Versim (19 page)

Binda took Celia’s hand. “You need to forget about that. You need to look around this room. Look for something that shouldn’t be here, something meaningful to you.”

“Me? Why would anything of mine be here …?”

Celia looked away, though, as if she’d answered her own question. Binda watched her scan the room, color returning to her cheeks. But the woman’s chest still heaved.
 

Binda used the remote to turn the TV back on. “Oh my God.”

On the screen was Harken Cole in his black-scaled, mega-tight, way-hot superhero outfit, sitting behind a broadcaster’s desk. The other broadcasters looked as if they were contemplating a dash for the exit. She could hear producers in the background exclaiming to let Hark talk. The camera tilted for a second, as if someone was taking charge. Hark waited, while whatever disturbance in the studio finished.

“I’m Entertainment Specialist Harken Cole. And this is your wake up call. Authorization number: Zed 9245 Echo 12587 Delta Hotel Lima.” Celia was watching now as Hark repeated the code.
 

It rang in Binda’s ears, as if she’d spent an hour memorizing it. They’d buried it in her memory. But she was already awake, so the audible trigger didn’t affect her much.
 

Hark continued: “Everyone needs to find their alarm clocks and parachutes. You’ll know what I mean when it enters your field of vision. Wherever you are, look around, find something peculiar that is out of place. Something personal.” Celia looked at Binda, her eyes wide with fright. Binda nodded, as if Celia should get back to work. Hark stood, knuckles on the broadcaster’s desk. “The events taking place in this city are a dire emergency. All of you who are listening and who are affected by that series of letters and numbers need to do what I say. Find your alarm clocks, pick them up … and you will know what to do.” Hark turned to someone off camera. “Play that message nonstop.” He left the frame.

Binda heard a ruckus off camera, in the studio. She could swear it sounded as if people were sprinting for the exits.

She moved to the floor-length window and looked fifty stories to the street. A traffic jam had begun on Sixth Avenue. People seemed to be running through Bryant Park.

“Maybe they’ll get the fashion models first,” she said.

“What?” Celia asked.

“Oh, nothing.”

Hark’s message began to play again. Celia sat on the edge of the couch, watching silently.

Binda walked along the tall windows. The space looked more like a hotel suite than a corporate office. It was spare but elegant. A few multi-colored oil paintings that looked like genuine Kandinsky replicas hung on one wall. She’d spent enough time in Museum of Modern Art to appreciate how much energy went into the duplication of real art. Another wall had a niche with Chinese porcelain vases.
 

She stopped before the first one, a buzzing behind her ears she’d learned to notice telling her to pause.
Parachute.
She’d gotten so good at finding hers, she’d stopped locating them months ago.
 

She grabbed the first vase and lifted it out of the niche. She peeked inside. Sure enough, a silver charm bracelet lay inside a cloth napkin. Hers had a tiny Tiffany’s bear charm hanging from it.

She smelled dust inside, as if it had lain there for years.

Nice touch
.

She set the vase aside, just as the door opened.

Hark strode through. He saw Binda standing by the vases. “You find yours?”

She nodded. “Right here.” She tapped the vase.

“Good. Hers won’t be so easy.”

Hark strode to the TV display, ran his finger along the bottom, and turned it off again. Binda struggled not to stare at his muscles lined in black. His feet and shins, knees, pelvis, abdominals, chest, shoulders, elbows were all covered in armor, but it fit as if it had grown on him. His hands were covered now, and the glistening, ebony material had run up under his chin to surround his neck. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think he was about to activate some mask. But Hark couldn’t cover up that beautiful face, not with everyone watching. Not unless it was serious …

“It’s happening?” Binda asked.
 

“Right now, the entire city is flipping. A major bleedover antagonist with a beef against me has infected this entire V.”

“Infected?” Celia asked.

Hark turned to her. “Listen carefully, Celia. You need to find your final trigger. And do it soon. Most people’s are in plain sight. Yours … will be hidden. You’ll be drawn to it. We don’t have much time.”

“What’s coming?” Binda asked.

The dark look that crossed Hark’s face meant he wasn’t going to tell.

Celia saw it. “What … should I do?” She stood.

