by Sarah Fine
“Yeah. Mom said you guys had a close call.”
“We had decided to get some coffee at a nearby café,” he says. “We’d just gotten there when the explosion went off.” He sighs and rubs his hands over his face. “All the windows shattered.”
“We didn’t know what was happening,” said my mom, her eyes glazing with tears. “But we knew it was bad. The fire—”
El puts his arm around her. “It’s okay, Colette. You’re safe,” he says gently before looking at me. “It was pretty scary. You two can go home tomorrow, but I think it’s better if you stay here for the night. We’re trying to assess what happened and ensure that there are no other targets. The president is coordinating with his security council now, and the VP is participating in the virtual.” El lets out a little laugh. “She’s not happy about it, either.”
“Oh, I bet she’s not.” Audrey Savedra was just a rebel technocrat from California—a moderate in a place where tech is worshipped like a god—when Uncle Wynn forged an alliance with her that won him the state. Now I’m hoping she gets pushed to the sidelines. She’s always been snide about my vids. If she had her way, I’d probably be on the first flight back to Houston.
Good thing El is closer to the president than she is. “We have to get her back here, or she’ll eat us all for breakfast,” he says in a tone that indicates he’s not the slightest bit afraid of her.
“I wouldn’t mind if she had to stay in New York for a while,” I mutter. “So—when will we know about casualties? I have some classmates whose parents work in that building.”
“It’s chaos down there right now, and the DC police are in charge, but we’ve also got FBI agents in there because it’s a federal building. It’s probably going to be at least twenty-four hours before any victims are named.” He lets out an unsteady breath. “But the building was packed today. People wanting to meet us, wanting to bend our ear, make sure we weren’t going to toss them out on the street.”
“They might all be dead,” my mom says, shaking her head as the tears flow again. “Excuse me. I need a moment.” She turns and walks abruptly toward a restroom.
“Do you have any idea who’s responsible for this?” I ask.
“I’m sorry I can’t share, Marguerite, given that you don’t have a security clearance. But I can say we’ve got a few ideas.”
“Technocrats?” I ask. It would make so much sense in some ways.
“I bet there’s one name you just want to shout right now.”
“Who—Gia?” I think of how upset Anna looked. “This is terrorism, right? It doesn’t seem like her style, I guess?”
He arches one eyebrow. “Who are you, and what have you done with Marguerite? Don’t you want to cut out her heart and wear it as a trophy?”
“I thought you’d be happy if I toned down my Gia hate.”
“On the Mainstream, sure. We’ve planted our flag on the moral high ground, and there’s no way I’m letting them take the hill. But right here and now it’s just me, kid. You can be honest. Admit it—you kind of think she’s capable of something like this.”
“Her daughter goes to my school.”
“And does she take after Mommy?”
“She actually seems kind of nice.”
“You’re smarter than that, Mar.”
I look toward the conference room and stare at the back of the president’s head. “I didn’t say I trusted her.”
“Good.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Actually, this could be good. Really good.”
I lean my head back. “You are so predictable.”
“Bear with me on this—”
“I’m way ahead of you.”
“You’re predictable, too.” El touches my comband. “This might be a good time to tell your fans you’re alive and well, and how relieved you are that the president is handling this crisis.”
“Then I’ll go do my thing.” I smile and pivot, eager to dive into the place where I’m most comfortable. Sometimes I feel like a sea turtle forced to march across long stretches of beach, awkward and slow—but then, once I plunge into the Mainstream, I turn into something graceful. And now that I know Mom’s okay, it’ll be nice to spend time with my fans. I need the support.
Instead of using my comband, I sit down in a cubicle and wave to alert the ID scanner. I lean in as the blue line of light skims my face and retinas, and then my home display appears. “New vid,” I murmur, and then I smile as the screen flashes to let me know it’s capturing.
“Hey, everyone, you’ve probably heard about the bombing by now.” Some of them probably knew before I did. “It was at the Department of AIR, and I don’t have any info about casualties or anything, just that it’s bad. But in case you were worried, I wanted to let you know that I’m okay. I had just gotten to school when the bomb went off, and that’s at least a few miles away. I’m alive—but it seems really likely that others have lost their lives.” I let that sink in, and I allow myself to feel the tragedy of it. What if Kyla lost her parents? How many others did we lose? “Like you all, I’m bracing for news. The one thing I do know is this: our president is on it.”
I watch my own gaze become intense, a reflection of my resolve and confidence. “But as we wait to hear more, I want you all to think about something. You sent Wynn Sallese to Washington to do a job for you. You sent him here to make your lives better. This is your time. Our time. Whoever is responsible for this bombing . . . they’re trying to mess that up for-for-for all of us, as if we haven’t gone through enough already!” I pause, knowing the best stuff needs to ripen in the silence. Then I drive it home. “But it doesn’t matter. Whoever did this is no match for the president, not with all of us standing behind him, am I right?” I can almost hear the cheering. I smile. “Wynn Sallese is here for you guys. He always has been. And he won’t let you down when it counts—I can tell you that from personal experience. Let him know you’re with him, okay? Let him know.”
