Cog Page 10

  “A woman with connections. I like that. So where are you from?” he said.

  “North Carolina, originally. But I live around here. I just stay here if I have business in town. A treat for myself.” She interlaced her fingers and put her chin on her hands. Acting coy was not her strong suit, and she had to try hard to affect it.

  “Well, we all need a treat now and then.”

  “Oh, you are so right, Ruyan.” Thia slipped off her right shoe and slid her foot under the cuff of his pant leg. His socks were smooth, like Italian silk. As smooth as the bald spot on top of his head.

  He chuckled in a low rumble. The waiter returned with their drinks and placed them on the small table, then left. Ruyan lifted his glass, prompting Thia to raise hers.

  “To a long and profitable future,” Ruyan said.

  “Hear, hear.”

  Ruyan drank down half the glass, then licked his lips as he placed the glass on the table.

  Fifteen seconds.

  “Are you from around here?” Thia said.

  “No, I’m from upstate New York. Town called Poughkeepsie. You heard of it?”

  “Of course. I like to buy apples there in the fall, when I go up to look at the leaves. I think Yebedor lives there.”

  Ruyan’s eyes glazed over and his movements slowed. Even though they were several tables away from the next group of customers, Thia spoke in a low voice.

  “Tell me what business you have with Janice Brown.”

  “She bought enzo chips from our supplier for a project Mr. Ryder was working on.” He spoke in a faraway, monotone voice.

  “What project?”

  “Something regarding a DNA computer.”

  “DNA?”

  “Yes.”

  What was Wills up to? He was no biologist. He couldn’t have invented a new form of life, or a cure for cancer.

  Wills was smart. He knew how not to compromise himself, Thia thought. “What are you up to?”

  “Trying to get you to go to my hotel room.”

  “Not you, you idiot.” She took a sip of her drink. “Never mind.” Thia leaned over and kissed Ruyan on the lips. He would be dead by morning.

  She gathered her purse and left the bar, giving a generous tip to Vas on her way out. Nicholle was Thia’s only lead now, and she meant to find her.

  Chapter 9

  The small group rode in silence. Arn was dead. Nicholle squeezed her eyes closed to shut out the doctor’s words, ‘I’m sorry, but there’s nothing more we can do.’ Still. In this day and age, there was still nothing more to be done. Death always reaped its harvest.

  Guilt was a vulture resting on her shoulder, eyeing her with a familial gaze. Welcome home, she thought. It’s been a long time.

  On the floor in Cor’s basement, she had woken up with a headache that could have felled Paul Bunyan. They had all been out for several minutes, but when they checked on Arn, it was too late. He laid there with vacant eyes, mouth agape. They held onto hope as they were all taken to the hospital. Nicholle had given a fake name, denied permission to access her node. She checked out fine. Arn hadn’t.

  Trenar got out and slammed the door shut. Tears streamed down her face in rivulets of black. She ambled down the street toward the house. Nicholle wondered if someone should go to comfort her, but before she could say anything, another door slammed. Cor. He rapped once on the driver’s-side window.

  “Chris, can I talk to you?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Chris got out, leaving Nicholle in the passenger’s seat. She didn’t have to listen to know what Cor wanted to talk about. He wanted her out. And she could understand. They had taken her in, offered their help, and in return, received a trip to the hospital and a dead friend.

  After a while, Chris returned and sat glum-faced in the driver’s seat. Nicholle stared at Trenar until she disappeared from view around a corner. Cor ran after her.

  “He wants us out,” Nicholle said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Can’t blame him.”

  Chris put his hands on the steering wheel and lowered his head. Nicholle reached over and brushed the hair from his face. She had apologized at the hospital, more times than she remembered, and felt another apology would cheapen the meaning.

  “You don’t have to stay with me, Chris. Just drop me off at a homeless shelter. Go get a job at another company. Go on with your life. This is my battle, not yours.”

  He lifted his head. “It wasn’t your fault, okay? And there’s no way I’m leaving you. I signed up for this, remember? I could’ve said adiós after I saw the three dead bodies. But I didn’t. Now, we just need a plan.”

  “Plan for what? Getting back my company? How are we going to do that in the situation we’re in? My father’s in a coma, I’m broke, my brother’s in hiding, my other brother’s trying to both kill and frame us, and I just got your friend killed, as well as my own.”

  “Your brother,” Chris said.

  “What about him?” Nicholle crossed her arms and leaned her head against the window.

  “How do we know Perim didn’t set him up, too?”

  “Cuz with Wills, I could believe he actually did it.”

  “But that doesn’t mean he’d set the company up to go bankrupt. You should cog him,” Chris said.“Like he’d answer.”

  “Like he’d answer.”

  “We need answers. We need to know if he’s to blame for this whole thing or not.”

  “If he was, do you think he’d tell me?”

  “Maybe not, but at least make him look you in the face and tell you.”

  “Fine.” Nicholle tapped open a line. “Call Wills Ryder.”

