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  “Euthanasia.” Hot tears spilled down her cheeks and onto her sweater. The muted greens and beiges of the waiting room coalesced into a blur. A knot cinched her throat. Chris came over and took her by the shoulders as he led her to the settee.

  Her tears dried, her medinites tending to her body’s crisis. A sense of calm enshrouded her and the fog began to lift from her thoughts. But she wanted to grieve. Let the tears come.

  “Why isn’t Wills here yet?” Nicholle said. “He needs to be here.” Next to her father, Wills was the only person she had left in her immediate family. Their mother had been killed in a plane crash when she was two. After that, she had lived with the fear of losing her father, the reason Nicholle had tried to stay up late, waiting for him to come home from work when she was little. She’d always fallen asleep before he got home, though. Wills had always gone to bed on time, on the dot.

  Chris sat next to Nicholle. He took her hand in his and spoke in a soft voice.

  “There’s something you need to know about Wills. And I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you this at such a time.”

  “About Wills? What are you talking about? Is he all right?” She grabbed his arm, digging her nails into his suit jacket. Her heart began to pound again. If something had happened to him, too…

  “I’m sure he’s fine.”

  “What do you mean you’re sure he’s fine? You said he was on his way. What are you talking about?”

  “We haven’t seen Wills since ten thirty this morning. And there’s a large amount of money missing from the company. Fifty billion dollars. All calls to him are diverted to an answering service.”

  “What? Fifty billion?” Nicholle said. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

  “We were hoping it wasn’t what we thought. When was the last time you saw him?”

  “About a week ago. We took the scramjet to Mexico for Jera’s wedding.”

  “How did he seem?”

  Nicholle fought hard to think back to the trip…past recent events, past worry, doubt, and guilt. He’d been more quiet than usual, but, nothing out of the ordinary. In classic Wills style, he had managed to inform her of various esoteric facts. They rattled around in the back of her consciousness—Nazi SS officers had their blood type tattooed on their left armpit; the only rock that floats is pumice; Pierre Picaud inspired The Count of Monte Cristo.

  “I need a drink,” she said. She left her node address on the hospital’s ‘Notify Immediately’ list. They’d cog her if anything changed, at least that’s what the doctor said. Dr. Lars would probably activate the euthanasia process tonight if given the chance.

  “A drink?” Chris said. “I don’t thi—”

  “I don’t want to hear it.” She snatched up her purse and headed out the magfield. The closest bar was Malabo’s, one block over. Chris caught up and escorted her, silent, though one glance told her he was holding back a spew of disapproval. Fine. The last person’s approval she wanted was his.

  She cogged Wills the whole way there, hoping he would answer and say it was all just a joke. But he didn’t pick up.

  b

  Malabo’s typified the encroaching African-Chinese subculture—walls adorned with large wildlife batiks, flanked by Chinese tiger paintings. The blend was almost seamless, one of the reasons she kept coming back.

  “Whiskey shot, double,” she said. She took a seat at the end of the bar, facing the door. Old habit. The bartender smacked a double shot glass on the counter and filled it with the golden liquid. She cogged the cost, tapping her thumb on her temple, then downed the glass. She had almost forgotten the burn. Closed her eyes and relished the remembrance.

  Chris cleared his throat. She ignored him until the last of the burn faded.

  “So why do you want to know how Wills seemed? If you’re asking whether he told me he planned on stealing company money and leaving town, then no. He didn’t,” she said. “So what do you want from me, Chris?” He must have wanted something, otherwise he wouldn’t have spent so much time with her, especially in a bar.

  “In addition to current…incidents, it’s not yet widely known, but American Hologram is about to be audited by Innerworld Revenue. We’ve sold off some assets to keep the ratios up and managed to keep it out of the media so far. But it’s going to hit when we file the quarterly reports. And when it does, I think we’ll get less of a negative impact from our subscribers if there’s some family continuity.”

  “Continuity? What are you talking about? You want me to take over the company?”

  Two small dents cleft between his eyebrows, alerting her to the gravity of the situation.

  “Yes, at least for a little while.”

  “Well, well. So now you want me? Will it be for longer than three weeks this time?”

  “I know you’re not bringing up the internship issue,” Chris said. He averted his gaze, toward the window. The dents deepened.

  “If there’s one thing I learned from that, it’s that people rarely change. If ever.”

  “You were in over your head and you knew it.”

  “I needed help, not a push out the door.”

  “You were kissing your father’s ass too much to worry about what you wanted.”

  “That coming from the expert on kissing my father’s ass.”

  The warmth in his eyes at the hospital had dissipated like alcohol in blue flame. “You found a job you loved. Why are you blaming me for that?”

  “It was the way you did it. You enjoyed it. Like some sadistic pervert.”

  The bartender glanced over and sucked his tooth. A warning. Chris ignored it.

  “Bullshit. The longer it dragged out, the harder it would’ve been. You wanted to wait around, let your father tell you what and who you should be. I knew that job wasn’t you.”

  “And since when did you become the expert on me?” She strained her voice to keep from yelling. “My relationship with my father is none of your business.”

