by Sean Platt
“I’m not going to tell you that,” he told the woman.
Her name was Veronica. She had mocha skin and emerald green eyes. It wasn’t a normal combination, but that’s what Sam found so incredibly attractive. He wanted to ask her if both were natural — the skin color and the eyes — but it would be as rude as asking if she was truly as young as she seemed, given that her presence at the table meant she was wealthy enough to be seventy-five and not look it. As rude, really, as asking Sam/Archer which way he intended to shift.
“Enterprise,” said the man across the table from Sam. “That boy is as Enterprise as they come.” The man was big, broad, and had a deep laugh. Apparently, he was from Texas. He was going by the name Sully, but Sam thought his real name might be Houston. As in, again, Texas. He might be one of the original partners who’d formed O, the sex industry giant. But as tempting as it was to suss out the big man’s history, Sully/Houston wasn’t Sam’s target tonight.
“Maybe,” said Sam.
“Ain’t nobody at this table who’s Directorate,” said Sully.
“I am,” said a woman two people down from Sully at the big round table.
A waiter came between them just as Sully took a deep breath and prepared to remonstrate. Sully seemed offended by the server’s presence and waited patiently while he delivered flambéed vanilla-poached pears with apricot sauce, chocolate liqueur soufflés, and a plate of pignoli cookies. When the waiter was gone, Sully said, “You’re as Directorate as my Aunt Bessie.”
“Aunt Bessie sounds like a pretty Directorate name to me,” said the woman.
“Shit. I don’t know if you’re insulting your poor excuse for a party, saying Bessie sounds cornpone, as befits Directorate, or trying to make your point against me. Either way, you lose. Aunt Bessie owned a ranch of enhanced cattle. She turned up the bulls’ sex drives then got a tinkerer to halve the gestation periods. The calves quick-grown like that are stringy, sure. But Bessie reframed it as tough meat for tough people and branded half the jerky market. Made a mint. As Enterprise.”
“So Enterprise is the only worthwhile choice, I guess,” said the woman, whose name was Gloria — also immaterial to Sam’s investigation.
“You really want to start with me?” Sully said.
Gloria rolled her eyes, and the ten people around the table laughed. Everyone knew Sully and how he always was.
“So,” Veronica said, speaking only to Sam. “Enterprise?”
“I chose Enterprise at my Choice. I don’t see any reason to change,” Sam replied, trying to channel confidence appropriate to Archer Latham. The shell that Sam had created on The Beam before taking the UltraMag from DZ to D1 made Archer out to be reclusive but opinionated. When attending a dinner like this, Archer, if he existed, would stand up and step into the same power as anyone around the table. Archer wouldn’t blush from a pretty girl’s attention like Sam Dial would. Fortunately, Sam had thought of that. He’d uploaded instructions to his nanobots to suppress his natural blush response, to slow his adrenaline release, to blunt any of a dozen hormonal reactions to playacting that might give him away.
“You didn’t shift? You chose?”
“I wasn’t quite old enough in time for Shift. I just went through Choice, even though I’d missed by a hair.” He shrugged. “So it lacks the formality. I’m Enterprise same as if I’d shifted.”
“Are you as nervous as I am?” Veronica asked, now practically caressing Sam’s hand.
“You haven’t been through a Shift?”
“I’m only twenty-three.”
“Oh. No, I’m not nervous. Why would I be nervous?”
“You heard what Craig said.”
“Craig says a lot of things.”
Veronica lowered her voice further. “What, you don’t believe him?”
Sam believed Craig just fine. He’d already written his article, in fact, and the article made it clear just how very deeply he believed Craig. Soon, the whole world would believe everything Craig had bragged about tonight — too loud, maybe, to keep any secrets from the restaurant’s top-tier diners. But if Sam had to guess, half the people around them now were this Beau Monde Sam had written about and wouldn’t care anyway. The other half would probably ignore the fat, balding man, assuming him drunk. The table in the semiprivate room was oozing ego for everyone to see. Braggadocio would be assumed as nothing more than that.