  A spiral blossomed into the image of Wills, pictured in a navy suit sitting at his desk at American Hologram. “I’m not in right now, but please leave a message, and I’ll get back to you.”

  She almost closed the line, when Chris grabbed her hand.

  “Wait. Maybe I can hack his node. Something with low security,” he said. “We can use all the information we can get our hands on right now.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Give me access to yours and I’ll channel the call to mine.”

  She hesitated, but it wasn’t as if she had much choice in the matter. They definitely needed any and all help. She reluctantly agreed.

  “All right. But that’s all you channel.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry. I’m not interested in the summer line from Paris.”

  “That’s the spring-summer line, for your information.”

  She sat in silence while Chris went to work, trying not to drown in her own pity. If she ever got control of the company again, she’d make sure to hire Chris’s friends and to give Arn’s family an annual stipend for the rest of her life. Nothing could ever compensate, but if it helped, she’d be glad to give it.

  A year ago, she would never think to do that. So into her own world, flipping with the high art crowd in New York—painters, sculptors, photographers, models. It was the life. But then it had all started to run together. The pakz, the parties, the schmoozing. The higher up she got, the more it was expected. And she had wanted to get high. And no better place than the fashion world. She had access to the rizzest designers, convinced the best artists to hold shows at her own gallery, and had even been the subject of several photographers’ collections.

  And then the Fall. And here she was—broke, tired, and guilty.

  “I think I’ve got something,” Chris said.

  “What?” She perked up.

  “Some memos. One’s about a lunch date with two other executives, one’s from some woman in Sudan. Man, he gets around. And here’s one. Hello. From some guy with Nwanko Oil. He says he’ll be at the meeting at the Port of Baltimore at six. He lo
oks forward to being there. Tonight.”

  “Tonight? Sounds promising. Anyone else going?” she said.

  “Yeah, some Leesia Fresno from Jiang Transport. Few others.”

  “Where’s it going to be?”

  “Fadi warehouse, Room A3.”

  “Sounds like a party.”

  “Then I guess we’ll have to crash it,” he said.

  She closed the line. What is he up to? Couldn’t be business as usual.

  Her node chimed. Incoming. She answered the cog. The head of a man she had never seen before bobbled up. Grim-faced and disconsolate. An undertone of pain mingled with his voice.

  “Are you Nicholle Ryder?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “My name is Dr. Braxley Hagen of the Kryzo Hospice in Alexandria. I’m afraid I have—”

  “My father,” she said. She sat up, wanting to jump through his hologram.

  “Yes, that’s right. How did you know?”

  “Because Dr. Lars at Washington District Hospital practically had him slabbed and out the door. I knew she would pull this. I’ll have her license,” she said.

  “Ms. Ryder, Dr. Lars performed within the parameters of your father’s wishes.”

  “Those were not his wishes. I know they weren’t.”

  “Ms. Ryder—”

  “How long does he have?”

  “Seventy-two hours.”

  “Until Saturday,” she whispered to herself. “I see. Well, I’ll have proof that this whole thing was not his doing before then. That this is one huge mistake. And don’t you touch him before then.” She closed the line. Leaned forward, raking her fingers through her hair. Could it get any worse?

  Swirls of orange and pink staccatoed her periphery. Incoming call: Wills Ryder.

  She took a deep breath.

  “It’s Wills,” she said. She opened the line.

  “Wills.”

  “Nick.” He was dressed in a light blue casual shirt, pictured against a beach backdrop.

  “First you tell me where the hell you are and why you left.” She couldn’t believe he had the nerve to appear as if he were on holiday, enjoying fun in the sun after a hard day’s work.

  “I won’t tell you where I am, but I will tell you that Perim set me up. I didn’t call because I figured you were in on it, after I read that you had taken over the company.”

  “Chris asked me to take it over. I didn’t want it.”

  “Seems he persuaded you rather quickly. I thought after your internship, you wouldn’t darken the door to the company again.”

  “I’m doing it for Dad. Not me, not Chris, not you. And speaking of Dad, you haven’t even asked how he’s doing. He’s in a coma with seventy-two hours left to live.”

  Wills paused. “Face it, Nick. We didn’t really know Dad.”

  “What are you talking about? He’s our father. He was there with us.”

  “When we were asleep. We saw him for five minutes in the morning. And when Mom was alive, we didn’t even see him that much.”

  “He was there, Wills. Don’t you remember?”

  “The only thing I remember was the arguments he had with mom over his whoring around. Don’t you remember?”

  “Stop it, Wills. He’s still our father.” Her throat knotted, but she fought it down.

  “Let’s just get back to the subject at hand,” she continued. “Perim framed me, too. He also took my money. I’m practically broke, and when we tried to hack into AmHo, he used military-grade sentinels and they killed someone.”

  “Shit. Wait…Nick, something’s wrong. I’m picking up a sepsis being run on your node.”

  “A what?” Nicholle had picked up some terms from Chris on servers, programs, and computers, but this was a new one on her.

  “It searches for information that meets certain criteria. Go offstream and get Chris to look at it. Stay safe.”