Hark rounded the couch. “Binda, walk her through it. Explain the sensation of being near your parachute.” He moved to the window.

“Where’s Frankie?” Binda asked.
 

“Standing guard.”

Hark continued to stare at the city below, as if he could read what was happening. Whatever he saw, she could tell he wasn’t happy.

He turned to her. He bent to one knee, as if he might propose. He gently grabbed her arms. “Use your chute. It’ll trigger your insurance policy, Binda, before the rush. You need to be early. The premiums for the VIPs will go first. You need to put it on now.”

“No way.” She shook her head. “You’ll protect us from whatever’s coming. And I’ll have made my career. You know how this goes: every Rend-V principal has to prove herself in the big show. When the tension gets high, you can’t bail. Right?”

He smiled at her the way she’d seen him smile at so many top-tier Rend-V actresses. Usually a kiss followed. She let herself breathe the scent of him in, slowly, and she smelled, of all things, something like aftershave. That was maddeningly unoriginal, but it lingered. If he leaned forward just a little more, she’d plant one on him herself. Celia was watching. She knew the entire Rend-V audience was watching.
 

Hark nodded. “That’s true, but …”

“But nothing. I’m doing this. Besides, with you on our side, what could go wrong?”

The explosive sound of five loud Blaster retorts echoed from outside the office.

29

Krista walked into the hive immersion apartment and stopped, the barrel of a Voxyprog assault rifle in her face.
 

Tripp sat on his cot, looking as if he’d just woken up. Four fully armored and augmented Voxyprog stormtroopers surrounded him. Pizer appeared wearing traditional Sersavant finery. She noted fire swirls embroidered on his sleeve and the ostentatious gold brocade at his neck that made him look like a puffed up bird. The gold chain and medallion that marked his station hung from his neck.

“Ah, Inspector Cole,” he said. “It seems we’ve sniffed you out.” He waved away the police, the team lead scowling, but sent a signal to his men to back down.

They all retreated a few steps, weapons pointed at the floor.

“Care if I sit?” Pizer said.

Krista glanced at Tripp, who looked like he’d just eaten a bit of rotten fish.
Atticus?
No response from her AI. They must be blocking it. Tripp shook his head, signaling that his AI, Sunni, was blank. Both of their AIs had been dismantled, thanks to the mighty hand of Pizer. As a Spinner, she had other non-technological means at her disposal, but those, hopefully, wouldn’t be needed.

With a subtle shake of her head she intimated to Tripp to do nothing.

She ran her fingers through her hair, took a centering breath, and faced Pizer. “We had you on the run for longer than most, didn’t we?”

“That you did.”

She glanced at Garce behind the plastic, Sammy standing near him like a protective rooster. Garce was obviously still in play. Hark, in his own vat, was still immersed. That was a curious fact she needed to wrap her head around.
Why are the letting him …?

Krista grinned. “Pizer, what game is this?”

“It’s all working out perfectly, thanks to your brother. He’s such a simple soul.”

“You’ve been playing him from the beginning?”

“That bit of brilliance is Director Preston’s doing. I just wanted to flip the V to demonstrate what wonders can happen when we mix things up. It didn’t take much convincing to manipulate EA, once Director Preston’s idea became clear.”

“I thought so. Always the heretic. And your bosses?”

“With
Collides
doing so well, those funds are funneling to the right people, who are walking around happy. Blind eyes are being cast my way.”

“No one cares the V is flipping?”

“Ah, Director Preston’s inimitable Ervé ... ”

“Ervé wants Harken.”

“That he does,” Pizer said with a smile.

Krista shook her head, pretending to have a headache. She just needed a few precious seconds to work out the possible outcomes. All of them led to Hark burning everything to the ground, which would destroy not only every person in the V, but all her work for the past decade.

She faced Pizer, presenting her best please-listen-to-me face. “Pizer, call off Ervé. Don’t push Hark into a corner. He’ll make everyone suffer.”

Pizer presented an odd old man’s face that was, somehow, youthful and alert. “Since you failed to convince him, we have … a surprise that will keep him on script.”

“Surprise?”

“The boy from
The Borderlands,
Saul. We’ve got him. And … we’re going to use him.”

“In
Collides
?”
 