Well, until Sam’s article was published in the Sentinel, of course. He’d already more or less proved that a hidden class was manipulating Shift, and after what he’d heard tonight and what he’d add to his cached, off-site research archive in the morning, there would be no escape. Officially, Craig Braemon had been cleared of all charges of currency manipulation. But leopards never really changed their spots, and this one was at the top — or near the top — of something big.
“He’s just drunk,” Sam said dismissively.
Veronica started to reply, but Sam felt a coming ping and held up a finger. He’d been parallel wet-processing since he learned to walk and would have no problem holding a conversation while sliding files back and forth to the cloud over his encrypted connection, making sense of them all. But this was important. Something that demanded his attention and quickened his pulse even beyond the pacifying ability of the hormonal ballet his nanos’ AI was supposed to be handling.
“Mr. Dial?” said a voice in Sam’s ear, streaming from his implant.
Veronica, apparently sensing something amiss, touched his arm again. There was something subtly different in the touch. He sensed the same affection she’d been showing all night, but now there was more. Sam had scraped by on an Enterprise reporter’s salary for years, but his parents had always given him plenty and he’d spent most of what he earned on enhancing his hive connectivity because a good reporter needed tools to do his job. Right now, nodes tied to sensory nerves were parsing pressure data while optic AI was watching Veronica’s face from the corners of Sam’s eyes. The assessment came back and fought with the voice’s intrusion: Veronica was just a little doubtful. She’d accepted Archer Latham because the others accepted him, but it was all a house of cards, carefully orchestrated in advance with spoofed mails and tags, false records and subtle notes of introduction. All anyone would have to do to pop Sam’s cover would be to ask his exact connection to the group: Who, exactly, had vouched for this young software prodigy? Everyone sort of assumed…but nobody, beyond the smoke and mirrors, knew for sure. Sam couldn’t afford Veronica’s doubts.
Everything was tentative. Doubt was only one of many things he couldn’t afford.
“Is something wrong?” Veronica asked.
“Mr. Dial?” the voice in Sam’s ears echoed.
He was crossing the emotional control threshold. Passing hormonal safety lines. It was only his will, now, that would keep him in the clear, and Sam — who’d been raised half in The Beam — had never been good at individual thought.
He was suddenly sure that everyone at the table could hear his incoming call. It was absurd, but the very fact that Sam had landed himself at a Braemon power dinner — in order to nail the man’s coffin shut, no less — was absurd.
“I’m feeling a little sick,” Sam said.
“Do you need some air? I’ll join you.”
“Mr. Dial? Are you there?”
Sam should dismiss the call, but he’d left the channel open specifically for this kind of an alert. The call terminated before he could respond, and a moment later his internal focus was redirected to his bank’s app. He saw the trace left by the alert.
He’d gone below one hundred credits.
That was a problem. The train ride home cost sixty at the lowest class, and dinner would cost eighty at least. He’d already raised eyebrows by ordering soup and no drinks. He’d had no idea the place would be so pricey.
The house of cards was shaking hard. Archer Latham was supposed to be a whale. Sam had saved for months to afford the image of a high roller, but it worked only if everything went
perfectly, and even then he was only borrowing the image for hours. The suit he was wearing had cost six months’ wages, and he could only return it spotless. He’d bought it in DZ, so he couldn’t pull his train fare from those funds.
He’d have to walk home, it seemed. Or beg his brother — who’d helped him with so much of his tech, at slightly lower prices — to wire him money. Or beg his parents, who were still shaking their heads at the idea of talented young Sam becoming a low-tier intrepid reporter.
This Braemon piece would put Sam on the map. He’d finally succeed, truly, in Enterprise, once it was published.
But the article could only be published if he was able to turn it in. He could only turn in the article if he got the evidence of Beau Monde Shift tampering that he was supposed to be gathering from Braemon and his cronies, to make his dangerously damning case airtight. He could only get the evidence if he didn’t blow his own cover, revealing himself to be someone other than fancy-pants hotshot Archer Latham — who, if anyone cared to investigate, didn’t exist. And he could only keep his cover if he could pay for his meal.
