Cog Page 4

  “Closed.”

  The woman on the right came across as more sociable. She wore a brown patchwork velvet skirt that fell to the floor and a green sweater. She had a tangle of brown curls with blonde highlights that framed a narrow face.

  “First time?”

  “First time here, not first at a meeting,” Nicholle said.

  “Well, welcome. My name’s Daria. This here’s Jim.”

  Jim said nothing, but opened the door to the church and waved them in. Nicholle let Daria take the lead, and they wound up in a small room of women. Jim had veered off, presumably to join a men’s group. Nicholle eased into a chair as she nodded greetings to the others. She tapped her thumb against her index finger three times, cogging out. The small group sat at desks formed in a rectangle. Nicholle figured the room was used for Bible study.

  A chubby woman with short, copper-colored hair, sporting a tattoo of praying hands on her left forearm led the meeting. After reading the A.A. Preamble and leading the Serenity prayer, she opened the floor. Counterclockwise. Which meant Nicholle was third in line.

  Nicholle listened to people’s personal tales of loss and recovery. When it was her turn, she crossed one leg over the other at the ankle and took hold at the juncture.

  “Hi, I’m Nicholle.”

  “Hi, Nicholle,” everyone said.

  “I, ah…became an alcoholic a little over two years ago. My mother died when I was two and my father was rarely home, so it was mostly me and my older brother growing up.

  “So, about two years ago I went to work for my father in the family business…only it didn’t work out. I didn’t quite fit in, since I was the ‘artiste’ in the family.” She paused. “I never quite fit in. Anyway, after I was, in effect, fired from an internship, I hit the party scene, drinking and pakzing my way through D.C. and Maryland. I hooked up with a leader of a skeemz gang and cribbed in, did what I could to earn my keep. But I was drinking more than I was making, so I stole money from him to keep myself boozed and pakzed up. I knew he’d find out eventually, and I called my brother for money.

  “He said he would give it to me only if I came in for treatment that he could monitor. I was desperate, so I agreed. Only I haven’t seen the gang leader since. Which means I…haven’t lived up to Step 9 of the program, but something tells me…I may have the chance to reconcile that.”

  Her gaze shuttled around the room until it landed on Daria. She had that Mother Earth aura and she looked at Nicholle with the same intensity she probably gave a mushroom burger.

  Nicholle spoke on. “This afternoon, I found out my father fell ill, with only five days to live. So I went to a bar and had a drink. I have to admit, it felt good, relieved a bit of the stress. But it’s good that I felt guilty enough to come tonight, cuz a couple years ago, I would have thought nothing of it. Anyway, thanks for letting me share.”

  The group thanked her for sharing.

  b

  After she made her farewells, she trotted across the parking lot and climbed into warm leather.

  “Home.”

  Nicholle sat, numb, behind the wheel as it crossed the 14th Street Bridge. The car continued on autopilot through the streets of Southwest D.C., snaking past tony shops and bars that spilled forth moneyed clientele. The bouquet of culinary creations of four-star restaurants wafted through the air vent, but it failed to stir her senses. Her gaze swept over the reflections of buildings undulating in the waters of the Potomac River.

  Flashes of light illuminated the interior of the car driving under the street lamps. Flashes of memory illuminated her thoughts.

  Nicholle tapped her index finger three times against her thumb. Prismatic colors spiraled around her, then whipped into a tight coil, bringing the scent of fresh flowers. The standard greeting sounded in her ears, “Welcome to Cognition.”

  “Play Tekirna Maro,” Nicholle said. Tekirna’s voice flooded the car, and Nicholle’s senses filled with the smell of vanilla and the sights of purple and orange lights.

  She checked her father’s status on the hospital node, but it only blinked “Status Unchanged” in bright blue. She sank down into the seat and closed her eyes, all the way home.

  Arriving at the programmed destination, the car slid under the garage door, eased into a designated parking space, and shut off. Nicholle exited and headed for the nearby transport tube.

