by T. K. Toppin
“If only we knew how the mind of the insane work,” Simon muttered. “But, I think, to buy some time, he also knows that to change it would be a lengthy process. And the longer he waited by keeping us guessing, the less chance we would have of actually changing it. To be honest, there is really no point in changing it. Once he has the code, he’ll do so himself and we can’t stop him. And it’s pretty obvious he didn’t know Wellesley might have taken it from him. Just assumed it was Adam since he discussed it with him once.”
“So, this really had—has—nothing to do with Max in the first place?”
“Doesn’t look like it. I think Ho’s been planning this on his own.” Simon glanced at John, who’d just finished his whiskey. “I think I need to go to the Scrap Yard, personally. Once Ho gets the code, he’ll be heading there.”
John looked at his friend and seemed to consider something. “Unless he means to hold it for ransom.”
“There’s that,” Simon agreed.
“You’re actually giving him the code?” Horror made me gape.
“What else can we do?” Simon leveled his eyes on me. “He appears to be holding all the cards for the moment.”
“Well, what will he ransom it for?”
“Everyone wants to rule the world.”
“What, so he’ll turn all the droids against us?” I sputtered. This was really starting to sound like a bad science fiction movie. “And you’re just going to let him? I don’t buy that.”
“What do you suggest then?” Simon clasped his hands before him and raised both his red brows. Blinking. He was being annoyingly diplomatic.
“Give him a fake code,” I offered, flapping my arms. I looked from Simon to John. “Stall him for a change.”
“He’ll know it’s a fake,” Simon snorted. “He’ll use a scanner to verify.”
“Can’t we hold him off? Come up with some excuse?”
“No.” Simon tucked his personal unit into his pocket, making ready to leave. “I’m sorry, Josie.”
“There must be something we could do to stall him. We can’t just give him the code.” A little panic started to creep into my voice.
“Yes, we have to.” John glanced at me. “If we don’t, he kills your niece.”
“But we don’t know for certain if she is my niece. There’s no proof. Don’t be distracted, you said.”
John reached out and touched my arm, giving me a look. I made an involuntary noise; it sounded close to a whimper. Damn emotions, so close to the surface it was making me lose my composure.
“Aline needs to speak with you.” He cupped his hands to my face, looking like he wished he could crawl inside me, take my place, take my hurt. Instead, he just held my face and watched as a little bit of me eroded. My breath stalled in my chest.
Sucking in a breath, I lowered my eyes and nodded. “Let’s go see your sister, then.”
Chapter 10
After a quick and early dinner, Aline kissed her children and instructed them to go to their rooms and be quiet. She told them their Auntie Josie was coming with Uncle John, and they had some serious talking to do. It was not a playdate but grown up stuff. They were old enough to listen to reason that she didn’t fear they’d be interrupted.
August, age eight, knew something serious was up, but was still young enough to pout and stomp his foot in annoyance. He adored his Aunt Josie. Amelia was only four, and so listened with rapt attention to her mother. Amelia, obedient as ever, retreated to her room and primly shut the door to a crack like usual, trilling out “night-night” as she did so.
With a sigh, Aline joined her partner Rand in the living room. He was a tall, handsome man with exotic features, an intellectual air, and a heart the size of the universe. Rand hugged her, giving her bolstering squeeze. He fussed with the coffee tray he’d laid out, knowing John would be prompt and that Josie would want something to eat. Rand was intuitive with people the way Aline was with medical conditions. She remembered Rand saying Josie probably put off or missed her chance to eat when things were crazy and John, though he could survive on nothing for days, would forget to remind her to eat. He knew Josie could not—would not—forget, but would be too polite to remind John. How Rand managed to retain all this was a feat that escaped Aline daily.
Rand, a former professor and now a professional homemaker, had researched, taught and specialized in the Techno-Generation of the early twenty-first century. He and Josie had much to talk about at the best of times. Dashing, with a sleek physique, a golden complexion to suggest a rich mélange of mix-raced ancestry, Rand exuded an aura of ethereal calmness that beckoned one to confide in him. Though devoted to each other, he and Aline had chosen not to marry in the conventional sense, believing their union was already permanent spiritually.