Which, it seemed, was nearing jeopardy, given that he only had a hundred credits left in his account.
“I’m fine,” Sam told Veronica.
“I could use some air anyway.” She took his hand and stood, almost dragging Sam upright.
A voice boomed from across the table. It was Braemon himself.
“Latham!”
Sam turned. He was losing control of his responses. The bank’s call had started a cascade. The irony was thick: Sam had already recorded and buffered all he’d need to cap his article, implicate Craig Braemon, expose the secret class ruling Shift, and escape scot-free — the great masked reporter strikes again. But instead he was about to doom himself and incur possibly deadly retribution, sweating and bouncing payments all the way down.
But when Sam turned, Braemon’s fat, toothy face was smiling.
“Running out as the check comes, I see.”
On cue, a white-gloved waiter slid a fine leather check wallet in front of Sam. Apparently, dinner was over.
His heart slowed. Dinner was merely over, and Braemon was making a joke. It was no big deal. The cavalry had come. Sam’s poor, hundred-credit ass was saved. He’d been meticulously calculating his bill all evening, toeing the line between wheeling like a big shot and making sure he’d be able to pay, gratuity included.
He was safe. He’d be destitute before dessert, but he’d survive, with one hell of a career-making article in the hole.
Sam gave Veronica a confident look, apologizing for declining her offer to head out for fresh air. He opened the wallet, put an appropriately I-don’t-give-a-shit-because-I’m-loaded look on his face, and raised his thumb to press the identifier and pay.
But before he could, Sam noticed a flurry of activity around the table. None of the others were readying their thumbs. They were all pulling out flat pieces of black plastic and laying them atop the wallets. All but Sam.
Sam’s paused thumb slowly gathered attention. Braemon looked at it, not put-off but curious. Sam tried to sneak a peek at the others’ wallets but couldn’t make out what they were doing. What the hell were those black plastic cards?
Braemon’s eyes flicked from Sam’s thumb to his face.
“Got a fun idea,” he said. “I hear you’re a gambler, Archer. You wanna play credit card roulette?”
Sam looked at Sully, across the table. He’d been hatless all night, but Sam couldn’t help but picture him in a huge white hat, true to his Texan bearing.
“We all toss our cards in,” he explained. “Draw one at random. Then that person pays for everyone’s meal.”
Sam’s eyes flicked to the wallet in front of Sully. His card was jet black and read, American Express. It was a company Sam had heard of but so obscure that he couldn’t finger it without a search. But the name told him what he needed to know, from context: if these were credit cards, then they dispensed credits the same way a thumbprint scan would. A rich person’s status symbol, probably, eschewing the normal way of banking because they had enough money to be antiquated and backward.
“You’ve got a black AmEx, don’t you, Archer?” said Braemon.
“Of course,” Sam replied, fighting a resurgence of nerves — complete with screams from his AI’s behavioral assessments.
“So toss it in.”
“I’d rather not,” said Sam, affecting a casual air.
“Why not?”
He needed an answer that wasn’t Because this dinner costs more than a year’s rent. So he tried on a sly smile, cocked a thumb at Sully, and said, “I’ll die before I buy this asshole’s dinner.”
A returning smile from Sully. “Fuck you, Archer.”
“Come on, Latham,” said Braemon, still watching Sam. “Just looking at all those tattoos on your arms tells me you’re not pussy enough to back out on a thrill.” He cocked his head. “Unless, of course, you’re a bullshitter.”
A toothy smile was still on Braemon’s face. But it wasn’t all mirth.
“I forgot my card at home. I forgot this was the 1900s and that only old people would still want to pay with plastic.”
Was it plastic, or were the cards made of something else? And was his quip in-line? Sam had never been in a group this rich and powerful. Maybe paying with a physical card was a show of pride, and maybe his joke was out of line.