  As she rode along the horizontal track to her condo, her incoming cog light flashed purple. Call from Tyla Porreaux. Nicholle tapped to answer the call, voice only, and Tyla’s chattering instantly filled Nicholle’s head.

  “There you are. I swear, you need to stay spiraled in, you luddite. We still on for dinner?”

  “Listen. I really need to talk to you. Can you and Keala come over now?”

  “Sure thing, pachika.” Tyla’s voice mirrored instant concern. “You okay?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Oh, hon. Look, we’ll be right over. See you in five.”

  Nicholle terminated the call just as the building’s retinal scan confirmed her identity and the doors to the tube opened. Nicholle stepped into her great room, heels clacking on the oak flooring. Strode past the baby grand piano and round the corner to her bedroom suite. She threw her purse on the chair to the right of the door. The walls were painted crimson, accented by an open-scroll ceiling medallion. The bed stood on a dais against the far wall, draped in gauzy mesh from a canopy. Beaded pillows spilled from the bed onto the floor.

  Nicholle kicked off her navy Quatrocellini shoes, doffed her suit, and threw it at the feet of the laundrobot. Its single arm with two extensions bent to pick up the outfit for deposit into the ultrasonic cleaner.

  She pulled on her favorite sweatsuit. The magfield chime rang and she hurried out to the living room as the butlyr stood aside to let the guests enter. Tyla and Keala whirled into the room, chattering, rustling bags, and clanking bottles. Tyla had narrow almond-shaped eyes and wavy amber tresses that complemented her café au lait complexion. Keala had a wide-eyed innocent look that made her seem younger than her twenty-six years.

  “What’s wrong?” Tyla said. “You didn’t sound good at all when I cogged.”

  “Hey, guys. Just put the stuff in the kitchen,” Nicholle said. “I don’t feel like cooking. Maybe we can order something.”

  “No, no. As much as we paid for this steak, I’m cooking it. Consider me your chef for the night,” Keala said.

  They gathered in the kitchen over ginger ale and cheese and crackers. Keala fired up the grill and seasoned down the steaks. The flames reflected off the red aluminum tiles, lending an intimate feel to the spacious room. Nicholle told them about her father, Wills leaving, and Chris’s request. As she told the story, it resonated as someone else’s, or as some cheap skeemz one could buy off the street for a pack of cigs.

  “Oh, honey, are you okay?” Tyla said. She wrapped a hand around Nicholle’s arm in support.

  “Just kinda numb right now, you know?” Nicholle stared into the pale gold of her ginger ale.

  “I can’t imagine what it’s like. So your father might be—?” Keala said. She broke it off and looked down at the steaks before spearing one and laying it on the fire. It sizzled, sending up a tempting aroma.

  Nicholle filled in the blank. “Euthanized.” It was hard for Nicholle to even say the word. “I didn’t know he believed in that. I can’t imagine him doing that.”

  “But it might be the best thing. No suffering,” Keala said.

  Nicholle downed her soda. “That’s just it. I don’t know if he is suffering. The doctors, apparently, don’t have a clue as to what happened.”

  “I can’t believe Wills just took the money and left,” Tyla said. “Ass.”

  “He wasn’t always that way,” Nicholle said defensively, to her surprise. Her first memor
y was of her brother pushing her on a swing in the backyard when she was two. He used to defend her from Anatol, the neighborhood bully, once even getting a bloody nose for his troubles. As they grew, to help with their grief over their mother, they had called each other every day from their respective boarding schools. He used to tell her stories about their mother, so she would not forget. When they were home, their father barely spoke to them. He would creep into their room when he got home from the office to kiss them goodnight, after they had gone to sleep. She knew this because he would sometimes leave a piece of candy or some jewelry on her nightstand. Only when she grew up did she realize her father was probably working through his own grief.

  “Maybe my father’s lawyer would know something about his living will,” Nicholle said. The idea just came to her. “Why didn’t I think of that before?”