  He blanked and she spiraled out.

  “My node.” She turned to Chris. “A sepsis.”

  “A sepsis?” Chris looked as if she jerked him awake from a trance.

  “Wills told me to spiral out. Perim sent it,” Nicholle said.

  “No. I’ve been monitoring their traffic, Perim and AmHo.”

  “Which means Wills just sent it.” Her voice cracked when she said the words. She didn’t want to believe it. Not her brother. Not after all they’d been through together as children. The thought of it weighed on her chest, a dull pain twisted.

  “Can you delete it?”

  “Already done.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “He’s an ass, Nick. Can’t you see? I mean I’m sorry, I know he’s your brother, but him leaving like he did, dropping it in your lap, with your father in the hospital…that’s just shitty. And you know it. You won’t say it, but you know,” Chris said. “What the…?”

  “What?”

  “Your brother’s running off of another server. Nothing like I’ve seen. Not an RSFQ or CMOS. It’s like…A, T, C, G. The DNA bases, right?”

  “From what I remember, but what difference does it make?”

  Chris looked straight ahead, no doubt decrypting the exchange she just had with Wills, teasing out any hidden code, tuning out reality.

  That was his drug of choice, wiho. There had been some who fused their lives and personalities to it. Some who locked themselves in their room and didn’t come out for months, being found near dead still spiraled in. Others had been found dead, some fresh, some close to mummification.

  Every invention was someone’s addiction.

  She rolled down the window to let in some air. The fresh breeze blew in an autumn chill. And the barrel of a lazon appeared on the edge of the glass.

  Nicholle gasped as the barrel swiveled to face her square on. She looked past the barrel to its holder. A woman—who seemed vaguely familiar. Auburn hair atop an angular face.

  Nicholle put her hands up. “We don’t have any money.” She tapped Chris’s shoulder to get his attention. Chris shrugged her off, but finally turned as her taps became more insistent.

  “Shit!” he said. “We don’t have any money.”

  “I don’t want your money. Nicholle, in the back.” She waved the gun. “Chris, I want you to take us somewhere.”

  “How do you know our names?” Nicholle said.

  “I’m smart. Now move it!”

  Nicholle clambered out of the front seat and fell onto the small bench seat in the back. The woman reached in and unlocked the door, then opened it and slid into the car, bringing with her the faint scent of alcohol.

  “I suggest you hurry. To U Street, southeast.”

  Chris started the car and pulled away without another word, but his hands gripped the wheel with intensity.

  “Who are you?” Nicholle said.

  “Just call me Thia.”

  “Thia. So, ah, what is it you want?” Nicholle said.

  “Information.”

  “Information? What kind of information?”

  “The kind that lets me know where your brother is. When was the last time you heard from him?”

  Nicholle’s mouth gaped, then closed. “Last month.”

  The woman chuckled. “You’re not a very good liar, Nicholle. But don’t worry. I’ve got just the thing for you.”

  b

  They pulled up in front of a row of abandoned, rundown buildings. Southeast. Nicholle wondered if the woman was going to take them out back and shoot them in the head. But if so, why? She knew their names, and obviously knew Wills. She had taken the time to do some research. Maybe Perim set her up, as well, and she had come looking for extreme justice.

  Nicholle and Chris climbed a set of crumbling conc
rete steps to a squat building. The woman followed, holding the gun on both of them.

  Shutters hung from windows, looking as if they might fall to the ground at any moment. The windows held screens that had large holes, offering an unobstructed view of broken glass panes. Nicholle shuddered to think what lay beyond that.

  The grey door creaked as Chris opened it, and a strong odor of must blasted out. Nicholle began to cough, breathing in the dust whirling up. Her loud hacks echoed in the dim, empty hallway. She then sneezed loudly, twice, and wished her medinites would hurry and sweep away the offending material from her lungs and sinuses.

  Chris must have thought Nicholle’s coughing fit an appropriate time to go for Thia’s gun, because he wheeled around and tried to knock it free with his arm. He pushed Thia’s arm away, but Thia held fast to the gun and kicked Chris in the groin. He bent over and dropped to the floor, groaning.

  “The hell do you think you’re doing?” Thia said. She sneered at the prone figure.

  “Chris!” Nicholle hurried over to him and cradled his head in her arms.

  “How touching, but I think you’re rubbing the wrong place. Now get up, the both of you, or he gets it in the kneecap.” She squeezed off a shot that made a hole in the floor by Chris’s knee and seared his pants leg.

  Nicholle jumped. “Stop it!”

  “Then get up.”

  Nicholle got to her feet, then helped Chris up. He was bent at the knee and back, but he managed to scuffle down the hall. At the end of the hall was an elevator door. Thia pressed her thumb in a small indentation in the frame and the door opened.

  Nicholle had expected a rundown elevator car with peeling paint and a take-your-life-in-your-hands ride. Instead, the door opened onto gleaming stainless steel and a robotic assistant—about four feet tall with a square head and torso and treads for legs.