But the woman two down from Sully, Gloria, fished in her bag and chuckled. She came out with a black card like the others and tossed it on the table.
“Here, Archer.” She looked at her husband, seated beside her, who’d already laid down his own card to pay for both of them. “Use mine. They pull my card, you can pay with your thumbprint.”
Sam fought panic, smiled at Gloria, heart pounding in his temples, and said, “Thanks.”
Braemon gathered the cards and shuffled. He looked around the table at each person, making theatrical faces, but spent more time watching Sam than the others. Sam kept his eyes on the pile, wordlessly instructing his AI to keep track of Gloria’s card. But after a few seconds a man named Victor snatched the cards from Braemon and tossed them in a satchel fashioned from a large cloth napkin, accusing Braemon’s “cheating fingers” of tracking the cards same as Sam had been doing.
The cards went into the napkin. Victor shook it. Sam held his dumb, uncaring smile, his thoughts becoming a jumble of fear and red, screaming panic.
He’d never be able to afford dinner for ten. Not in a million years. He’d be exposed. The waiters would feign fault and offer Sam a dozen ways to pay, blaming their own equipment. But by the end, everyone would still know three things:
The tenth man was Sam Dial, not Archer Latham.
Archer Latham didn’t exist.
And, if it mattered, Sam Dial was dirt poor, bottom of the barrel.
Which wouldn’t matter if Braemon was a tenth as connected as Sam thought he was and if the secrets Sam was about to publish offended Braemon as deeply as Sam knew they would.
If that happened, it wouldn’t matter how embarrassed Sam was about being poor. Because it wouldn’t be long before he was dead, unmindful of social awkwardness.
Victor reached into the napkin bag and pinched out a single black card. He turned the front toward himself and read the name upon it.
“Quincy Dufresne,” he said.
Sam exhaled then closed his eyes briefly, willing his heart to slow. The entire table turned toward the slight man with the mustache and began making good-natured jibes, laughing and pointing.
Everyone but Craig Braemon, who’d been watching Sam throughout the roulette.
Sam allowed Veronica to pat his arm while Braemon’s eyes stayed on him. He allowed the bill to be paid, knowing he had train fare back to District Zero after all, without comment. He kept his face pleased while dinner broke up then again allowed Veronica to lead him out, whispering alluring thoughts in his ear.
But as soon as he could ditch his prospec
tive lover for the evening, Sam intended to. Then he planned to head back to District Zero — not tomorrow as planned, but immediately. He’d submit his article and evidence to the Sentinel…but somehow he now doubted it would see publication, once certain unseen forces intervened.
One look at Braemon’s eyes as Sam took his leave said that if he wanted to see many more days — not as an employed reporter, but as a living human being — he might want to start running. He might want to start hiding. And wherever the network was, he was suddenly sure there would be people eager to find him.
Before he and Veronica could slide into a hovercab outside the restaurant, Braemon’s big form appeared at the door, holding it open.
Sam looked up, hiding a swallow. When Braemon didn’t speak first, Sam said, “Thanks for inviting me, Craig.”
Braemon replied, “Thanks for coming…Archer.”
He closed the door, and Sam cued the cab’s AI to take them away, Braemon’s final words playing over and over in his head.
The pause before the big man spoke Sam’s fake name had, in Sam’s clanging memory, seemed hours long.
Chapter Six
Dominic sat in his office in the DZPD station, trying to ignore the Quark cops’ continued and helpful presence in the front room while Omar’s words ran through his head.
They can’t catch ghosts, Dom.
Dominic still didn’t understand Omar’s plan to infiltrate Craig Braemon’s security…and, in true Omar Jones fashion, he’d only told Dominic the bare minimum. Omar wasn’t withholding because he wanted power over Dominic or anything that might make sense. No, Omar was just a dramatic little cocksucker. Because he wanted to smile his weasel’s smile and wave some fucking magic wand: Presto, change-o, Dom…look how it all came together. That’s the magic of the Omar Way.
