargo ship of information. There were comparisons of the relative strengths and weaknesses of various democratic structures, case studies of tabula rasa institutional formation, first-person accounts from delegates to historical constitutional conventions and treaty negotiations, literature reviews from a variety of academic disciplines, summaries of theoretical systems extrapolated in research and speculative fiction, resource guides and org charts displaying the members and progress of internal teams, outlines of dozens of mutually exclusive proposals, and live access to the models Javier and Sofia were building. The breadth and depth of the material could fuel the doctoral theses of a generation of graduate students, and whatever decisions Commonwealth made, whatever experiments they ran, would surely be put under the microscope of history for decades to come. Emily’s mind tilted under the weight of the implications.
The feed had remade the world, and now the world would remake the feed.
An incoming call interrupted her contemplation.
“Riz?”
“Mother of God, Pixie, what the living fuck is going on? You know me, I never read the gossip stuff, but then Vasquez comes in here and tells me you’re smeared all over the feed and I look it up and holy shit you’re right there, you’re everywhere, and you’re all made up and riding on the back of my new fucking boss and he’s got all your glittery shit on him too but you’ve got a knife to his neck and what happened to staying out of the spotlight and—”
Emily couldn’t help it—she laughed. “Riz, Riz, slow down, okay? It’s a long story, and I promise I’ll tell you the whole thing sometime soon.”
“How ’bout now, sunshine?”
“Right now, I have something else for you to think about.”
“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“There’s this exclusive school up in North America that needs an expert martial-arts and self-defense instructor,” she said. “It’s on an island that’s a hell of a lot colder than Camiguin but just as beautiful. The pay’s good, they provide housing, and tuition is free for any children of the staff. Do you know anyone who might be interested in a gig like that?”
A long silence.
“Who are you really, Pixie?”
“That’s an even longer story, but I promise to tell you that one too.”
“Crazy, you’re fucking crazy,” he said, as if to himself.
“That’s for sure.”
There was a knock on the bedroom door, and Rosa stuck her head in.
“Riz, look, I gotta go,” said Emily. “But think about what I said, okay?”
He grunted and she signed off.
“You promised to be careful,” said Rosa. “And then you went ahead and started a live broadcast of Armageddon and upended our entire world order.” She shook her head. “I mean, I know you can be slow on the uptake sometimes, but that is not what careful means.”
“That’s why I need wiser folks than me around to keep me in check,” said Emily. “Loose cannon, this one.”
“Loose cannon doesn’t even begin to cover it, you bastard,” said Rosa, taking Emily’s hands and squeezing them. “Em”—her voice trembled—“I’m so glad you’re okay.”
Emily squeezed back. “Me too,” she said. “I’m glad we’re all okay.”
Rosa looked around. “S
o, does this mean you’re staying?”
“Actually,” said Emily, “I was hoping you’d agree to tour me around the gallery. I want to learn more about your scene, the artists you’re bringing up.”
“Of course,” said Rosa, turning her face away a few degrees. “You’re welcome anytime, but I hear from Javi that all of you have way too much to do at the moment, what with the convention and all that. Maybe we can do something once things settle down.”
“Nope,” said Emily. “I want to go now, or whenever you’re able to accommodate me. If history is a guide, things won’t ever settle down. So, fuck it, they can wait.”
Rosa turned her face back and tilted it to the side and there was an opening there, a glimpse of something amorphous and ineffable that made Emily want to scream and cry and dance.
“All right,” said Rosa slowly. “How about we start right now?”
Emily nodded, suddenly tipsy.
“Come on, then,” said Rosa. “There’s something special I want to show you.”
Rosa led her downstairs and into the living room. There was something new built up against the inside wall, a wooden podium displaying a large vase. Its curves were lush, and the dark-green ceramic was lined with golden seams that caught the flickering light from the fireplace.
“It’s gorgeous,” said Emily, peering this way and that to view it from different angles.
“It’s the kintsugi,” said Rosa. “The one they delivered to my apartment.”
So this was the piece Lowell had convinced Midori to offer Rosa in order to manufacture a plausible excuse for the kidnappers to enter. Emily remembered taking her own first overwhelming steps into Rosa’s apartment, the wonder of seeing her again in the flesh, the terror when the couriers revealed themselves, the crunch of spine under cleaver, and the mad dash to safety.
“In Japanese art, kintsugi refers to the practice of repairing damaged pottery with gold cement,” said Rosa. “It dates back to a shogun who sent a tea set to China for repair and was disappointed when the pieces returned with ugly metal staples. Artisans sought to find a more aesthetic approach, and kintsugi was born.” Emily could hear the enthusiasm underlying Rosa’s words, the echo of years of careful study and appreciation. “I’m not supposed to choose, but it’s one of my very favorite forms. It turns an object into a visual history of itself, maintaining its internal narrative fidelity.” Emotion swelled in her voice. “Instead of trying to cover up the damage, the repair is illuminated, the imperfections transformed into a source of beauty. I’ve always seen kintsugi as a physical manifestation of mono no aware, the pathos of impermanence, the gentle awareness that everything, all of us, are fragile and transient, that change is the only constant, that we are, at our best, lovingly reconstructed patchworks of our shattered selves.”