  “Yeah, but will he tell you anything?” Tyla said. “Confidentiality and all.”

  “He’d better tell me something. And take care of this euthanasia business.” The walls of her self-restraint buckled and swayed. Nicholle tapped open a line and asked for Henroi Jebted, face scan enabled. Momentarily, the visage of a man with salt-and-pepper hair in a dark grey suit appeared. He sat at a desk cluttered with e-pads, poring over one in particular. His image sprang out, sharper than reality. Upgraded diodes.

  “Yes, what is it?” He didn’t deign to lift his head.

  “Henroi, it’s Nicholle Ryder.”

  His head jerked up, facial muscles flickered—surprise?—then slid into customary placidness. “Nicholle. I was going to cog you. I’m so sorry about your father.”

  “Henroi, did you know about his living will? What the hell? Five days?”

  “Your father made his own wills, both his living will and his last will and testament. The living will would only be viewed by his attending physicians. I can, however, research precedents regarding the challenge of a living will. Your father did not have a history of mental illness, so we can’t say that he was mentally incapacitated.”

  “I don’t care, Henroi. Do what you have to. I don’t want him euthanized.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Do more than see,” Nicholle practically shouted. “And another thing, Chris Kappert asked me to take over the company since Wills skipped town with fifty billion.”

  Henroi’s cheeks darkened, as if he was personally embarrassed over Wills’ behavior.

  “Yes, Chris told me you would be heading up the company.” He cleared his throat. “Since Wills’ behavior can be viewed as criminal, you will also be in control of the entire Ryder estate. Minus, of course, the Foundation. Your father and brother still own majority shares in the company, but will not be able to exercise any rights without the Board’s permission. If Wills is exonerated, then control will revert back to him. But I’m drawing up the papers now for transfer to you.”

  “I see,” Nicholle mumbled. Only it’s not supposed to be like this. Her father and her brother were the responsible ones who took care of the family—well, what was left of it. She was the aimless one, the screw-up.

  “Fema,” she said.

  “Is there, ah, something wrong?”

  No time for introspection.

  Henroi’s brows bridged, as if recreating Pangaea. “Has someone told you about Perim Nestor?”

  “Who?”

  Henroi’s forehead slid back from his face, drawing up his eyebrows.

  “Ah,” he said. “Well…” He cleared his throat again. “Your father…” He slid her a furtive look. “…recently discovered he had a child out of wedlock thirty-three years ago, Perim Nestor. Your father hired him and put him on a six-month trial period, after which, if he performed satisfactorily, he would be placed in the line of succession. Third, to be exact.”

  Henroi’s words bounced in the timeframe between hearing and comprehending, not quite completing the connection.

  “Wait wait wait…what? My father had an illegitimate son, and hired him? When was this? And no one told me?”

  Rage crept into her voice. The astounding number of the day’s revelations threatened to send her screaming to Sheppard Pratt, begging to be admitted. The sound of Keala choking on a cracker broke through her conversation. Tyla and Keala looked at her, slack-jawed. Nicholle made a rolling gesture she hoped they interpreted as ‘I’ll tell you later.’

  “He found out last week, confirmed yesterday. He told me he didn’t want to bother you with it during your Prado exhibit,” Henroi said.

  “Well, who is Perim Nestor? Where does he come from? What’s he like? I mean good heavens…a new brother?” She slapped a palm across her forehead.

  The magfield chime rang again and the familiar whir of the butlyr followed.

  “What now?” Nicholle said. “Hold on, Henroi.” She paused her call and strode to the living room, half expecting a Quatrocellini purse delivery, but then remembered she hadn’t authorized an entry. The butlyr semi-opaqued the magfield to allow for speech.

  “Who is it?” Nicholle said. A shadowy figure hovered just beyond the door.

  “Talo Spyre. I’m your bodyguard. Sending up authorization now.”

