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  Perim Nestor, vice president of American Hologram, spoke on today’s events. “All cogs to Nicholle Ryder’s node have gone unanswered,” he said. “It’s a shame that she stole from the very employees and subscribers who have kept her in business all these years.”

  Mr. Nestor also said that Ms. Ryder dropped out of the social scene last year when she became addicted to illegal substances. He alleged she had become involved with a drug dealer named Tuma, who was twice convicted for drug trafficking.

  After living on the streets for several months, Ms. Ryder returned to her family. She subsequently entered Bright Horizons Rehabilitation Center and completed the program. “If you’re reading this, Nicholle, we just want you back. Just return the money, and no charges will be filed against you.”

  Her secret was out—all the way. She had been able to lie about her disappearance to colleagues—an extended vacation in Europe—but no longer. She checked the news sites, but they hadn’t picked up the story. As soon as they could corroborate Perim’s account, no doubt they would.

  “Got a moron here,” Cor said. “Going to try and break in.”

  “Could be a trap,” Arn said.

  “Roger that,” Cor replied.

  Cor pushed aside algorithmic code like a breast-stroke Olympian. Deeper into the core, until they could all see the pink and black of the central system. Chris rode his tail, covering any aftershocks of their intrusion. It was easy going so far.

  “Too easy,” Chris said.

  At that utterance, a bright red flash pierced the blue mesh, directly behind the node Chris had just passed. He didn’t see it, careening forward after Cor.

  “Chris!” Nicholle shouted.

  The blackholes began winding backward, hidden programs suddenly blinking in neon reds and pinks. Sentinels swooped down in swarms, their tails sweeping clean the tampered nodes.

  “Shit, it was a trap. He was waiting for me. Regroup!” Chris said.

  Arn, Trenar, and Cor dropped a shield in front of them and spiraled out, spinning like tornadoes, zigzagging around sentinels.

  Chris’s arms flailed. His knees buckled, sending him pitching and yawing. Nicholle stepped forward and caught him as he fell. They both dropped to the floor. His dead weight pinned her.

  She took off her fryer as hot sweat covered her body and a gnawing pain in her head curled around the edge of her mind. She rolled Chris off her, praying he was all right. The pain became more insistent, tightening around her eyes. It corkscrewed toward the middle of her skull, and she rolled over in agony. She cradled her head, willing the pain to go away.

  Cor, Trenar, and Arn writhed on the floor, in seemingly as much pain as she. She crawled over to Chris and reached through the wretched throbbing to remove his fryer and toss it aside. She clawed his shoulders and shook.

  “Chris, wake up!”

  He lay limp, flopping about at her insistent shaking. The pangs spiked behind her eyes. “Chris!”

  She looked at the others. Trenar made it to a standing position and began staggering around the room, bumping into furniture. Tears mingled with mascara and eye shadow and they ran down her face in clown-like anguish.

  Cor and Arn each managed a lopsided crawl as they cradled their head with one hand. A spasm bent around Nicholle’s neck and spine, sending her flat on her back. Her head sank into Chris’s stomach. But instead of being moved by the rhythmic up-and-down motion of his breathing, she remained still, his stomach stiff and unyielding. The realization hit her slowly, through the murkiness of incomprehension.

  “He’s not breathing!” she screamed.

  The pain spiked one last time. Darkness descended.

  Chapter 7

  Brilliant yellow leaves gleamed in the tall oaks of Parklawn Cemetery. The massive trees stood guard over their charges. A soaring rustling danced in the upper branches, drowning the sound of traffic on Viers Mill Road. Perim lifted his face and breathed in the fall air. The smell of a fire wafted by, bringing with it the memories of the fireplace in the small efficiency apartment he and his mother had shared nearby. During the weeks they couldn’t afford heat, they lit a fire in a small covered fire pit, sometimes cooking noodles and hot dogs in a pot.

  Those were the times he liked best—even when there was little to eat—because it was just his mom and him. No men were there to threaten him or make his mother scream in the night. Then the food got too scarce and his mother would go out at nights, coming home early in the morning, but bringing delicious meat, fruit, cheese, and even cookies and popsicles. Then his mother would feel guilty, as she had said, and would stay home nights, studying for classes she took during the day. He didn’t know what she meant by feeling guilty, until he was in sixth grade. Then he had figured it out.