Rand eyed the sticky treacle tart pudding he’d made. “Nice and sweet. Josie will definitely approve. Sweet things usually put people in a better mood.”
“I’m a walking, talking example,” Aline winked at him. “And believe me, she’ll definitely need—”
John walked through the door without knocking. He never did. An annoying habit Rand tried his best to get used to, but Aline never took notice of. Rand clicked his tongue with annoyance. After almost a decade with the Lancasters, one would think Rand was used to it, and could turn a blind eye to John’s lack of manners. But then, after a decade, Rand had reasoned, if the man hadn’t clued in yet, president or not, he probably never would. And now Josie seemed to be borrowing this annoying trait. She followed two steps behind, trying her best to look brave. Aline noticed the slight shadows under her eyes, her pinched expression, and the entire weight of the world slumping her shoulders.
Rand greeted Josie first, kissing her on the cheek. He gave her an extra squeeze on her shoulder. “All right?” He tucked an arm through hers. “I’ve made something nice and sticky for you.”
Josie grinned. “Yum, I can smell it already. I’m so starved. I puked up my guts for the whole day.”
“Sweetie, what’s wrong?” Rand, his brow creasing, held her chin up to see her face better. He cradled her face between his hands, his thumbs lightly brushing her cheeks.
Josie stood compliant, her eyes softening, shoulders dropping and a stupid smile spreading across her face. She fell victim, like many, to Rand’s buttery charm. Were it anything but genuine, Aline would’ve had a jealous conniption. But Rand was a healer of the soul, and Josie needed that right now.
Josie told Rand of her day as Aline moved to John, murmuring a greeting. They shared a silent look between them, one that conveyed their concern for Josie.
With Josie in tow, Rand guided her to the couch and sat next to her with an elegant and regal air. If he’d purred like a contented cat, no one would’ve been surprised. Despite his charming personality that oozed seductive masculinity, Rand still managed to pull off being a girl’s best friend like a sexless eunuch.
“So.” Aline cleared her throat, glad Rand was with them. “You’ve got yourself a niece.”
Josie stared at her, defeat on her face. “Just tell me.”
Aline rolled her neck. She resorted to her medical training. Hit them quick and hard with clean simple facts. Pulling out her personal unit, she tapped it alive to bring up the saved notes. “Margeaux Laperriere, daughter of Thomas “Tucks” Laperriere, mother unknown, born in Hong Kong thirteen years ago. Her father was listed as a musician. Died of a drug overdose when Margeaux was only three. It had been his wish, should anything happen to him, that she be raised in the Buddhist Colony. Her grandparents were Craig and Swan Laperriere, stage actors from the United Americas. It was her grandmother Swan who carried the original genetic traits. Swan, born a Matsumoto, came from two generations of Matsumoto’s, who came from a Gopnik, who came from a Sozanski, which was where it ended—about a hundred and forty-odd years ago. The highest concentration of DNA spikes and traits came from a Brandon Sozanski, the original DNA donor. His is the DNA that closely matches Josie’s, which suggests that one of h
is parents was, pretty much, a direct descendant of Josie’s brother.”
Certain females and males, Aline went on to explain, showed stronger spikes and traits, suggesting where the linkages and direct descendents occurred. She seasoned it with technical and medical terms that seemed to glaze everyone with disinterest.
Josie blew out a breath and slumped forward, clutching her head. Aline could almost picture Josie’s mind racing backward, trying to understand, to grasp where—who—had been the actual original.
“Was it Fern? Was it Conrad? Did Kellan have more children?” Josie mumbled. “Wait stop.” She held up a hand. “Just stop a minute. I need a minute. I need to think.”
John placed a hand over Aline’s shoulder, gripping it. She reached up and patted it like a mother would a worried child’s. She felt John’s agony. How does one comfort someone in Josie’s position? Where do you begin?
