by J Bennett
“Now we’re ready,” he says. I wonder for the hundredth time why Sequoia chose me to be on his arm. Mermaid was obvi the better pick. She would have matched, even exceeded the beauty of many of the women around us. I’m also certain she could float in heels instead of staggering along like a lummox.
Sequoia gently pulls me forward through the door, our cam drone following just behind. We enter a security room where a female-like robo in a pristine white suit and book-patterned tie greets us. Sequoia gives his name and mine. No point in using pseudonyms. The robo asks me to hold back the curtain of beads while a second cam drone buzzes overhead, recording our faces and matching them against gov records.
We are officially committed now.
The robo smiles. “Welcome to the auction,” she says. “Please, one personal camera drone per person. We ask that you not record other guests without their permission or request selfies. Here is your paddle.” She pulls one from a pile sitting on the table. “Please place your thumb on the sensor pad to connect it to your profile. If you should like to bid on an item, simply hold up your paddle and tap the sensor pad again. This will initiate your bid. We hope you have a wonderful time and thank you for supporting the Boys and Girls Outside Group.
The door on the other side of the room slides open.
And here we are, walking into a grand open room filled with light, music, and richies. My heels click on the polished marble floor and lights shine through the latticework of glass and trusses from the ceiling above. The tinkle of soft music bounces around the walls and crowds of people flutter throughout the room.
This crowd makes me itchy. They really shouldn’t let so many people gather in one place. Then I remember that we aren’t in Biggie LC anymore. In Chicago, they don’t have to worry about Evil Santa’s lunatic elves snatching citizens away in red felt bags or Shadow slipping out of the darkness to wreak havoc.
The beads of my headpiece clink as my gaze swivels from side to side. There must be a few Captains here, the men, women, and nonbinaries who control our biggest industries and gladly take the majority of the money they generate.
Bright holo-screens splash the walls showcasing the items to be auctioned, including the top item of the night, some ruby ring from the British monarchy. Ever since the U.K. inexplicably voted themselves off the global stage they’ve slowly slid into irrelevance and destitution. Their kings and queens have been hawking the family jewels one by one for decades.
Another screen shows depressing stats about VR addiction.
“Over 62% of teenagers spend four or more hours in virtual reality every day,” a narrator claims. “24% spend more than eight hours in virtual reality a day on average, and every year over 6,000 teens die of VR exhaustion, a condition now recognized by the World Health Organization.”
I wonder how many hours my brother, Alby spends in VR. Too long. I shudder and force my mind off him. I need to gain my bearings. This room is similar to what Sequoia built for our VR practice simulation but it feels so much bigger in person. The music is louder, the lights brighter. The smell of perfume and aftershave and body mist are almost a physical cloud.
All around us, people move into small clumps while short, bullet-shaped robos with arms roll through the crowd offering up trays of hor d'oeuvres and flutes of champagne. Each robo wears a sleek bowtie and glows with subdued patterns, polka-dots, zebra stripes, autumn leaves, and more.
I snatch up a glass of champagne, just for something to hold. We’ve got a little time to kill, and I’m feeling my caterpillar nature more acutely than ever.
“What do we do at these things?” I mutter to Sequoia.
“You wander around, drink champagne, see who’s here, and try to talk to someone slightly more important than you,” he responds grimly.
“Well, everyone is more important than me, so I guess I have a lot of new friends to make.”
Sequoia is quiet a moment and then he says roughly, “You might find that most people won’t prefer to be friends with you.”
And now that he says it, I immediately understand. Even as the people around us laugh and murmur, their eyes dart from face to face searching for a bigger fish to corner. When Sequoia and I pass, their eyes glance down at their Bands, searching the proximity column of their Streams for our identities. If my Stream were public, with its dismal follower count and gutter citizenship score, I have no doubt that many would scream in horror. Some of these dandies might even faint.
