The Beam: Season Three

by Sean Platt

  He’s just the face man this time, Isaac. The fundraiser’s true host doesn’t want to be seen.

  Maybe this was one time when being kept in the dark was a good thing. Maybe Purcell had only given him the Vale order because he wanted Isaac out of the way when the truly important events unfolded. Because as far as Isaac had heard, the idea of a host-behind-the-host was new information. And if Braemon wasn’t really in charge, how much of what was supposed to happen at the event wouldn’t be orchestrated? How much wouldn’t be a show…like one Directorate figurehead making an impotent move against another?

  Yes. It all made sense. There’s no way Purcell meant for Isaac to kill the Directorate president. How could he have thought that was his mission? If Purcell wanted someone dead, he wouldn’t need to hand the task to someone like Isaac. Not that he’d even trust Isaac to get the job right. Surely, Purcell meant for Isaac to fuck it all up. To botch the job. To wimp out. To not try. To give up. All of those things were, in the world’s eyes, hallmarks of Isaac Ryan.

  So he had nothing to worry about. He should simply forget it.

  Or not. There was no way to know.

  Natasha entered the bedroom. She was wearing her thinnest nightgown, red hair spilling across her narrow shoulders. She approached Isaac from behind and wrapped her hands around him. The hands were high, and for a second he thought she must have learned the truth and was about to strangle him. But she only adjusted his tie.

  “You look good in this.”

  Isaac supposed he should reply that Natasha looked good in the almost-nothing she was wearing as well, but he couldn’t push the words past his lips. For one, his guilt had doubled since Purcell’s veiled threats about the state of their marriage. And for two, his mind was on murder.

  Natasha came around in front of him, sat on the bed, and patted the comforter.

  “What?”

  “Come to bed.”

  “Like this?”

  Natasha seemed to think he was being playful. She looked his tuxedo over and said, “If you like.”

  “I’m still dressed.”

  “Get undressed.”

  “I was going to.”

  Natasha looked like she was resisting an eye roll. Isaac didn’t used to be this terrible at the dance that was happening. But when was the last time they’d had a honeymoon in their long relationship? When was the last time Natasha had tried to be seductive? They weren’t spring chickens. There were times when Isaac sometimes wondered if nanobots could truly reverse aging after all. They halted bodily decay and kept their hosts young, but there were plenty of days when Isaac remembered that he and Natasha were both in their eighties. Pops hadn’t lived to be much older than Natasha was now, and he’d been shriveled, all drooping skin. The thought, centered on his young-looking wife, wasn’t arousing.

  “Okay. Go ahead. Get your PJs on,” she said.

  “Are you making fun of me?”

  “A little.” Natasha smiled, and Isaac forced himself to relax. There was too much to think about, but none of it involved Natasha. In a twisted way, his fraudulent save at the club had been the first peace offering between them. There was no point in spoiling it. Natasha wasn’t to blame for Aiden Purcell and his maddening power play. She wasn’t responsible for his obligation to be part of Jameson Gray and Micah’s stupid show, even though she would share the stage with them.

  Isaac untied his tie then slipped off his coat and shirt. He caught his reflection in the mirror and realized he was attractive. He didn’t normally realize it because he was shit upon so often, but he’d had all the same nano treatments as Micah. He had the broad chest, the muscled arms, the young face. A bit weak in the chin, perhaps, but a good catch nonetheless.

  Isaac removed and hung his slacks. As he was stowing the tux for tomorrow, he felt a jab at his rear. He turned to see Natasha poking his boxers — white with large blue polka dots.

  “Nice shorts.”

  “These are my normal boxers. I have, like, fifty pairs.”

  Now the eye roll came. “Oh, I know.”

  “Do you really want to do this thing tomorrow?” he asked.

  “The fundraiser? Sure.”

  “Why?”

  “It’ll be fun.”

  Isaac sat, feeling naked. But it hardly mattered; Natasha was nearly nude in her gown. It should have been arousing. Instead, it felt like an amiable negotiation.