  “You know what? We can sit here all day going round and round. Meanwhile, your father’s in a coma and the company’s about to tank. I’m asking you, on your father’s behalf, to step in and help save what he started. If we go down, thousands of people will lose their jobs. Now either you’re in or you’re not. Your choice.”

  Nicholle swallowed, hard. “You’ve changed from the happy-go-lucky techru you were a year ago.”

  “I grew up,” he said.

  Feeling suffocated, Nicholle got up and pushed past him. She walked to the bar front and leaned against the window, pressing the side of her forehead on the cool glass. It had started to rain and beads of water snaked down the pane, leaving thin trails. Cars crowded the airways, signaling the beginning of rush hour.

  Everything was hitting close to home, her father, her brother, the family company. The last thing she wanted to do was take on more responsibility in her state of mind. She walked back and paced in front of the antique jukebox.

  Sometimes she couldn’t help but wonder where she would be if she had stayed on the streets. If her brother hadn’t given her the ultimatum that he would clean out her accounts if she didn’t sober up and come home.

  The old feelings surfaced: fear, revulsion, guilt. Fear of dying in a cold back alley with no one finding her body for weeks afterward. Revulsion at her addiction, at her perceived weakness at not being able to ‘just say no.’ Guilt at having left, without warning, those whom she’d befriended. Even Tuma.

  She remembered feeming pakz and skeemz when she used to get high. The pakz delivered a more visceral feeling, the direct rush of drugs injected into the blood stream by medinites. You still saw reality, but you didn’t care. Yet, there was that needling prick in the back of your mind, reminding you that your reality was what you were going to have to deal with when you came back.

 
Skeemz, on the other hand, stimulated the imagination beyond one’s natural ability, creating a feeling of frenzied euphoria. Your reality would wait forever. Seemed as if the programmers discovered new and different ways each week to simulate an endorphin rush. Customized programs cost more, but offered to change the way you perceived your world.

  I wonder how I’d perceive all of this on skeemz?

  She sidled back to the bar, arms crossed. “I’m a curator at a holographic museum. No one is going to take me seriously,” she said.

  “I’ll handle senior management and the auditors,” Chris said. “You just look like you’re in charge. That should be easy. You’ve acted before.”

  She squeezed her thumb until the medinites lowered the barriers. The flush of the whiskey warmed her, and a gleeful disposition eased across her mind. It’d been a long time.

  Responsibility, duty…what did it really get you in life? Boredom. But her father needed her. She’d disappointed him before; she wasn’t about to do it again. She released her thumb and the flush subsided. Duty called.

  “I’ll do it,” she said.

  “Good. I’ll tell the employees and assign you a bodyguard.”

  “Bodyguard?”

  “Standard issue for a corporate executive. I’ll send him over this evening. You two can meet and set up a schedule.”

  “But—”

  Chris tapped Nicholle on the side of her shoulder with a fist. “Thanks, Nicholle. See you later.”

  Nicholle’s stomach coiled into a knot as she watched Chris rush out the door. What did she know about running a wireless hologram service provider? Her company internship had been an admitted—never to Chris—disaster. But she wouldn’t need to know anything. Chris would do all the work. Right?

  She pulled out a cigarette and tapped the end on the edge of the counter. It lit up. She liked her nicotine the old-fashioned way. She sat down at the bar and crossed her arms, mashing her thumb under her elbow. The flush returned. Welcome home.

  Chapter 3

  Walking into Riklo Castor’s office was like walking into a gamer shop—a new feature every day. Today’s works of art were a holo of Taliesin West, Dogs Playing Poker, and The Thinker. The building and dogs stood off to the side, while the statue sat in the middle of the room. Nicholle stepped through The Thinker. Riklo didn’t know much about art, although he pretended he did. Nicholle let him have his fantasy.

  Riklo looked up when she approached his desk. He wore last year’s look of slicked-back hair and a skinny tie. As he was tall and wiry, the tie made him look thinner.

  “Nicholle. Good. I just cogged Henri at the Louvre. We’re still in the running but they won’t make a decision until next week. Now as far as the Prado is concerned—”

  “Riklo, I have to leave,” she said.

  “For where, the Louvre? The personal touch. Good thinking.” He shook a finger in her direction.

  “No, the job. I have to leave the job.”

  He gave her a double take.

  “What are you talking about? Did you get a better offer from another museum? I’ll match it. Plus a bonus.” He stood up, boring his knuckles into the exposed wood from underneath a scattered hodgepodge of wi-papers. “You can’t leave me now. We have an exhibit coming up that I’m hoping will raise money from the patrons. Especially Mr. Garampo.”

  A 2D Diego Rivera print hung on the far wall. The Flower Vendor looked at her and Riklo with interest as she sold another batch of calla lilies to a girl in pigtails.

  “My father’s in a coma,” Nicholle said. She sat down and leaned her head back on the chair, browsing the orange and blue bas relief ceiling tile, amazed that she was still coherent after leaving the hospital. The events of the day had left her unable to think beyond basic daily functions.