Fortunately, Sequoia put up serious currency so I could temporarily privatize my Stream. While it’s totally plausible for Sequoia to be here, rubbing elbows and fat currency wallets in this crowd, it’d be more than a little suspicious that a nobody from Biggie LC made it onto the guest list, especially after The Professor makes his big debut.
Instead of reacting with sheer horror, the people who glance at their Bands merely frown in puzzlement when they see that my Stream is blocked. Hopefully, they’ll think that I’m some eccentric artist going off Stream, a growing trend in certain wealthy circles. Most ignore me, their eyes searching their Streams for the next worthy catch. When they see Sequoia’s profile, the line between their brows disappears. His Stream score isn’t impressive either, but his last name is. A man with platinum silver hair and wearing a staggeringly orange suit jacket approaches and shakes Sequoia’s hand. He gives me a polite greeting, but his eyes never leave Sequoia’s face as he begins babbling about an idea for a new show, something about a puppy beauty pageant combined with a puppy-kid team obstacle course. On and on he goes, laughing and occasionally clapping Sequoia’s shoulder. The man wants to know if Sequoia could possibly mention this idea to his father. Just a test run and they’ll see. The outlay of capital will be so small in comparison to the profits.
I glance up at Sequoia. His expression is tight. I can practically see the tension in his shoulders. He nods along, trying to politely interject, but the silver-haired man must have gills because he never even pauses for a breath.
“Well, sir, I believe that is an absolutely fab idea,” I finally announce, interrupting his monologue. “Oh, don’t you think so?” I bat my eyes at Sequoia. “Puppies and children. How adorbs!” I give our new friend a full wattage smile.
Next to me, Sequoia’s beleaguered expression shifts. “Why, I believe you’re right,” he says. “It is a superbly, uh, unique concept. I will most certainly present it to my father. If you could just provide me with your contact info…”
The man falls all over himself to connect to Sequoia’s Stream and then tries to go on about his idea.
“The tunnel has to be big enough for a puppy and a small child,” he explains.
“Dear, I think we must tell your father at once,” I say to Sequoia over his babble. “We don’t want anyone else to grab this diamond out from under us.”
“Yes, right again,” Sequoia declares. “Off we go. Ta!”
He swings me around so fast I nearly fall off my heels. I have to keep from laughing as we plow through the crowd. We slow down next to a wall near the front of the main stage. There’s a pocket of space here, enough for me to finally catch my breath.
“Does that happen to you a lot?” I ask him.
“You learn not to go out in public unless you have to,” he says. “At a high-class event like this most people aren’t so rude. He was probably a desperate person’s date.”
Now he frowns. “Was it a good idea to connect to his Stream?”
“You’re supposed to go to fancy-schmancy things like this,” I remind him. “Nobody is going to blink twice. You just gotta be careful when…” I trail off. Over Sequoia’s shoulder, my gaze lands on a small group of people standing only a few meters away. I notice the security personnel first, a few breathers in silver-plated suits and three security robos that look like thick metal coat racks. In their midst stands a man with black hair and tan skin. He wears a dark green suit, reserved but clearly expensive.
“The mayor,” I breathe.
Ash Anders h
olds a tight smile on his face as a short, round man grasps his hand and wags it forcefully. The short man’s wife is all dripping smiles and jiggling boobs, one practically popping from her yellow dress as she pushes her husband aside to daintily kiss the mayor on each cheek.
“We probs shouldn’t gape,” I whisper under my breath and force my eyes away.
I’m just about to pretend laugh at a non-existent joke when I feel Sequoia stiffen next to me. His arm locks in mine, practically dragging me into his body. I follow his gaze. A man approaches us, and the crowd parts for him as if he were a wrecking ball, a saint, or the devil.
The man is Sequoia, or at least a slightly wider, older version of him with manicured nails and a more sophisticated haircut. As the giant comes closer, I notice one other stunning difference. His freckles are almost entirely gone, as if he had them scrubbed right from his skin. More likely he lasered them off.
