by Sean Platt
But as he stared across the city, his arms behind his back per his brother’s usual posture, Isaac knew those cartoons and everything else to be unacceptable. He’d been mocked in public because he’d allowed it to happen. He’d sat back and taken it, never speaking up or striking back, never raising a fist or having the guts to tell the sheets his side of the story.
And now that he thought about it, he really did have a side, and it was a good one. He could reframe everything. Natasha really was a duplicitous, manipulative bitch. The sheets knew that; they’d been lampooning her for decades. Isaac merely had to play into it. He could make this look like a vindictive move on her part rather than a loss of control on his — and it would be easy because that’s exactly what it was. He merely had to pick up his testicles and contact a few journalists. He’d grant them an exclusive interview — and blow their fucking minds.
Natasha wanted to give Isaac the finger? Fine. Isaac could give it back.
Natasha wanted her concert to hurt Directorate and jeopardize Isaac’s position, but if Micah was telling the truth, neither Directorate nor Isaac were in any danger. It was all just smoke and mirrors. Natasha was waving at that smoke and trying to break a few of those mirrors, but none of it would matter if Isaac could keep his dignity. But on the flip side, he could do things to Natasha that weren’t smoke and mirrors. She’d only sell albums if she was respected and loved, but he could make her disrespected and loathed with just a few interviews.
He could make the world hate her. He could paint her as the self-serving, sellout bitch that she was. Soulful songstress? Please. Natasha Ryan was a washed-up loser.
Isaac stood straighter, now almost coming onto his toes. Yes. It was simply about making a decision. He had to see it first then live it second. He had to be it first, believe it afterward. It was all about Isaac. He had nothing left that he could actually lose. The biggest failed effort right now would leave him exactly where he already was, heading the Department of Internal Satisfaction, receiving an enormous dole, living at the top of the world in an admittedly inferior apartment due to that dumb hoverport that had been so in vogue when he’d bought it. And on the other hand, the smallest victory would paint Natasha as twisted, jaded, and damaged, out to screw the world and make more for herself.
She could fail. He could not. Not any more than he already had, anyway.
Isaac turned back into the apartment, suddenly realizing he felt better than he had in a long time. If everyone wanted to leave him hanging in the breeze, he’d make his own victory. He’d win back the press, and he’d win back some allies after that. Even Micah’s hoarded contacts would have to take notice. Rachel would see who deserved to head their grandfather’s company. Maybe Natasha (who was too cowardly to divorce him; she wanted his safety net beneath her even while extolling the virtues and risk of Enterprise life) would even come crawling back. He could spit at her if that happened, telling Natasha to go fuck herself. Let her divorce him if she wanted. Let her take half of what he owned. It wouldn’t matter because the world would hate her again by that time…and to Natasha, the world’s hate would be all that mattered.
“Canvas,” said Isaac.
There was a chirp.
“Give me a holo web here.” He gestured. “Search ‘Isaac Ryan.’ Give it to me straight. I can take it.”
The canvas answered. “I’m not sure what you mean about ‘give it to me straight,’ Isaac.”
“Don’t pull any punches.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
“Tell me the truth,” said Isaac.
“You requested a Beam search, Isaac. It is not a question of truth.”
Isaac felt a moment of irritation. No matter how smart AI became, it never understood figurative speech or drama. He supposed it would understand if he approached the request from its opposite end, asking the search to omit those results that made him look the worst, but for some reason it didn’t get that his request to not filter the results was a statement of strength. It should be offering him a fist-bump or slapping him on the back for finally stepping into his rightful power.
“Just give me the fucking web.”
The search web appeared in the room’s center, spiraling outward from a small blue holo dot. The full web was three meters tall and took up most of the space between the ceiling and the floor. Most people liked a web they could touch and manipulate, but Isaac liked to be able to step inside of his. One day, when Natasha was in the midst of winning one of their arguments, she’d said that he did it so he could stand in the middle of the insults while they pointed and laughed because that was where he was most comfortable.
Now, looking at the web, Isaac saw that the stories around him weren’t as bad as he’d thought they would be. He’d steeled himself for the worst, but as he dug into the web he remembered an absolute truth: The world doesn’t care about anyone. It was easy to feel like you were the center of the universe when you had an ego like Natasha’s or when things were going as poorly as they had been. Isaac had mostly avoided Beam news over the past few weeks, afraid to see all the hectoring fingers. But the world didn’t care enough to hate Isaac as fully as he’d imagined. There were Ball games for the NAU to obsess over; there were celebrities to stalk; there were issues to beat to death as Shift marched forward. Reports involving Isaac Ryan didn’t paint him as a hero, nor were they calling for his head. And there were only a handful, relatively speaking.
“This isn’t too bad,” he said.
The canvas, knowing his tendency to participate verbally in searches, answered. “No, Isaac.”
“They think I’m an asshole, but not in a major way.”
“I don’t see the words ‘Isaac’ and ‘asshole’ in any stories,” said the canvas.