  “I doubt that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A bunch of windy ass bags shaking hands and talking politics? And I don’t even know Craig Braemon.”

  “I don’t know him either,” Natasha said. “That’s not the point. It’s a party, Isaac.”

  Isaac reached over and took Natasha’s hand. “I have an idea. Instead of going to that gathering of stiffs, let’s head out of town. Catch a rail to District Two. Recreate the night we met.”

  Natasha’s face seemed to melt into a touched smile. He didn’t realize her fabricated features could still move so fluidly. She almost seemed like the all-natural girl he’d fallen in love with.

  She squeezed his hand. “That’s so sweet.”

  “What do you say? We did it in an immersion, but we could do it for real.” He gestured toward the closed Tomorrow Closet. “My tux is ready.”

  “I love the idea. Let’s do it next weekend.”

  “Or we could do it tomorrow.”

  “We have the Braemon thing tomorrow.”

  Isaac tried on a devil-may-care smile, sure he was failing to pull it off. “That’s why I’m suggesting tomorrow.”

  She gave him a patient look. “I love the idea. I really do. But we can’t no-show. We’re expected. Micah is counting on us.”

  “He’ll survive.”

  “Jameson is counting on us.”

  Isaac sighed.

  “Besides, it’s for a good cause. And the parties need some solidarity. Jameson and I have been practicing hours and hours, even after you’re done practicing with us. I’m sure Micah’s been doing the same. It’s make-peace, Isaac. After all the fighting this year, the sheets need to see us all together, poking fun at one another, showing the country that in the end the whole NAU is in this as one. I mean, why do you think President Vale is coming?”

  Isaac almost choked on his tongue. He coughed, “Vale is coming?”

  “You didn’t know? Micah told me. He said a friend of his was talking to President Vale and told him all about our little magic trick: Shift’s loser being a good sport by making the winner disappear. He thought it was funny, a clever idea for sparking unity.”

  “But he’s Directorate! Braemon is Enterprise!”

  “You’re Directorate, Isaac.”

  Isaac had to fight not to shout. “I know I’m Directorate. But I’m just there as comic relief, for Micah’s little magic show. It’s still an Enterprise event.”

  “It’s for the Violet James Foundation, not Enterprise or Directorate.”

  “Oh, come on. It’s Enterprise posturing, and we all know it. Holy West, why the hell would Vale come?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “It’s not his party!”

  Natasha looked at Isaac with her eyebrows slightly raised. It was an assessing gesture — the one she usually used when deciding just how big of an impotent asshole Isaac actually was. But then the eyebrows lowered, and her gaze softened again. Natasha held his bare arm, leaning her head against his shoulder.

  “It’s just a few hours. We can keep it brief then make our excuses.”

  But Isaac was still thinking of Vale. And of a growing certainty that when Isaac arrived, someone would bump into him and deliver new orders. Or possibly a sharp knife, or poison.

  “Besides,” Natasha said, “Shelly will be there. She sent me a message saying there’s something we really need to talk about.”

  “Shelly?”

  “Shelly Godfrey.”

  “Who’s Shelly Godfrey?”

  Natasha lay back. Her gown, in the overhead light
, seemed especially sheer. Maybe she was getting as tired of this conversation as he was. Of course they were going to the event, so why keep discussing it? After all, some person Isaac had never even heard of was going to be there.

  “You don’t remember Shelly? She used to be security coordinator whenever I went on tour. Tall. Blonde?” Natasha’s eyes formed jokingly defensive slits, and she added, “Absolutely stunning.”

  “No.”

  “She left a few years ago. I haven’t seen her in ages.”

  “Oh.” Isaac had lost interest. He was considering permitting an erection. Other people had sex with their wives, so why not?

  “She works for the police now. Same basic coordinator position, I imagine.”

  “Hmm.” He lay back.

  “Ever since that whole thing at The Sap, she’s been trying to hook up, but we can never sync our schedules. I guess all it took to remind her of me was trying to save my life in a riot.”