I flick my finger, and the vid stops capturing.
“Would you like to edit your vid?” my channel asks. “Select ‘Stutter-Smooth.’”
I shake my head. I always upload the raw stuff, mistakes and all. It works better that way—people know I’m seventeen and real, not some invention of the campaign. No matter what anyone says, no one has ever written a script for me. “Feed it, baby.”
I release the vid into the stream and watch for a few minutes as the views skyrocket and comments start to roll in.
I see the new-comment icon blink as FragFlwr drops by.
Using this tragedy to score political points? How typical.
My mouth drops open. “You are such a jerk,” I mutter.
“Publish comment?” the channel inquires.
“No!” I sit there and stew as I reread the comment. “You’re making a lot of assumptions about me that simply aren’t true,” I finally say. “Publish.”
I assume you will use every opportunity to convince people that Sallese is working on their behalf. I assume YOU actually believe he is. I’m thinking that’s better than assuming you’re evil, but feel free to let me know if that’s what you prefer.
“Of course I believe in my president and his message,” I say through gritted teeth. “I know and trust him. And I’ve experienced the technocrat agenda firsthand, too. I don’t trust them.” I publish this comment with an impatient flourish of my hand.
So if the technocrats are wrong, he must be right? Isn’t that a logical fallacy?
“You tell me,” I snap. “Can’t you access that kind of information instantly on your Cerepin?” I publish it before I can think better of it.
Now you’re the one who assumes.
“You’re a technocrat without a Cerepin? And they still let you into the clubhouse?”
So many assumptions, lovely hypocrite. So very many.
Oh my god, this idiot is driving me nuts. “You’ve admitted to being a technocrat.”
Not really, though I suppose it’s a fair conclusion. Also, I’
ve remembered what your fallacy is called! A false dichotomy. Particularly apt, considering how Sallese made his money. But I apologize for carrying us off track. I’m sure you’d like to return to spouting propaganda now. *chin hands* Let’s hear it, mouthpiece.
“Arguing with you is sucking away my energy on what has already been a really sad day, and I’d like to save it for people who actually deserve it.” My heart is beating so fast that I can barely catch my breath. My face is hot with rage and regret at even starting this comment war. Tears are fighting to break free, but even though this troll can’t see me, I’m not going to shed them. “Be safe, FragFlwr, and take care. Publish. Log out.”
This troll will get nothing else from me.
Chapter Five
Percy
The user has logged off.
Well, I’ve had my fun. Worked off a bit of the savagery I try to keep in check most of the time. Now I have to sit here and think about what’s happened.
I kick off my shoes—they’re not as comfortable as I’d like, but they look damn good—and start to pace.
“Your heart rate is rising, Percy,” says Sophia, the voice of the house. “Are you in distress?”
Lovely. My aunt has increased Sophia’s empathy and intervention settings again. But it’s good I’m finding this out now instead of tonight. “I know what my heart rate is, Sophia.”
I always know.
“I am here for you if you would like to talk.”
I lean over my desk and press my knuckles to the polished surface. “I’m not distressed, darling.”
“Distressed” is a silly and entirely inadequate word for what I am.
“Bianca on vid,” says another voice, this time emanating from beneath my knuckles. I look down to see Bianca’s pretty face in the center of the display. I waggle my eyebrows, answering the com, allowing the projection of her to inhabit the space over the desk.
“I hardly ever hear from you these days,” I say to her as I lean back.
“That’s because I broke up with you.”
“Ah. Of course. I remember now.”
She flips her hair. Really, her hair is the thing I enjoy most about her. I liked sliding my fingers through it. I liked clenching my fist and pulling it when I kissed her. She seemed to like it, too. Now, though . . . “I’m only comming to see if you made it home okay.” She eyes me. “Nice hair.”
I smooth my hand over the new blond streak—the only gold that’s left, because my hair is now ebony. “You noticed.”
“Percy, honestly, who cares that you got your hair done? The freaking world is exploding.”
“And yet here we stand.”
“You can cut the act. I know you better than that.”
“If that were true, you would know not to say that to me.”
“Chances are Kyla’s dad was killed in the attack. The building is completely obliterated—my intel says there are no survivors so far. Not even any injured except for a few people just outside of the three-block radius that was flattened. He was probably incinerated instantly.”
I clench my jaw. “Her mother?”
“Wasn’t at the department today. I just found out.”
“And Kyla?”
“Mr. Cordoza came and took her out of the cafeteria, and the look on his face was just . . . ugh. She thought both of her parents had been killed. She started screaming for her mommy and daddy.”
Grief twists hard inside my gut, but Bianca’s watching me now. I don’t know why she thinks I’ll give her more than I did when we were together. “Poor Kyla.”
“Seriously?”
“Did you com just to try to get a reaction out of me?”
She presses her lips together. But after a moment of blessed silence, she says, “So, is she what you expected?”
“Who?” I know exactly who.
“The president’s attack puppy. I still think she slept with him.”
“Are we onto this again? How grandly retrogressive of you.”
“Are you actually defending her?”
“No, I’m insulting you.”