Reflected in the shimmering lacquer, Emily saw a thousand ghostly faces, the receding silhouettes of dreams realized and squandered, the fatal attraction of hubris, and the poignancy of heartbreak. She heard the roar of fight-club crowds in the throes of bloodlust and the comforting drone of her father’s stories. She tasted triumph, betrayal, and teh tarik and felt her mother’s calloused hands guiding hers as she reassembled the telescope. Emily wasn’t a singular coherent self, she was the many voices competing in her head. She had let one voice dominate, and her identity had calcified. Like Commonwealth itself, her brittle map of the world no longer matched the changing territory, and she had to find new perspectives before life passed her by.
“Can I touch it?” asked Emily in a hushed tone.
“Of course,” said Rosa with quiet fervor. “And if you smash it, we’ll turn it into something even more breathtaking.”
Emily traced a finger along the golden seams. It was possible to be both broken and beautiful at the same time. Restoration was an act of becoming. Every song was a remix. Every tale was a retelling. Creation was reconfiguration. Things that fell apart could be made whole, and even transcend themselves.
AFTERWORD
Although Breach is the third Analog Novel, Emily was the first character who revealed herself to me when I began work on the series.
I was hiking through Wildcat Canyon Regional Park with my wife and our conversation teased at the edges of an amorphous story idea. I never know what particular seed will grow into a book, and we talked about the invisible forces shaping world events, odd details we noticed in our lives, and speculative questions about how things might be different. It was from this strange cocktail that Emily emerged.
A teenager forced to fend for herself who develops a keen eye for the hidden rules that influence behavior, subverting them to survive and serve the powerless. A rebel with an anachronistic sense of honor who cannot blind herself to the failures of a broken system. A fighter who loves her friends as fiercely as she hates any sign of weakness in herself, who harbors the vain hope that her ruthless pursuit of perfection might help to balance out the injustice of an imperfect world.
Emily is as hard and brilliant as a polished diamond. I couldn’t write her right away. I wasn’t ready for her.
And so I did what Emily would do: I looked at the world around me, and squinted a little bit.
Technology is diverting the structure and flow of power. Computers and capital have stitched together a fractured world into a single variegated civilization, even as reactionary forces desperately try to turn back the clock. The companies that built the internet are forging global empires that Alexander the Great would never have been able to imagine. What were once scrappy startups have become geopolitical players on par with nation states.
But with scale comes responsibility, a responsibility that digital luminaries have yet to come to terms with. The miraculous tools they’ve developed won them the reins of history, but those same reins curse them with exactly what many technologists have spent their lives trying to avoid: politics.
Technology has endowed us with superpowers, but who gets to decide what to do with them? This is the reckoning that Breach grapples with. This is the crucible that only someone like Emily could face. Someone as hard and brilliant as a diamond, whose facets transform the harsh light of suffering into coruscating rainbows, who learns that being broken is just the beginning.
If we are to avoid a future of disenfranchisement, we must invent new ways to grant as many people as possible as much agency as possible over their lives. We must take the power we’ve earned, and share it. In doing so, we might just find that ceding control can be more liberating than seizing it, that perfection is a mirage, that civilization is a work in progress, that the universe demands nothing more than we choose to give.
I chose to give Emily everything I have, and I hope that her journey has given you a small seed to carry with you that might one day grow into a story of its own.
Writers write, but books take flight only when readers tell other readers about them. If Breach means something to you, please tell your friends about it. Culture is a strange and beautiful garden nourished by word of mouth.
Onward and upward.
Cheers, Eliot
FURTHER READING
People often ask about the writing process, but I find the reading process much more interesting. Reading is a superpower that we too often take for granted. It is telepathy. It is a time machine. It is a magic door into countless new worlds, hearts, and minds.
I am a reader first and a writer second.
Ever since I can remember, I’ve loved books. When my parents read me stories as a child, I would stare into the middle distance and lose myself in them indefinitely. Growing up, I would hide among the dusty library stacks until closing time. When high school English teachers passed out assignments, I ignored the curriculum and ventured off on my own. Curiosity is my drug of choice.
Sometimes reading a book stokes my enthusiasm so much that I simply can’t wait to dive into a new story. My dearest hope is that Breach did that for you. There are so many incredible books out there, fiction and nonfiction, that can entertai
n, inform, and transform us. Read. Read. Read some more. Oh, and please share your favorites so we can benefit from your discoveries.
After finishing a great book, I often wish I could ask the author what they are reading. What books touch their very core? Where do they find inspiration? Where does their enthusiasm lead them? I’ve found many of my favorite books thanks to recommendations from my favorite authors.
I’m sure you’ve realized it by now, but I’m a little crazy. Obsessed, even. But if you just happen to be a little crazy too, then I’ve got a secret for you.
Every once in a while, I send a simple personal email sharing books that have changed my life. Because reading is such an integral part of my creative process, I often find gems in unlikely places. The goal of the newsletter is to recommend books that crackle and fizz with big ideas, keep us turning pages deep into the night, and help us find meaning in a changing world.
I also share writing updates and respond to every single note from folks on the mailing list, so joining is the best way to get or stay in touch with me. There’s nothing I love more than hearing from readers.
Oh, and if you decide to join our little gang, promise me this: when you come across a story that moves you, pay it forward and pass it on.
Sign up here: htttp://www.eliotpeper.com.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I wrote Breach, but there is a small army of talent behind every book.
Adrienne Procaccini, Colleen Lindsay, Brittany Russell, Kristin King, and the amazing team at Amazon Publishing shepherded the rough draft into the novel you’re holding right now.
DongWon Song, my peerless agent, provided invaluable wisdom at various points along the way.
Tegan Tigani was a keen editor and vastly improved the manuscript. Any surviving errors are mine alone.