  Nicholle’s periphery blinked red, then green as authorization was accepted. She allowed entry, and a tall man stepped through into the small foyer. He sported the brash confidence of a Mars shuttle commander, surveying the room as if ready to plant Old Glory between the cushions of the chintz sofa. Black hair waved back, stark against pale skin and watery blue eyes—a rugged handsomeness accented by a day’s worth of stubble. His nanon suit iridesced subtly, taking environmental readings—from room temperature to shifts in object proximity—feeding data directly to the cortex. She’d seen the like on Tuma’s personal sentry. Whoever this man was, he was top drawer.

  He proffered a hand, closer to his body than social convention dictated, as if drawing her into his space. She took the bait. He shined a perfect smile; goosebumps rose on her flesh.

  “Talo Spyre, at your service.”

  Tyla and Keala emerged from the kitchen, grinning like kids over a broken piñata. Nicholle introduced Talo and they all retreated to the living room. She messaged Henroi and told him she would call him back.

  Tyla and Keala squeezed Nicholle between them on the love seat; Talo sat opposite on the chaise lounge.

  “So…how long have you been…bodyguarding?” Nicholle said. She’d never had a bodyguard before and found the idea ludicrous. But she didn’t want to upset protocol. She had enough to worry over.

  “Ten years,” Talo said. “Mostly for corporate executives.”

  “So…what duties will you be performing?”

  He sat on the edge of the lounge, leaning forward, as if relaxing in a chair was a luxury rarely afforded. “I will plan routes, search rooms you’ll be in, check the background of people with whom you’ll have contact, search your vehicle, and escort you on your daily activities.”

  “Is all this really necessary? I mean, it’s not like we’ve had issues at AmHo where people have threatened lives. And excuse me, Mr. Spyre, I didn’t offer you anything to drink.”

  She fought her way from between Tyla and Keala and headed for the kitchen. “Is ginger ale all right?” she called out behind her. “I also have tea, coffee, water, and juice.” She grabbed a glass from the cabinet and stood at an open refrigerator, waiting for a reply. None came.

  Then two lason shots.

  Goosebumps. Her mind raced, instincts leaching back from street days. She pulled open the dish-towel drawer, reached at the back, and grabbed a Semi. Footsteps. Blue heat crackled past her head and she fell back, prize in hand. She pointed and fired blindly. She took out part of the wall, but nothing else. A sliding sound, as of someone crawling on carpet, and she lunged right and fired.

  A scream. Got him! He rolled, gro
aning, but twisted an arm around. His blast took out the Monet print on the wall, water lillies now a blackened hole. Nicholle fired at his back. His arm thudded softly on the carpet. She stood still for a moment, taking in the scene of a charred body lying on her dining room floor; she slid down the wall, scarcely believing what transpired…like 2D film noir. Tyla!

  “Tyla!”

  She ran to the living room and took in the gruesome scene.

  Too late.

  Blackened heads lolled at odd angles, bodies slumped to the side. Tears welled and streamed. She slid down the wall until she reached the floor and cried.

  When the oppression of three dead bodies nearby became too much, she cogged Chris. His face hovered before her, sporting a bored expression that quickly changed to shock once he took in the scene.

  “The hell happened to you?” he said.

  Seething fury boiled up. “Your bodyguard tried to kill me! He killed Tyla and Keala. What the fuck, Chris!”

  Bewildered look this time. “What are you talking about? Are you okay?”

  “I can’t believe you’re asking me if I’m okay when you just tried to have me killed!”

  “I didn’t try to kill you. The bodyguard was Perim’s choice. I told him I was getting you one, and he said he’d handle it. What happened?”

  “What happened?” she repeated, with a helping of sarcasm. But it was as if her mind refused to relive recent events. Perhaps she was in shock and couldn’t remember if she wanted. She closed her eyes. “I got off the phone with Henroi to answer the door. The bodyguard came in, introduced himself, and we sat down in the living room. I asked him about his duties, then I got up to go to the kitchen to get him something to drink. And that’s when…”