Pizer nodded and spoke over his shoulder. “Keep a team here. I want this place guarded until we can move Specialist Cole back to an official immersion clinic. It’ll have to wait until this next bit of drama concludes, maybe while he sleeps in-V. We don’t want to upset our viewers by making Hark disappear.”

“Let these two jump in whenever they choose. They’re part of the drama now.”

Krista raised her hands. “No one’s directing me.”

“Of course not,” Pizer said, placating palms out in a gesture of friendship. “We just mean you’re getting a fan base. You’re free to improvise. In fact, we expect it.”

“No hard feelings about my prayer to the host?”

“None at all. And you can have your library … and all that’s in it. We’ll keep Ervé’s horde away. Have you seen the library yet?”

“Thank you.” But that doesn’t solve the problem of Hark murdering Celia, if he has to, she thought. “And no I haven’t. I was planning on jumping in now.”

Tripp stood, obviously unable to contain himself. “I’m in this for Hark. Get that straight.” The shrunken Pizer turned toward him like a dwarf to a giant. Tripp said, “I’m no specialist, no actor. I don’t follow scripts. And I carry a black shield. That means in the real world, everyone in this room is my bitch.” Krista watched all the cops staring at him as if he were their true boss. More than one looked openly fearful. Tripp stepped by Pizer. “Keep that straight, Vox.” To Krista, he said, “I’m getting some lunch before going back. Hark’ll need us.”

“I’ll wait for you,” she said.

Pizer tipped his head. “Good day, Agent Cole.” He turned back to Krista. “I’m looking forward to this upcoming episode: Ervé confronts Hark.”

Krista snorted. “It should be good. I wouldn’t bet on Ervé.”

Pizer nodded for her to follow. He edged past the cops, toward Garce floating peacefully in his vat. Sammy wrung his hands, distraught. With one look by Pizer he shuffled away.

“Why did you use … this freelancer?” Pizer asked, as he stared at Garce behind the curved glass.

“What do you mean?” Krista asked.

“You have an intellect that towers over his. You could have …”

 
“I need mobility.”

“Ah, right.” He circled around the immersion vat, as if inspecting the contraption. “What if I told you I fully expect your brother to succeed in killing the host?”

“I’d tell you you’re smart and to shut down Ervé so that he doesn’t feel pressured.”

“Not going to happen. Your brother’s illegal project here has been too successful. I want the flip. Director Preston wants the drama. Ervé wants his revenge. But none of us want it to end. Do we?”

Krista felt her breath catch as Pizer looked at her. His mind was a powerful thing, but like all high-level Sersavants, he had learned to mute himself. The sort of open psychic powers some people demonstrated was considered crude. It was like walking around with your banking account number tattooed to your forehead. She knew she was being maneuvered, but he was a blank to her, as she was to him. They both knew how to bottle themselves in an instant.

“What are you suggesting?” she asked.

“We were impressed that bleedover lore of yours worked. Overnight, while Celia Preston dreamed in stasis, the library sprouted defensive towers, automated sentries, the whole lot.”

“I’m good.”

He moved in close, like one colleague to another, hoping for a shared professional tip. “See, that’s what fascinates me. We get so many of those prayers daily, we run them through the scanning system. All the prayers are funneled to a team who codes them into a database that is fed directly to our host. I’m told she gets them as if in a dream. And they soothe her. She grants wishes sometimes. We couldn’t figure out which one was yours.”

Krista grinned at him. “I would imagine not.”

“Funny, though, that the very night after we seeded that batch, your library became one of the most secure buildings on the island.”

“Yeah, funny.”

“Care to explain how you convinced the host?”

Krista pursed her lips at him and considered telling him off. “Pizer, you chose the Voxyprog. I chose the Society of Spinners. We have different methods. You use human computers to send code into human hosts. We have words on pages, pictures, songs even. We have narrative itself. All I did was suggest she make the change or she might not enjoy being in that stasis vat for long.”

“Your move was ostentatious, though, enough to raise some hackles. Manipulating a host that way. Threatening her with bleedover lore.”

She moved in as close as possible. She could smell the sweetness of his breath and skin that seemed oiled with some moisturizing agent. “The Vox will be repaid. They know this.”