by Sean Platt
“Behind the story that’s behind the story,” Gibson said. He pointed to the red square. “And off the record. What’s really going on here? You’re the kind of source I’d normally have to chase, and be refused by nine times out of ten. And even if you did meet me, you’re the kind of source who’d speak in the most vague, least helpful generalizations. Sound bites and slogans. Yet you came to me out of the blue and have told me things that have quite literally made the hair on my arms stand on end.”
Gibson extended an arm to show Nicolai. No hairs appeared to be standing, but Nicolai was willing to grant artistic license.
Nicolai considered. He’d come this far. He’d requested anonymity. There were plenty of things he didn’t want to say and plenty of things that wouldn’t be right to breathe aloud. He had his allegiances, and Micah Ryan owed him (and Kai, for that matter) promises that hadn’t yet been fulfilled. It hurt a little to admit it, but perhaps the biggest reason Nicolai was unwilling to play the Beau Monde card with Gibson was that he still hoped to join it. He wanted to be one of the superior members of society. He didn’t want equity. He merely wanted to be part of the group who held all that inequity because he and his family had earned it, and he intended to collect what was coming.
But he’d gone halfway down one particular rabbit hole, and there were still rabbits to be dragged from it even as others kept sleeping.
“What have you heard about Carter Vale?” said Nicolai.
“Same as the rest of the world,” Gibson answered. “He was a senator before taking the Directorate presidency. Officially, he really only began existing two months ago, when President Quince resigned. Don’t tell me you have insights into the senators. Because that’s the kind of thing that’ll make me have to turn my recorder back on.”
Nicolai shook his head. Nobody knew the identities of the 101 senators, nor anything about them. They were conduits for the population’s collective will, as measured by mean hive mind data culled from the members of the parties they represented and hence were portrayed as having no distracting wills or personalities of their own. The Senate had originally been modeled after an old American system known as the Electoral College, but the senators’ functions were more call-and-response, almost like puppets whose strings were pulled by half of the population at once.
“No, of course not. But I do know, based on things Isaac has said, that the Directorate considers Vale to be a stroke of luck for the party. And I also know, based on what I hear from the Enterprise side, that Enterprise considers him a threat.”
“How?” said Gibson.
“When I visited Rachel Ryan, she asked me what would happen if Enterprise gained Senate majority at Shift. It made me realize that for the first time in decades, it might really happen.”
“I very seriously doubt it.” Gibson shook his head. “How many people do you know who have what it takes to succeed in Enterprise?”
The question was loaded because Gibson was Enterprise, and he knew that Nicolai was shifting — and had surely gotten the impression that Nicolai had wanted to for a very long time. Few people had “what it took” on a practical level, which was why the ghettos swam with failed artists, upside-down entrepreneurs, and loser idealists who’d gambled on themselves and ended up poorer than destitute without the Directorate safety net. But that wasn’t the question.
“It doesn’t matter how many people will succeed in Enterprise,” Nicolai said. “What matters is how many people think they will succeed. It’s about hope and optimism, not reality. You’ve seen the way things have gone in the last few weeks. I’ve been inside it. I’ve seen panic from the Directorate leaders. You’re right; Directorate is never, ever supposed to lose majority. The idea that more than half of the Union would feel confident enough to try Enterprise for the next six years, foregoing Directorate social services and a secure dole, is ludicrous. But the polls and Beam neurals suggest it might happen.”
Gibson shook his head. “I’ve heard the rumors. But it’s not possible.”
“That’s not what Isaac thinks. It’s not what Micah thinks, either. And if you’d heard the way Rachel — who I suspect knows more than she strictly should — asked me that question, you’d know it’s not what she thinks, either. Enterprise is planning, and Directorate is bracing. Rest assured, if all goes as it has been, Enterprise will win Senate majority. And then we’ll need to answer Rachel’s question.” He cleared his throat. “Rachel’s knowing question.”