“There is a big gap—a very sizable gap—from your time to when Brandon Sozanski offered up his DNA,” Aline continued. “He was military, joined at sixteen, just before the first onset of the urban and civil wars. It was mandatory then to submit a full DNA and medical history. It showed he had one surviving parent, a mother named Zara who lived in Quebec. She’s listed as a notable scientist. Brandon then married and had three children. Only one survived to adulthood, a daughter, who had a child late in life with a Gopnik. Her daughter then had two children with a Trey Matsumoto. Their son then had children with a Marisa Coolidge, who had Swan. Swan appears to be the only one who had children.” Aline got up, pulled out a memory stick from her pocket and placed it before Josie. “Everything I’ve found and matched against Ho’s information is in here. Of course, I’d also need to compare them with the actual samples in Iceland for a proper confirmation.”
Rand leaned toward Josie. “These are just electronic matches, Josie.”
“Meaning,” Josie stared hard at the memory stick, “that they could’ve been tampered with?”
“We can’t rule that out. But for now, they match.” Aline paced the room. “I need to get to Iceland.”
“So is she or isn’t she my niece?”
“For now, she is.” Aline tugged her lower lip in thought. “You’d have to be very clever to alter the electronic DNA files. There are countless fail-safes and passwords to bypass in order to alter them. And even then, you’d need a detailed knowledge about DNA and genetics to make a fake one. But anything is possible if you knew how and had the funds to do so.”
“Could it also be another relation? I mean, say, cousins. I had one cousin on my father’s side and two on my mother’s. Could they be related to them instead?”
“It’s a possibility, except that the spikes are very strong, indicating a more direct link.”
“When are you leaving?” John asked but watched Josie, who had gone quite pale.
“Not right now—I can’t,” Aline said with a shrug. “I’m sorry. I’ve got a full plate and I cannot neglect my other patients. I’ve a few surgeries to perform as well; the trade minister’s new kidneys, remember? The closest I can do it is in about two days. And even then, it will take me at least half a day to gather up all the samples and check them myself. Hontag-Sonnet is very strict on what you can or cannot do with their samples. And I want to be thorough.”
“Do it then.” Josie’s voice was surprisingly strong. “This memory stick, it comes with images?”
Aline nodded. “Some look alike. Facial characteristics and bone structure. They too can be altered, more easily than DNA strands.”
“Josie.” Rand reached for Josie’s hand. “Treat her for the time being as your niece. She may well be, and consider the opportunity that may slip by. Am I to understand this girl is in considerable danger?”
Josie nodded, John grunted.
“That is an understatement,” John compressed his mouth. “But, yes. And Ho does not strike me as the kind of person to leave well enough alone once he’s obtained what he wants. She might end up dead regardless.”
“I don’t want to look at this right now,” Josie said with some force. She picked up the memory stick and was about to hand it back to Aline when John placed a hand over it.
“I do.” He stared hard at Josie.
Aline noted her brother’s anger. Understandable. If she knew John, and he found out that this was some massive trick on Ho’s part, no way was he was going to let him get away with it. He would look at the data on that stick, and look at it with a fine-toothed comb.
* * *
Simon ended the transmission with Governor Ayo Mwenye. A headache pulsed, dead center of his brain. What an idiot, Simon thought as he replayed the conversation with Mwenye. It had been more like a shouting match, with Mwenye doing most of it.
Mwenye was just being protective of what was his, and for good reason. He’d reminded Simon of what his responsibility to the Scrap Yard was, and the catastrophic results of what could happen when the code got into the wrong hands.
Simon saw no reason to disagree with him on that point; it was how Mwenye had decided to voice his displeasure that needed a little attitude adjustment.
“Give a person a little authority and it goes straight to their head,” Simon muttered. “Even if they’ve been doing it for the last fifteen years.”
To be honest, Simon thought Mwenye needed to leave the space station more often. Maybe get a little fresh air, find a woman or man to divert his frustrations—whatever tickled his fancy.