“Hello, Father,” Sequoia says formerly as the man stops in front of us. His voice has taken on a reedy quality. “May I present my friend, A… Aliyana,” he stammers, barely remembering my cover name.
Quickly, I paste a jerky smile on my face and hold out my hand to the PAGS Regional Director of Media Sector 7.
“Charmed,” I say.
Steward-Ryland Briggs is actually a few inches shorter than his son, but he seems like an immovable mountain. When he takes my hand, he engulfs it, and though our shake is gentle, I feel the hum of power within him.
“I see your Stream is blocked, Aliyana. You hiding something or just trying to inflate your ego with a little mystery?” His smile is an echo of a laugh.
Just protecting myself from the upcoming crime I plan to commit, I think, but I keep my smile in place. “Actually, I prefer to live my life offline as much as possible,” I say out loud.
Briggs’s eyes glint. “That, my dear, is a very poor life strategy. Where did you find this creature?”
That question is tossed casually to his son. Sequoia’s face is very, very red, and his arm is locked so tightly into mine that we might be fusing together.
“We, uh, we work together,” he says. His eyes flick down. His voice is soft.
Briggs looks me over again. “You’re cute enough but you aren’t getting any of his Loons. It’s all in a trust. He can’t land you on a show either.” His voice is jovial but his blue eyes are ice. He may stalk boardrooms and his troops may wear suits, but I can see, plain as day, that this man is a killer. And something tells me that he relishes the conquest.
I laugh, high and tinkling, the way Lysee does when boys and girls approach her at the clubs. “I don’t want him for his Loons and connections,” I say and add some sauce to my voice. “What we do together don’t cost a thing.”
Briggs grunts. “She’s got kick. I can appreciate that. But lust never lasts. And sooner or later she’ll try to pry open your bank account.” He shakes his head and even seems a little sad as he looks at his son. “I approved your tickets out of curiosity and perhaps the foolhardy hope that you had returned to the city permanently. My offer expires at the end of the night. This is your last chance.”
Sequoia’s head sinks lower and lower as his father turns on his heels and glides away. I see the telltale indents beneath the skin under his temple. I’ve heard of ocular nerve implants but have never seen anyone with them. No wonder Sequoia’s father never looked at his Band.
Besides me, my friend seems to be deflating. His elbow loosens against mine and his shoulders sag.
“What offer?” I ask.
“He gave me thirty days to come back, to formally apologize, and then he would reinstate me with the company,” Sequoia says, his voice weary.
“Reinstate you? You worked for PAGS?”
“I was a glorified errand boy. Father believes in working your way to the top. And abject humiliation.”
“I noticed,” I say dryly. A robo wheels by. I beckon it closer, put my empty glass on its tray, and grab two full champagne flutes.
“Well, you aren’t an errand boy today,” I tell Sequoia, offering him one of the glasses. I lean in close and lower my voice. “Today you are an evil henchman, and we’re going to bring this place to its knees.”
Sequoia’s head comes up. Those sensitive blue eyes search my face. I adore all his freckles and his shaggy, curly hair. My friend smiles at me. I hold up my glass. He clinks it with his and we both down the bubbly drink.
Just then, music flares from the hidden speakers. The lights dim and the holographic vids switch to pulsating pastel ribbons. A glittering woman with a truly impressive crown of molded pink hair bobbles on stage and breathily opens the event. She giggles through a few tepid jokes and thanks a long list of names, some of whom I’ve heard in passing on Lysee’s gossip Streams.
“Now?” Sequoia whispers to me.
“Not yet.” I keep my eyes on the stage, politely clapping with the rest of the audience while my mind goes through the plan again and again.
“We are so pleased to have a special guest here tonight,” the woman croons from the stage. “He has been instrumental in supporting the Boys and Girls Outside Group. Truly he needs no introduction. Please offer a warm welcome to our mayor!”