“If Enterprise wins, they’ll ratify beem currency,” Gibson answered.
Nicolai nodded. “Among other things. But what will beem do? Think about it. Ratification will turn a geek’s hobby into a legit, tradable currency, based in nullspace.”
“So?”
“It’ll give everyone a chance to be Enterprise. There’s no risk. Even Directorate will be able to play. They can have their Directorate cake and eat it — ‘it’ being a taste of Enterprise ventures — too.”
“Again: So?”
“What happens when the entire country begins to think like Enterprise?”
“I don’t see where you’re going with this,” said Gibson.
“It’s training,” said Nicolai, recrossing his legs. “It’s training the way people think. Beem will let you try on your own terms and fail on your own terms. It’s subtle, but everyone who wants to will learn by doing, with no risk.”
Nicolai could see that Gibson was confused, but he had seen the look in Rachel Ryan’s eyes, and Gibson hadn’t. Rachel wasn’t confused, and Rachel wasn’t speculating. Rachel was planning, and she was planning in the way a puppeteer plans. She thought it was all quite funny, the way the puppets danced at the end of her strings, thinking they were free. But the way she’d asked about Enterprise and beem had left Nicolai with chills and had made him wonder what might happen if the entire union were trained, over time, to believe that those who succeeded deserved their success…and that those who failed deserved to fail.
“What does that have to do with Carter Vale?” said Gibson.
“He’s everyman. He’s charismatic. Enterprise is worried that he’ll woo enough people back to Directorate to allow Directorate to keep the Senate.”
“Okay.”
“You asked why I’m here? Unofficially? Off the record, why I came to you?” Nicolai shrugged. “I’ll admit that the axe I have to grind against the Ryan family — all three of them — was the spark. But the timing has more to do with Shift, and my growing impression that it’s all just a game.”
“Sure.” Gibson looked tired. Nicolai was a valuable source, but he may have pushed too far, taxing his host’s patience. Gibson could only say so much in his relatively mainstream writings, and Nicolai’s giving him unusable backstory was therefore only so worth hearing — especially when it began to sound like conspiracy. As Nicolai watched, the writer’s expression added a codicil to his simple affirmative: So what do you want from me?
“Look, I know you’re lining up other books. The one about the sex industry and O…”
“It’s not about O. If it’s about anyone, it’s about the Youngs. Although if you can tell me anything about Alexa Mathis and help me make Sex 2.0 more about O…”
“But you also write about politics,” Nicolai interrupted.
“Opinion pieces. Not investigative ones.”
“You could weigh in, though, based on what I’ve said. You could weigh in in a way that casts doubt on Micah Ryan and Enterprise and suggests an appreciation of Carter Vale.”
“I thought you were on Team Enterprise.” There was now a slight edge to Gibson’s voice, and Nicolai wondered if the writer was taking this personally. Gibson, who made his living from book royalties, was firmly on Team Enterprise. He wanted more Enterprise senators in the Directorate-dominated Senate. He wanted more of the senators reflecting his part of the collective will.
“I’m on Team Enterprise for me, yes, and for you. But not for the majority.” Then he said what was really bothering him: “Especial
ly not if Rachel Ryan wants it.”
“You said Vale was swinging things back toward Directorate anyway.”
“More help never hurt.”
Now Gibson looked closed. He was leaning back with crossed arms and legs. He watched Nicolai for a long moment, his sense of fascination at the Chunnel tale now mostly gone.
“I don’t get you, Mr. Costa,” he finally said.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve given me hours of information that I can’t use. It’s okay; the same thing happened with a great source I had for Plugged. But my other source was flaky, and so when he overdelivered and I underreported and he became annoyed and began pestering me, I understood it. You, on the other hand, are different. You’re the opposite of flaky, and I can’t shake the impression that you’re using me.”
Nicolai started to balk.