But then again, perhaps his attitude also stemmed from the fact that Mwenye must’ve felt like an idiot for allowing someone to drug him, make him talk, and practically gift-wrap the code and hand it over. You couldn’t blame the man for being a bit touchy.
Simon copied the master code onto a swipe-card with an embedded Lancaster insignia to mark its authenticity, did a clean-erase of the transmission, and logged off the secure communications link.
He pocketed the swipe-card into his breast pocket, patted it once, and called John.
“I have it.”
“Any word from Ho?”
“Yes, and you’re not going to like it.”
John’s image on the personal unit glowered back with a clamped mouth, waiting.
“He wants Josie to do the exchange. No one else.”
“Not a chance. No deal.” John replied with a casual air.
“That’s what he said—if you refused. And the girl gets dead.” Simon considered something. “We’ve enough time to send a lookalike in her place.”
“Ho will know the difference. We’re at my house, come by and—”
“I’ll do it.” Josie’s image peeked through into the small viewfinder.
“You will not.” John’s face twisted in annoyance as he turned to face her. “I will not have you endangering yourself like this. And might I remind you who you are now?”
“Whoopie, the president’s wife. Big fucking deal.”
“There are some things people in our position just do not do,” John spoke with what appeared to be ultimate patience, “this being one of them.”
Simon envisioned an almighty hissing match erupting between the two. He cleared his throat to remind them he was still there. It didn’t work.
“Oh, like you haven’t done things personally and put yourself into positions that endangered your life? Give me a break here. You do it practically all the time!” Josie glowered and pushed her face into his.
“I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you have. And, might I remind you, I have been trained in other things to know how to handle myself. Unlike you, who has only had the mere basics in combat tactics.”
“Ho will kill Margeaux if he doesn’t see me there.”
John snapped out a quick, snarling smile. “So it’s Margeaux now. You’ve stopped calling her ‘the girl.’ You’re making this personal.”
“Isn’t it?” Josie hissed, baring her teeth.
“Josie, she may very well be your niece. That does not mean you throw caution to the wind an
d jump through every hoop Ho offers. Use your head!”
Affronted, Josie gaped back. “Don’t speak to me like that? I’m not a stupid fucking idiot, you know.”
“Well, you’re certainly behaving like one now.” John’s lips disappeared into a thin line; his jaw moving like he was grinding his teeth. “You will not do this. Simon,” his attention snapped back to his personal unit. “Get the lookalike and brief—”
“Simon,” Josie interrupted. “Forget the lookalike. I’ll do it.” She elbowed John away when he tried to say something. “Only if you come with me. Tell Ho that is the deal—or I don’t come and he can kill the girl as he pleases. Tell him the wife of the president does not go out alone, or unaccompanied, in the middle of the night, and that he should know better than to insist on such a thing.” She turned and glared at John.
He glared back.
Bad idea, Simon thought. But, it was better than using a decoy. He liked that Josie insisted he should be there to make sure things didn’t go wrong. He’d had every intention of being there from the very beginning anyway. Throwing Josie in the mix just made this a wee bit ticklish, but he wasn’t about to argue with her.
Simon wasn’t particularly afraid of women. He understood them quite well and, in general, got along with them harmoniously. But he knew, when a woman’s eyes gleamed with pure malice like how Josie’s did now, like how his wife’s sometimes did, to be very wary and compliant and do everything they asked of you. Without protest. Self-preservation came first. John still had much to learn about the ways of a woman, he thought with a sigh, and the intricacies of marriage. He needed to learn the art of compromise.
“I’ll contact him,” Simon replied, not that they even bothered to register him. Oh, what a fight they will have now. “Josie, be ready in one hour. Let Mrs. Trudesson prep you, do you hear me?”
He ended the transmission before she directed those glacial green eyes at him again.
* * *
Mrs. Trudesson was Simon’s wife. I didn’t know her first name, nor would she tell me. And Trudesson wasn’t Simon’s last name. Mrs. Trudesson was such a cumbersome name, so I took to calling her Trudi instead. She didn’t mind. And now, even John had begun calling her that.