The woman skips off stage, and Ash Anders saunters to the center of the stage surrounded by a swell of applause and more than a few female sighs. He takes a moment, surveying the crowd. His brown eyes sweep across me and I force myself not to shrink back. He probs can’t see anyone with the stage lights shining on him.
His posture is casual, his chin up like he was born to be on this stage, right here right now. I’ve done plenty of research on our target, and I know he wasn’t always the golden boy. He went wild in college, just when his mother was steadily climbing the political rungs. According to stories at the time, he drank like a fish and mixed his booze with synthesized drugs. It’s a miracle he didn’t permanently scramble his brain. There were stories of fights with his frat brothers, scuffles with cops, failing grades, but his mom always shielded him from any serious consequences. And then his girlfriend overdosed and Ash Anders disappeared from the gossip Streams for years. The few scant reports I found put him in a carousel of lux rehab facilities.
And then, one day six years ago, his name appeared on the ballot for a Chicago City Council seat. He ran as an Independent, gave pretty speeches, and visited hospitals and civic groups. He did all the right things, but he mostly won on name recognition. Two years ago, he ran for mayor against the stodgy frontrunner practically crowned by his mother. He gave speeches about change and hope and breaking the holds of the Captains of Industry; of re-creating a sense of community and offering our unemployed population a path of dignity. It was all pointless tripe in my opinion. Nice words to soothe aching souls. But enough people believed his happy fairytale. He won. The rumors say Sage Anders was furious.
“I happen to think that we owe each other something,” Ash Anders begins, his voice clear and strong. He puts a hand in his pocket. “We owe each other something as neighbors, as citizens of the United States, as human beings. If you listen to anthropologists, they’ll tell you that we’re tribal creatures. For most of our existence, we were just naked apes clutching stone tools. We had to stick together to survive.”
The Gossip Streams say Ash Anders doesn’t drink. Doesn’t even swallow a Sweet Dream before bed. He just works and works and works. His staff is fiercely loyal but rumors swirl about his famous temper.
“I believe our bond is deeper than just survival,” Anders continues. He begins to slowly stroll across the stage. “Because only together can we create. Only together can we build cities and industries and farm enough to feed our population. We can always do more, do greater when we work together, when we lift each other up. Right now, outside of these walls, our fellow neighbors, our fellow Americans, our fellow humans are suffering. There aren’t enough jobs and too many Streams. Too many shows. Too many VR games. Too much distraction. The flame of industriousness that lives in every soul has be
en diminished. Our children are losing their grip on reality.”
He pauses again. The entire room is quiet, everyone straining to hear, though Anders’s voice flows from speakers in the walls. Even I find myself captivated by his words.
“We have created a virtual reality that is a better, more exciting, more fulfilling place to live than our own world. And so our children are severing their bond with society and with each other and choosing to hide in that fake world. That, my friends, is a true indictment on us, on the world we are offering them.”
I find myself nodding. All the politicians have always seemed the same to me, all except for Halnora Button. But his words ring true. Can he truly mean it, or is he just saying what we all want to hear?
“This auction is a start,” Anders continues. “We must help the children already lost to the fake world. We must try to pull them back and replant their minds, hearts, and souls here. But I believe we must save all of our children, and the only way to do that is to make this world, our world, the better choice. My friends, we are running low on hope and we must bring that back.”
I find myself clapping hard, our collective applause drowning out the rest of his words as he begins laying out policies he is trying to implement in Chicago.
“I didn’t believe the rumors,” a woman behind me whispers to her partner, “but now I do.”
The other woman’s voice is a little loud and slurred when she answers. “Oh, this is def a presidential speech. He’s going to run against dear old Momsy, and you know what, Handlah? I’ll be sending him a nice big donation with my compliments. Just don’t tell my husband!” The women giggle.
“Enough policy talk,” Ash Anders says on stage with a wry smile. “This is a party, after all. This organization has a lot of amazing and rare objects up for auction, but beware, I have my eye on the original Poe manuscript and the rumors that I’ll do anything to win aren’t exaggerated.” His smile widens.