“Well, that’s good. How about ‘Isaac’ and ‘weak’ in the same story?”
“I’m finding 11,361 matches in the past year.”
“Well, that’s less encouraging. How many published in the past month, pertaining to Shift?”
“Depending on criteria, I would say 342 matches.”
“And how many mention Natasha?”
“Only Natasha or…?”
“Me, Natasha, her decision to shift, and some judgment about me being weak or spineless or a big pussy or anything similar.”
“Depending on criteria, I would say ninety-eight.”
“Only ninety-eight? And we’re talking NAU-wide?”
“That figure does not include articles mentioning Natasha’s intention to shift and the judgment that she is making a proper decision.”
“If they don’t mention me, I don’t care,” said Isaac, buoyed. Then he stopped, an idea dawning. “How many contain the exact phrase ‘it’s about time’?”
“Fifty.”
“Hmm. Okay. Show me all of them. The ‘Isaac is a pussy’ ones and the ‘about time’ ones.”
The large web vanished. Isaac found himself facing two smaller webs, one at his right and another at his left.
“Show me overlap.”
The two globe-like holograms drifted together until they were touching. They pushed into each other, creating a shared wedge between them like a 3-D Venn diagram.
“Pull this out.” He pointed at the wedge. “Give me an analysis. Just the highlights.”
The webs’ non-overlapping segments vanished. The wedge expanded then stirred into a tiny cyclone. The whirl threw words, phrases, and images around, all shuffling as the AI processed. Most of this was part of the user interface and not strictly necessary for the AI, which could instantly crunch data. Isaac waited, watching.
“Short version,” Isaac said as it finished. “Plain language, not statistics.”
“The general impression, favored by approximately two-thirds of those who have offered a public opinion, is that Natasha’s shift to Enterprise is a good move and that you, Isaac, appear pathetic for allowing it occur.”
“Allowing it,” Isaac mumbled. As if it was something he could control.
“What does the other third say? Do they think she’s a whore cunt bitch for doing it?”
“Those opinions are mostly neutral on the debate and are eagerly anticipating Natasha’s upcoming album.”
Isaac nodded then swiped the hologram away with a large dismissive wave. It dissipated like smoke.
Two-thirds. The most hateful pieces out there only numbering in double digits. It could be much worse. Maybe the world wasn’t really against him. Maybe he hadn’t laid all of his cards on the table, or played his hand.
Yet.
Maybe there was still something he could do. Someone he could speak to. Someone who, given the surprising lack of anti-Isaac propaganda, might be willing to step in and put an end to Natasha’s bullshit after all. Someone who would listen to Isaac even without Micah making the connection, because Isaac wanted chaos, and chaos was his business.
“Canvas,” he said. “Put me back in the library simulation, and get me Aiden Purcell.”
Chapter 8
“Focus.”
York turned his eyes up to SerenityBlue, still looking like a very young version of his mother and nothing like Leah. As she sat at the foot of the bed he no longer strictly needed, her sheer white gown flowing around her, York almost wanted to believe that Leo and Leah were having him on. This was how she appeared. She was a real person, in a real place, with enough weight to sag the bed beneath her and enough presence to muss the covers. He could smell her, she blocked light from the window (the window that shouldn’t be there and must be some sort of a projection), and although she moved like a ghost, she did make sounds. Her gown rustled like silken leaves in springtime. When she set a glass of water on a table, it clinked and left a ring on the wood.
“I’m trying to focus,” he said.
“What is blocking you?”
“Just as I feel myself relaxing, someone says, ‘Focus.’”
Serenity smiled then closed her eyes. He took this as instructions to close his, and did. Again, as had been happening more and more, York saw something in the darkness. The ghost of a specter — something he could feel and sense as much as see. Like the feeling of being watched: impossible to put an objective finger on, but equally impossible to disbelieve.
“What do you see?”
“I keep telling you, I can’t describe it.”
“Only because you insist on describing it visually.”
“You’re asking me what I see.”
“Your eyes are not all that can see. We ‘saw’ you at the hospital, through The Beam. I see you now, with my eyes closed. Can you see me?”
York tried to concentrate, to see beyond the blackness and the thing that was almost there.
“No.”
He felt a sensation — like someone wrapping a hand around his mind, inside his skull, almost like a caress, but not at all tactile, touching each of his senses.
“How about now?”
“I felt something.”
“How did it feel? Answer quickly.”
York spoke without thinking: “Blue.” Then his eyes fluttered open, surprised. He watched as Serenity opened hers. They were emerald green.
“Did you see the color blue?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Maybe.”
“You felt blue.”
“It’s hard to describe.”
Serenity shrugged good-naturedly. “Apparently not. You described it very clearly as blue.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense.”
“And have you seen other things over the past weeks? Things that don’t make sense and yet clearly are?”
“Are what?”
“Are.”
“I don’t know.” York sighed. “This is exhausting.”