“You don’t want credit for you or your father,” Gibson went on. “You’re not forbidding me to cite you, but that’s okay because there’s nothing to cite. It’s all ‘FYI.’ Now we’re off-record, but you’re basically asking a favor. A favor, I’ll add, that would have me writing against my own party.”
“Questioning, not necessarily criticizing,” Nicolai corrected. “And like me, you’re in Enterprise for financial and ideological reasons, not political ones.”
“And yet,” Gibson argued, “your real motivations seem to be political.”
But that wasn’t true. Nicolai’s motivations were personal, not political. If what he and Kai had seen over the past week had taught him anything, it was that politics was a stage show. The true divisions were up and down, not left and right. It didn’t matter if you were Enterprise or Directorate. You were either Beau Monde, or you weren’t, and Nicolai’s growing impression was that the distinction amounted to being on a train that was about to depart or being left behind at the station. He wanted to be Beau Monde when the train fell into motion, and he wanted Kai onboard beside him. Politics was a means to an end. And yes, that did seem to make him a bit of a son of a bitch, but if it did, he was at least an honest son of a bitch. One who’d earned his seat, and might be able to help steer. And yes, it did mean that there was a certain amount of “using” involved…Gibson included.
Nicolai sighed. He’d always paved the way for himself first then had invited others to come with him only as long as they could keep up. It wasn’t selfish; it was extreme leadership. Enzo had been welcome to escape with him during the school riot right up until the fool had mouthed off, at which point he’d have been on his own anyway even if he hadn’t gotten himself killed. During his time with the crews in the East, Nicolai had allied with those who could get him where he needed to go then struck off on his own when those ways parted — again, always inviting worthy companions to come along if there were any. Today, it was all about Nicolai and Kai. It could be about Sterling too…but only if he would do what it took, like a true Enterprise thinker eventually must.
“You’re right,” said Nicolai. “You have what I’ve told you. Use it however you’d like.” He started to rise, but then Gibson’s posture changed. His body language moved away from offended and closed, as if he’d just realized that he, too, may have pushed too far.
“Wait,” said Gibson.
Nicolai paused, halfway up, his hands pushing against the chair’s arms. He straightened fully, meeting the author’s wide eyes.
“I can use it,” said Gibson. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“And if you do find out anything about Alexa Mathis? You run in high circles. I hear she’s still around, and if she is, ‘high circles’ are where she’d be. If you’re willing to share, I mean. I know you’re not a snitch. Only if it makes sense. I keep coming up dry. It’s like she’s been erased, as if O operates as a ghost ship.”
“Of course,” said Nicolai. The interview, so friendly in its first half, had adopted an oddly adversarial tone. Nicolai didn’t want to part on bad terms any more than Gibson seemed to. They were the same type of person, and in Nicolai’s opinion, theirs was a type the world always needed more of. He smiled. Gibson smiled back.
“And one more thing,” said Gibson.
Nicolai waited.
“If you need to get word out? The kind of word that’s more…‘controversial,’ say…than I’m officially willing to be…”
“You know someone I can contact?” Nicolai asked, reading Gibson’s face.
“Better,” said Gibson. “I know someone who contacted me just today, asking how he could contact you.”
Chapter 3
York entered Leo’s hut-like house in the Organa village and took a long look at the old man. It was the first time he’d been alone with Leo in several days. Now that he was, what was happening with Leo was obvious.
“How long, Leo?”
“How long until what?” Leo had a thin veneer of calm across his face, but York could see the way his fingertips were flexed on the chair’s arms, clinging, as if he thought his seat might be stolen.
“How long since your last Lunis fix?”
Leo sighed. It looked like all of a sudden he’d simply given up. “Not long. But I’m at a deficit. I’ve been trying to wean myself.”
“Not a good idea,” said York.
“Why not?”