  Isaac sat up on his elbows, his heart thumping.

  “Of course,” Natasha said, sitting up to join him and drawing circles on his chest with a long finger, “my hero had already shown up to save me.”

  Isaac met Natasha’s eyes. “She was with the police group that came to The Sap riot?”

  Natasha nodded, uninterested.

  “Why does she want to meet with you all of a sudden? What’s so important that she can’t just tell you over a connection, or leave a message?”

  “We used to be good friends, Isaac. We’d like to sit and have a drink.”

  “Tomorrow. Tomorrow, you need to have this drink.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Why now?”

  “Shelly says she wants to tell me the story behind the riot. ‘Something I positively must hear.’”

  Isaac felt his eyes widen. His heart was beating so hard and so loud, it was impossible to believe she couldn’t hear it. He needed a moment to remember how to formulate words, because leave it to Natasha — she’d finally made him forget all about Purcell’s dirty assignment. Now he couldn’t think of anything but Shelly Godfrey, her position with the riot squad that had dispatched that night, and a secret she was dying to tell her old friend, in person, without her husband around to hear, about how the riot had truly gone down. And, maybe, who’d actually been responsible.

  “Let’s ditch the fundraiser,” Isaac said, hearing his words come out warbling and weak. “Let’s take a rail to District Two.”

  Natasha’s fingers slid beneath Isaac’s hair, turning what had to be a mask of horror and shock to meet her deep green eyes.

  “Come down here,” she said, “and kiss me.”

  Episode 17

  Chapter One

  October 3, 2081 — Grid-Neutral Appalachian Territories

  Crumb was counting prime numbers, kicking at the dirty floor, thinking about the squirrels.

  The squirrels seemed interesting for a while, but then they moved on to their tree-bound homes, or the ground, or wherever squirrels lived. Where did they live, anyway? Crumb thought he might once have known the answer to that question. Or maybe, the answers to many others. Different questions with difficult answers. What those questions and answers might have been, Crumb had no idea. All he knew was that the perimeter needed guarding and that seven became eleven became thirteen became seventeen.

  Pick at the edges. Keep the loose ends close. Recite what you find to keep it fresh. Your mind will do the rest.

  What did that mean? And did it matter?

  Crumb looked down at his hands. There was no knife in them, or grinding stone to hone its edge. And yet he’d been so sure that he’d been sharpening a knife.

  After a moment of looking down at his empty hands, Crumb felt the knife’s invisible, nonexistent edge growing dull. He needed to keep sharpening it, but that was tricky if it didn’t exist.

  Eventually, he forgot about the knife, and his mind returned to the numbers. Somehow, after he’d resumed counting, his worries about the dulling edge faded away.

  Nineteen. Twenty-three. Twenty-nine.

  Crumb sat on the stone wall, feeling the numbers like tangible things, sure in a distant way that continuing to keep those numbers close was every iota as important as guarding the village perimeter and keeping an eye on the squirrels. As vital as watching the sky for intruders and keeping an eye out for invading Indian braves, like in Leo’s movie.

  Thirty-one. Thirty-seven.

  Stephen.

  Forty-one.

  Stephen.

  Crumb looked up. Someone was interrupting his important work. He looked at the twin fenced pastures and the rutted dirt path between them. There was a single horse in each pasture. Was that a coincidence? Crumb thought not. He was wearing boots today. Sometimes, there were balloons in the air.

  Forty-three. Forty-seven.

  Stephen.

  “Shh,” Crumb said. “Important work. Vital. Can’t be interrupted.”

  But again, nobody was there. Nobody speaking, and nobody they might be speaking to. It was just Crumb. Crumb and the perimeter. Crumb and the blue sky and the few clouds that looked like animals and the perimeter, and Leo was counting on him out here, and Dominic, from the city, who’d passed not long ago and was with Leo now. Dominic, who might be his friend, who carried the spark.