“Whatever. She’s nothing special. Did you watch the vid I sent you last week?”
“I have more exciting things to do with my time.” And I prefer the raw, unedited versions.
“She’s exactly like she is face-to-face. Self-righteous and stupid and boring.”
“I can’t disagree with the self-righteous part.” It’s amusing in both milieus.
“Oh, come on! She’s where she is because she had a sob story and got lucky!”
I laugh. I can’t help it. “Yes, lucky. That is exactly how I would describe her.”
Bianca’s eyes narrow. “Wait. Do you like her?”
“Madly in love. I think it’s forever this time.”
“Can you ever be real, Percy?”
“Not when such unpleasantness can be avoided.”
“She’s the puppet of sleazy Sallese! At our school! I thought you would at least want to help me make her miserable, just for the freaking sport of it. I thought you were on my side, but you’ve been totally avoiding me for the last week.”
“And I’ve disappointed you yet again. One would think you’d be braced for it by now.”
“Well . . . you could make it up to me. I’ve got a little vid project that I’m working on for our new friend, and I need a fashion consultation.”
I look her over. She is immaculate, as always. “This is what you’re focused on in the wake of a heinous terrorist attack?”
“You know those populist thugs are behind this somehow.”
“Do I?” The thought had occurred to me, but would they really bomb a government building they now control? To what end?
“Oh, you’re the only one who gets to spin conspiracy theories?” She sighs. “Percy. Believe it or not, I’m not interested in fighting with you, especially not today. I just need to do something. This is crazy.”
“So your brilliant plan is to provoke a Mainstream darling, a dazzlingly effective spokeswoman for a landslide president?”
“He’s not that popular.”
“Not in our circle, dear. I may not dabble in politics, but did he not win the election with over sixty percent of the vote and carry forty-seven states? What do you hope to accomplish?”
“She’s going to push Sallese to punish Parnassus—”
“Don’t tell me your father’s on board with your revenge fantasy.”
“He said to be nice to her!”
“How silly of him. Or . . . oh, perhaps he feels some responsibility over Marguerite’s father’s untimely demise? Does he feel he had a hand in what happened afterward?”
“Because some wack job killed himself?”
“My darling, sometimes you do a brilliant impression of a psychopath. Might there be a glitch in your empathy chip?”
“Ugh! I don’t know why I commed.”
“Allow me to help. You wanted to use Kyla’s unspeakable loss as a way to get under my skin, and you were hoping to co-opt me in a plan to torment someone it would benefit you to be very, very nice to.”
“I hate you.”
“One of the key ingredients in our breakup, as I recall.” I soften my tone as her face turns red. “Bianca, I know you’re scared about what’s going to happen to Parnassus. What’s going to happen to your father and your family now that the winds of change are blowing.”
“You don’t understand. You’re untouchable.”
“If that were true, perhaps I wouldn’t be an orphan.”
Bianca grimaces and looks away. “She needs to get the hell out of our school, Percy. She doesn’t belong there.”
“A fact of which she seems keenly aware. But she doesn’t seem petty to me. She doesn’t seem cruel.” Quite the contrary. She seems . . . earnest. But true believers are often the most dangerous. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, darling, I need to go interact with people who actually like me.”
I end the com while Bianca is in midreply. As her fac
e disappears, my display returns to my channel. My subscribers have come aboard to watch the vid on hair color that I posted when I got home—and the comments have started to roll in.
Muchacha17: Love the new color! You were sooo cute as a blondie, tho ☹
CREMdela: You couldn’t be ugly if you tried.
SlzySally451: Divine, baby. Wish I had your skin.
ClintRock: Seems like it’s the season to make some changes, but you can only do it if you’re willing to go out on a limb.
I read the comment twice. Then I reply. “Good thing I’m very secure with myself. Publish.”
ClintRock: If that’s true, now is definitely the time.
Here we go. “Sophia, privacy,” I say, the order that essentially makes her blind and deaf until I reinstate her. My heart rate is climbing as I open a portal to my secure channel and activate my “ghost,” autonomous AI that conveniently erases any trace of my activities in real time by slicing up my data and scattering it to the electronic wind. The tech is a gift from the man with whom I’m about to commune in the virtual world.
“It’s been a while,” I say. And it has, too long. Of all my online relationships, this is the only one that commands my attention.
“After what happened today,” comes his electronically distorted voice, “we need to meet.”
“Does this mean—”
“I repeat, we need to meet. I’m still assessing the new administration’s security, and until I know, I’m not saying anything on the wires. Usual place, usual time. You bring the chips; I bring the dip.”
“And what party games shall we play?”
There’s no reply. He’s already gone.
“Percy,” says Sophia. “Dinner will be served in ten minutes.”
“Privacy off. Is the ambassador home yet?”
“She arrived twenty-two minutes ago.”
“Marvelous.” I need to see how Aunt Rosalie is faring. I put on my satin slippers and slide out of my room. The corridor chandelier senses my approach and greets me with an intensifying glow, and I blink, letting my implants adjust the aperture of my pupils. I love being able to see in the dark, but it’s the devil on my peepers in the light.