“In a normal human brain, there are all sorts of neural pathways that become entrenched through daily activity. In a highly connected brain, some of those pathways atrophy as the brain becomes efficient about what it’s asked to do and inefficient about what other minds in the hive have learned to do for it. There’s a kind of neurological panic that occurs when those ill-used pathways are suddenly required again. Lunis bridges the gaps and lets you get by. The downside is that what’s underneath just atrophies further. Your brain is weak, Leo. There’s a good chance it can’t take what you’re trying to ask of it.”
Leo nodded. “I know that, I guess. I used to be a biology teacher.”
“So why are you weaning?”
“I don’t like the dependence. I don’t like that I’m reliant on something that I have to take every day just to be normal. Once upon a time, I was just a regular guy. I didn’t need Lunis, and I didn’t need The Beam.”
York chuckled. “Weren’t we all.” His smile fell as he watched Leo’s struggle, his small movements betraying him. They’d done studies on Lunis and Lunis dependency back at Quark. The results were as fuzzy in York’s mind as the rest of his recall, but as an impression he seemed to remember a feeling that was hot and blood red. “But you’re addicted now, Leo. You can’t just go off of it.”
“A mind can be made strong again.”
“Maybe. But I’ve heard — and I seem to remember, though it’s hard to put a finger on it with my own ‘not so strong’ mind — that withdrawal can make users violent.”
Leo nodded.
“Because of the panic,” York added.
Leo nodded again. He’d stood, but he looked uncertain on his feet. He didn’t look like he might fall or swoon but did appear not to know what to do with his body. It was like there were too many variables. How should he hold his legs? How should he hold his hips? What should he do with his swinging arms? So York sat, hopefully leading Leo to do the same. Put the man’s body back in a box, and he might be able to focus. Slowly, Leo did.
“You should go to a detox, Leo.”
“I’m not the only one going off it.”
“Everyone trying to quit should go to a detox.”
“It’s the whole village.” Leo hung his head. “The whole goddamned lot of us.”
York felt his own spark of panic.
“Why would they do that?”
“We’re low,” said Leo.
“How low?”
“Very. Dominic supplies us. He brought a small emergency pack, but it was supposed to bridge us to a big shipment. Apparently, that big shipment was held up on the moon. It won’t be here anytime soon, and in that time, we’re going to run dry. I started w
eaning when I saw the writing on the wall a while ago and knew that, for me at least, it was about more than surviving a drought. It bothered me that Lunis had me so tightly by the neck. I should have told the others days ago. Weeks, even. We should have all begun cutting down. They would have had an easier time of it if they’d already begun, and what we had would have lasted longer.”
“Jesus Christ, Leo.”
“It’s going to get bad, isn’t it?”
“I think so. Do you know how sometimes you’ll be afraid in the dark for no reason, like you think something is watching you that you can’t see? It’s an animal kind of fear, tied to the amygdala if I remember right. Like an intense feeling of dread.”
“Is there anything we can do?”
“I’m not a Lunis specialist. Offhand, I’d say your best bet is not to try and fight through it unprepared, but to find a way to get more.”
“We can’t get more. Not for a while.”
York looked at Leo. He was breathing and waiting for the uncomfortable moment to pass. It was an impossible conversation to have. The village was fucked. There was nothing anyone could do. The truth hung between them like a bomb.
“Tell me about who you really are…Steve,” said Leo, forcing a change in subject as they stared in futility’s eye.
“Leo…”
“Please just tell me. We can sit here and talk about how exactly Lunis withdrawal is going to screw us or how bad the inevitable will be, or we can try to be civil while we pretend we’ve got a chance…for at least a little while.”
York shook his head. “I can’t remember most of the details, Leo. I’m sorry. My mind…well, I don’t know if it’s gone or just hiding. I keep waiting to get my memories back, but most of the memories I have are still of my years as Crumb. It’s cruel. I seem to have had this amazing life, yet my most vivid memories are of eating cereal and thinking about squirrels.”
“Okay. Tell me about why you’re back in the village then.”