  Crumb looked back down at his feet, but was now only acting. The interrupter was still around, and Crumb knew how to get him to reveal himself. He had to pretend a return to important work, without taking his attention from the perimeter. Because it was threatened.

  Stephen.

  Crumb looked up. There was a man directly in front of him. Interestingly, the man didn’t have feet. He just kind of ended before reaching the ground. He didn’t seem to have a body, either. Not like Crumb’s. If Crumb were to gather some nuts and throw them at the man, those nuts would probably fly through him and hit the ground beyond. Crumb wished he had some nuts. Because it was something worth trying.

  I know you’re in there, Steve.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Crumb snapped at the strange hovering man. He had no business floating here. No business at all. He wondered if Leo would be proud if he apprehended the man or made him go away. The only question was how. He’d once seen a cartoon, from Leo’s library, where a mouse had frozen a ghost, and that had given the ghost substance enough to contend with. Maybe Crumb could do something similar.

  Or maybe Crumb could let Gregory deal with the newcomer. He could see Gregory now, coming in from one of the paths that went down between the hills that looked like breasts. Gregory was large. The man in front of Crumb was not. He looked like an accountant. Quiet, neat hair. Small round glasses.

  Crumb watched the man who hadn’t responded to his demand to identify himself and decided to simply hold his attention. That would be Crumb’s job. To keep the stranger distracted until Gregory’s arrival. He was coming now, on a brown horse named Tim or Tom, or actually, Crumb had no idea what the horse’s name might be.

  “Morning, Crumb,” Gregory said.

  “The perimeter is threatened. Noah fucking West!”

  “Okay, Crumb.”

  Then he rode Tim or Tom through the floating stranger toward the village center.

  After Gregory was gone, Crumb locked eyes with the strange, placid-faced floating man without real feet. The man looked back, seeming to say, Now you see the score, pilgrim.

  Crumb almost opened his mouth to speak a time or two, but whenever his lips began to part, something inside his memory tickled, from the same place as the numbers he counted over and over. From the same place as the voice that kept telling Crumb to pick at the edges, keep loose ends close and recite because his mind would do the rest.

  You do recognize me, don’t you? the man asked.

  “Noah fucking West,” Crumb said.

  Instead of asking again who Crumb thought he was, the man nodded. Crumb could see a swaying tree through his ghostly head. Maybe he’d grown tired of playing this game. If Crumb didn�
��t recognize him, maybe now he was okay with it.

  You don’t have access to much, I know, the man said, but it’s still there. I promise.

  Crumb almost asked what was “still there,” but instead he went for the issue’s throat.

  “How the fuck do you know that?”

  I can see it. I can see the wall. It’s intact. But there is interplay — because there was meant to be.

  “Who are you?”

  What you’re doing, you’re doing right, the man told Crumb.

  “It’s threatened. The squirrels.”

  I promise, Stephen, that it will all be okay in the end. And I’m sorry.

  “Are you from the government?” Crumb asked.

  The floating ghost-man seemed to ignore him. I don’t have long, he said.

  “Why the hell not?”

  The firewall has a few intentional leaks. But I had to make it convincing, so it detects and repairs. I couldn’t get it approved if it had obvious holes that lasted.

  “Get it by who?” Crumb demanded.

  Ironically, by you, the ghost answered.

  Crumb was becoming annoyed by all this doubletalk. He decided to make the man go away, the way he could sometimes make other odd things go away when they came in the night. Sometimes, there were incursions. Sometimes, there was a kind of noise. The trick was to ignore and not fight it then turn your back.

  Crumb turned around on the stone wall. But when he looked up in the opposite direction, the man was still there, now behind the left-side fence.

  “Why are you here?”

  The temporary leak was activated when Captain Long passed you.

  “You know Dominic?”

  Part of me knows him.

  “Why don’t you talk to him?”

  Because I’m not in him, Stephen. This part of me is in you. If you focus, you’ll remember. You’ll see. Can you see, if you focus?