Beneath the Shine

by Sarah Fine

  “The new president sees things differently. I know this might sound scary, but she thinks it’s pointless to fight the idea that cannies can do some jobs better than humans can. She wants to empower and regulate cannies to handle that stuff—and to have Americans focus on finding purpose in other ways, through initiatives to help each other, beautify our surroundings, create art, preserve oral histories. ‘Nurturing our collective soul,’ she’s calling it.” I bite my lip. “I’m not sure what I think. And I’m still advocating for a better subsidy system, if that’s the case. But it sounds hopeful. Like the beginning of a good conversation. I hope you agree.”

  I sign off and upload the vid to the Mainstream.

  The views start to tick up, and the comments start to roll in. People are still scared and skeptical and grieving, but some, at least, seem open to a change.

  It’s all we can ask for, really.

  “That was perfect, Marguerite,” Mom says. “The president is going to be grateful.”

  “I’m not sure.” I told her I was going to speak my mind. I made it a condition of her hiring me. And she readily accepted, but I’ll wait and see if she means it.

  “I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised,” Mom says. “What are you up to now?”

  I glance down at my screen, and my heart skips as I read one of the comments that just appeared.

  FragFlwr: We’ll see. You look lovely in that dress, by the way. Cheers to your wardrobe consultant.

  I snort. “I need to go thank my wardrobe consultant.”

  She gives me a sly smile. “Be back by ten. It’s a school night.”

  “Ten it is.” I grab a jacket and head outside.

  The embassy car is waiting, front door open. I get in and find Percy with his hands on the control panel. “What are you doing?”

  He flashes a bright smile. “It’s called driving, my dear. I could teach you, if you like.”

  “Please make sure we are in a nonresidential zone when you do,” says the voice I recognize as Yves.

  “Oh, stop,” Percy says. “She’ll be marvelous.” His hair is blond tonight, and his fingernails are blue. His cravat is relatively toned down, but his stockings are rainbow hued.

  “Happy birthday,” I say, leaning over and kissing his cheek. His eyes close, and I feel a rush of anticipation in my chest as my lips graze his skin. “I thought I was supposed to give you presents.” I touch the lace at the edge of the newly genned dress he sent over this morning.

  He waggles his eyebrows. “You just have.” Still grinning, he taps one of his fingers and twists his right hand over the panel, and we hook a sharp left turn before speeding down the road. “Speaking of appearances, a very compelling presentation tonight, my little political operative. And how is the new president?” he asks as he pokes his thumb at the panel, sending Yves rising into the air.

  “Wary. Frazzled. But she has the chops to do the job.” I glance at him. “She’d still like to meet you.”

  His smile fades. “Hmm, I have to think about that. I think I may prefer glorious anonymity to being summoned to the queen’s court.”

  The president recognizes that Percy and I brought down a corrupt regime that was about to swallow her, too. Percy found and countermanded an order to assassinate her that had been given to a set of Secret Service cannies by El the night he died. I guess she’d gotten in his way one too many times. I sent her the evidence of it and the proof of what Percy had done, as a show of good faith.

  “She wanted me to thank you,” I say. “I think she meant it.”

  “Tell her she’s most welcome.”

  After Wynn was in custody and the dust started to settle, Percy erased any trace of his activity from the cannies’ memories and disconnected himself from all networks. The two of us are the only ones besides Wynn who know what really happened in that room, and with what the president did and all the lies he told, who would believe him? Percy’s off-line again, but I know he can connect anytime he wants. I saw it with my own eyes—he can control cannies. He can probably control AI programs, too, or at least communicate with them in their language. The language of machines. He’s extremely dangerous, so much more than Wynn ever was, and he knows it.

  I know it, too. But I also know that unlike our former president, Percy is, at his core, selfless, willing to risk everything to save others and do what is right. He proved it. I think he’s going to figure out the best way to deal with the enormity of his power, even if it takes him a while. I’m not going to leave him alone in it, though. He’s been alone for too long.

  “Are you ever going to show the world what you can do?” I ask. “Or is it going to stay between you and me forever?”

  He reaches over and strokes my face with the back of his fingers. “I would prefer to have nothing between you and me, actually . . . except maybe that.”

  My cheeks are warm even in Yves’s temperature-controlled cabin. “Do you miss it?” I ask. “The subterfuge? Saving people? Being FragFlwr, the way you were?”

  “If I do, will you find me another cause to fight for?”

  “I might.”

  “You will,” he says as I scoot closer to him. “And I think I might follow you anywhere. You are, after all, very good at persuasion.”

  I put my hand on his thigh.

  The car dips and bobbles. “Yves, drive,” he says. “My heart rate is just a bit too high right now.”

  “Yes, sir,” Yves replies.

  “Where to?” I ask.

  Percy slides his arm around me. “Somewhere with a nice view.”

  “I could gen one and project it onto the windshield if you like,” Yves offers.

  We both laugh. “No,” I say. “I’d prefer something real.”

  Percy touches my forehead with his. “Me too,” he says. “But I think we might have that right here. No Mainstream, no Cerepins, just you and me.”

  “Yeah, and your super-hearing, super-smell, super-eyesight—”

  He bows his head and puts his hand over his heart. “You have slain me.”

  I tip his chin up with my fingers. “I guess I’ll just have to bring you back to life, then.”

  His eyes glint metallic in the starlight as Yves soars over DC. “You already have.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book was a true collaborative effort, and so my first thank-you must go to the editor who joined me to hone and grow the idea: Courtney Miller. Courtney, your excitement over this story’s potential, and our conversations that forged its backbone, kept me going through the challenges of writing it. Thank you so much for your belief in me and your willingness to take on this project. Thank you also to the amazing team at Skyscape, and to Jason Kirk for stepping in to help usher the book through its final steps toward publication. Thanks to Janice Lee, my copyeditor extraordinaire, for caring about all the details and for reminding me that there are only five weekdays per week. Thank you to Phyllis DeBlanche for final eagle-eyed typo assassination. Thank you to Devon Fredericksen, my production editor, for keeping the project on the rails. And of course, I am grateful once again to Leslie “Lam” Miller for guiding me through the developmental editing process. As always, Lam, you helped me make the book so much better while also helping me stay sane, which I fully realize is not always an easy task. My gratitude also goes to my tireless agent, Kathleen Ortiz, for providing any and all manner of support and organization.

  Thank you to my mother for bringing into my life The Scarlet Pimpernel, the movie that became one of my all-time favorites (and eventually inspired this book), and to my sisters for watching it with me dozens of times—and then reciting lines that brought us mutual joy for years. Dad, thank you for being so incredibly supportive no matter which way I seem to be headed. Asher and Alma, thank you for being so delightful and tolerating your fuzzy-brained mama. Lydia, thank you for being such an amazing, constant friend. Peter, just . . . thank you (you know why). And readers, you will always have my gratitude and my commitment to creating more stories
for you to enjoy. You make it all worthwhile.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2012 Rebecca Skinner

  Sarah Fine is the author of several popular series, including the Impostor Queen and Guards of the Shadowlands. And while she promises she is not psychoanalyzing those around her, she manages to use both her talent as a writer and her experience as a psychologist to great effect. Sarah’s stories blur lines, challenge convention, and press boundaries. Her mash-up of seemingly disparate genres yields stories that not only are engaging but will keep readers guessing.

  Sarah has lived on the West Coast and in the Midwest, but she currently calls the East Coast home. She confesses to having the music tastes of an adolescent boy and an adventurous spirit when it comes to food (especially if it’s fried). But if her many books are any indication, writing clearly trumps both her musical and culinary loves.