Serenity brushed lightly at the covers. York was in bed with his back against the headboard, sitting up, fully dressed. The bed had become his chair, but he was ready to leave this place. And as he’d told Leah earlier, he needed to leave. Someone had found him, and that someone was coming.
“That’s because you’re trying to rehabilitate a mind that has lain dormant for so long.” Serenity closed her eyes, and again he felt that internal embrace. She opened her lids again and said, “I can feel how tired that mind is. It will regain its strength in time. But that isn’t the only challenge your mind must face. You are trying to awaken to your former self, and at the same time become something more.”
“What am I ‘trying to become’?”
“I’m not sure. We saw you because we were searching for minds like yours. You show as bright nodes to us, like ghost lights in a dark sea. I did not know who you were. Now I do and can only suspect what might be waiting to be born. Leah told me that she believes the creators’ intention is resident in the network’s intelligence, and with that framework to lean on, I have to agree. You are not only a creator within the network, Stephen. You are one of the creators, and your mind, as it reconnects with its other half, is trying to become something new.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know yet. That’s why you must stay with us. So we can find out.”
“No.” York shook his head. “I have to go.”
“We can protect you. The walls here are thin. My children have begun to re-integrate their disparate selves. It gives this place great power.”
York shook his head. He wasn’t sure what she meant, but it didn’t matter. No matter how many colorful metaphors Serenity used, they didn’t change the truth that he’d been found. The solution wasn’t to stay on the network and hide. The solution was to move as far from the network as possible. You couldn’t be run over by a train when you were miles from the rails.
Serenity leaned forward and gently tapped his head. “There are still mysteries inside. We must unfold them.”
“I thought that’s what we were trying to do.”
“Not just the ghost you almost see, or feel, or hear, or touch, or taste, or smell, or sense. I mean the larger picture. The reunion. As I’ve said, you are important. We need to know why.”
York considered stretching the argument, but SerenityBlue never fought fair. She was air and wisps, and debating her felt like a back and forth with a pleasant but stubborn cloud. She wanted him to stay, and for him to unlock the thing she seemed to believe it was his destiny (or whatever) to unlock. York knew he couldn’t stay, and that he had to return to the Organa compound with Leah. It would be interesting to go back. He had only snippets of memory about the place from when he’d been locked inside Crumb, but in another sense it was home. It felt like the most familiar place in the world. Being off-grid was almost a bonus.
“Can you just help me with this one memory?” York said. “Maybe it will be like unraveling the first thread in a tapestry.”
Serenity gave him a small, genuine smile. “Feeding me metaphors doesn’t disguise the fact that you feel it’s all bullshit.”
York felt disarmed, hearing an angel swearing.
“I don’t think it’s…”
“Shh. Fine. We will work on your tapestry thread. Describe it again.”
“I can’t.”
“Don’t lock yourself into visuals,” she reminded him. “Describe what you see.”
“How can I describe something I can’t describe?”
“What is the name of the earliest childhood friend you can remember?”
York didn’t know what to make of her out-of-the-blue inquiry. “What?”
Serenity repeated the question.
“Charlie.”
“What color were the walls in your first home?”
“Peach.”
“What do you cook eggs in?”
“A pan.”
“With what?”
“Butter.”
“What does the impression in your head look like?”
“Slanted up, wooden, with a handle. Secret and high.”
SerenityBlue smiled at him. York stared back, his mouth slightly open. He’d just described something that defied description.
Maybe she wasn’t all hot air and metaphysical nonsense. Maybe he shouldn’t leave. But he had to.
“Like a trap door,” she said.
“No. It’s not a trap door. It’s…” He started to close his eyes, but she rested her hand on his leg to stop him.
“It’s a sense, not a sight. Don’t try to see it. You’re attempting to recall an impression of something deep within you. Something that wants to assert itself from old memories, probably because it matters now, or will soon. Something pressing, trying hard to squeeze forward. If I had to guess, it has to do with the reason you seem to believe that you’ve been discovered, and need to flee.”
York tried to tether two and two.
The answer seemed obvious, but also wrong.
“I feel I’ve been found. The door and the handle. A hiding place? Like I need to find a place to hide? The Organa compound? That’s okay because that’s what I want to do: to go there.”
“Too literal. I feel your mind trying to fit ill-matched pieces. The mind speaks in symbols.”
“Isn’t a trap door a symbol of a hiding place?”
“I can feel the insistence,” she said. “You already feel that you have a hiding place. Why would it be yelling so loudly to be heard if you have solved the problem already?”
This made York’s head hurt. He sighed.
“Keep at it, Stephen. This is like grasping at an unruly thread. Or trying to hold onto a dream before it slides off into nothing. You’ve pinched something out with your fingers. Yield now, and it will slide back down. You’ll lose it. Maybe forever. This is the closest you’ve come to seeing the edge of what has been haunting you since you first told me about it days ago.”
“But I can’t see it.”
“You can,” Serenity insisted. “Slanted up. Wooden. With a handle. Secret and high.”
“Like an attic door.” He shook his head. “No. That’s not it. It’s not even close.”