  “A coma? Fema,” he cursed. “I’m sorry, Nick. I didn’t know,” Riklo said. “How’d it happen?” He sat down in the leather chair and folded his hands across the desk, like a first-grader waiting for recess.

  “The doctors don’t know. They can’t say when he’ll come out of it.” She neglected to mention the living will stipulation. It was enough of a nightmare. She didn’t want to relive it. “The head of IT asked me to take over as acting president, for the time being, until my brother gets back from out of town.” If he gets back.

  “Can you handle that, with everything going on?” He sounded condescending, as if eager to hear a no in reply.

  “It’s not about me anymore. If I don’t go, the company may lose more jobs than if I do go. Believe me, I wouldn’t leave if I didn’t think I had to.”

  Riklo may have had no sense of art, but he was a decent boss. He’d been given the job by his father, who owned the museum, so it wasn’t as if he would be fired if he didn’t meet the bottom line.

  “It’ll be a lot of stress, crazy clients, dumb employees, inept management.” One side of Riklo’s mouth turned down. “Look, I’ll just give you family leave. If it doesn’t take longer than six months, your job will be here when you return.”

  It made more sense than quitting. “Thanks, Riklo. I really appreciate that. I’ll hand my files over to Reya,” Nicholle said. She smiled at him, then left.

  b

  Reya wasn’t in her office and Nicholle didn’t feel like cogging, so she uploaded her instructions on the upcoming Yebedor exhibit and saved it to Reya’s node. Nicholle was sorry she would miss opening night. The exhibit was a social commentary piece illustrating the growing divide between the classes. She had studied Yebedor in college and admired his work. When she lived on the street, the meaning behind the paintings became clear. Funny that—a revelation through a pakz-induced high in which all the world’s issues were solved in a moment’s thought. And then with soberness came crushing reality.

  The transition to corporate life would unsettle her, she knew. Remembrances of boring meetings, angry shareholders, and disgruntled employees flitted across her mind. She forced the thoughts from her head.

  This time it will be different.

  Riiight.

  She was going to pack her things, but decided to leave them. She’d be back. Small though it was, her office held a lot of good memories—like the time Reya had bought Riklo a blow-up doll and was waving it around in the hallway while his father looked on, furious, from the conference room. Nicholle hadn’t known Mr. Castor could curse like that. But they’d all had a good laugh after he left. Then there was the time they landed the rights to the drawings in Chauvet Cave. They’d celebrated for days after.

  “I shall return,” she said to herself. Grabbed her Quatrocellini bag and headed out. Her heels on marble echoed in the long, empty hallway. The Artists Hallway. Holos of painters, sculptors, and architects lined up on either side, watching as employees came and went.

  Albrecht Dürer, Self-Portrait at 28, hung at the end of the corridor, one of Nicholle’s favorites. She paused for a last look.

  It’s not the last time. Keep telling yourself that.

  His eyes seemed sadder than usual—or was it her imagination?

  “See you, Al. I still think you’re hot.”

  She walked out into the night. Tall trees silhouetted against the moonlit sky hunched over the edge of the parking lot, as if hunting prey. Her car’s proximity sensors unlocked the door and turned on the engine. The door swung up as she approached.

  “Good evening, Nicholle,” the car’s smooth baritone voice said.

  “Evening, Max,” she replied.

  “Will you be driving tonight?”

  “Nope, it’s all yours. Been a rough day.”

  “Destination?”

  She hesitated. Guilt had nagged at the back of her mind since the drink in Malabo’s. She’d officially fallen off the wagon, but given the circumstances, she thought it understandable. Not that she
was making excuses…

  No, that’s exactly what you’re doing.

  “Where’s the next, closest twelve-step meeting?” she said.

  “1725 Rhode Island.”

  “A.A.?”

  “Yes.”

  “Take me there.”

  b

  A host of cars huddled under the dome of St. Matthew’s Cathedral, testament to the number of those come to call. Nicholle had remembered her first twelve-step meeting—had expected to see nothing but barely recovering, recently high addicts who’d been forced into treatment by well-meaning relatives. Instead, she’d found people from all walks of life, in various stages of recovery. Some a few days sober, others decades. And they’d all welcomed her. It had felt like a familial embrace, one that she’d never had.

  Max rolled to a stop and opened the door. Nicholle climbed out and pulled up her coat against the night chill. A few stragglers were wending their way around to a side entrance, and she hurried to fall in behind.

  Technically, she was an addict, not an alcoholic, since her drug of choice was pakz. She drank, but not to the point of drunkenness. She’d relied on the pakz to take her over the edge. Way over.

  “Hey,” she said to the two stragglers. “Is this open or closed?”

  Closed meetings were for A.A. members only, or for those who had a drinking problem and wanted to stop. Open meetings were available to anyone. She’d faked it before, just to get into a meeting she felt she needed. Replaced “pakz” with “alcohol.”

  The man on the left, dressed in a thin leather jacket and tight jeans with a chain that ran from the back pocket to his belt, spoke first, albeit briefly.