  But when she did attend class, he would sometimes sit with her, bored with Napoleon and Erasmus, but fascinated with supply and demand and the accounting equation. He would take notes himself in those classes, even filling in what his mother had missed. On various occasions, the professor would call on him and he would answer correctly. He had liked that. But his mother liked history, not business, so he was disappointed when she changed her major. He had been looking forward to learning more about intrinsic stakeholder commitment.

  He kneeled by her headstone and placed a bouquet of white roses in the holder.

  “Hey, Ma. Nice day, eh? The leaves, they’re practically glowing. Must’ve had a lot of rain this summer. Not that I remember.

  “I found Dad, from the information you told me just before you passed. I have a brother and a sister, too. William. They call him Wills. And Nicholle. He’s an ass, but haven’t met her yet. But you know they’ll have to go. And then I’ll take down the company. And you can rest in peace.”

  With Nicholle out of the way, he’d be able to do as he pleased. As Geren’s son, the board would most likely vote him as president, and then he would have accomplished what he set out to do. He could use the embezzlement as an excuse to start laying off employees and selling off assets. He’d pocket as much as he could before the company went under. He chuckled. Whoever wanted it could buy it at a fire-sale price. Now that will be sweet revenge.

  He headed back to the office.

  b

  Perim looked down the length of the table at the Board of Directors. The board room of American Hologram boasted a twenty-foot mahogany table, a Persian rug, and an art deco ice bucket once owned by Coco Chanel. The AmHo logo beamed in the circular window as light shone through it, a world globe flanked by two yellow half-circle arrows. Written within: Universal Service.

  What a crock. Perim thought the logo a product of Geren’s ego. And it would soon be gone.

  “Members of the board. I’ve called this emergency meeting to make an announcement. And I’ll cut to the chase. I am the illegitimate son of Geren Ryder.”

  He paused for reaction. Everyone looked up, some with slacked jaws, some with wide eyes, some with both. He continued.

  “As you can see from the document I’m forwarding to your nodes, Geren planned to put me on a six-month trial, then insert me in the line of succession behind William and Nicholle. However, since they have not only shirked their duties to this company, but engaged in criminal activity, I respectfully ask that the Board make me acting president so that I can help tamp down this PR nightmare we’ve been going through.”

  “How do we know for sure that you’re his son?”

  The question came from Jerry Maven, head of Solixna Pharmaceuticals.

  Perim forced a smile. “I am also forwarding…” He scrolled the air with his finger and selected two documents. Forwarded. “…DNA test results, my resume, and a description of the firm I, until recently, was president of. I am a qualified candidate. And since I don’t want to take up more of your time than is necessary, I will leave the room, and you can
put it to a vote.”

  b

  Perim waited in his office while the Board voted. He swiveled in his chair, ruminating on how to draw down the accounts. He’d need a lackey, someone naïve, or close to it. Naïveté was a rare commodity these days.

  Vedor Smith. It came to him almost instantly.

  He cogged Vedor.

  Vedor invariably garnered pity with his five-foot two-inch frame and a beard that faded into prepubescent skin in some spots. To make himself look older, he always wore suits, or at least Perim surmised that was the reason. Most techrus looked as if they had just crawled out of the sewer.

  Vedor was beaming. Perim had never seen anyone so happy to be at work. If only all his employees were like that, turnover would be nonexistent. Too bad human cloning was outlawed. He could make a killing by selling loyal, enthusiastic employees to companies around the world.

  “Since the recent breach in security regarding bank accounts, I’ve set up new accounts in the satellite banking system. They’ll receive a lot of wi-cash transfers. And because the amounts are above the insured limit for a bank, I need to move the monies around, split them up. Okay? I have a schedule that I’ll send you. I need for you to set it up.”

  “No problem. Just give me the list of banks and amounts to transfer.”

  “That’s the thing. The list will change every day, so I’ll be sending new ones. Could even be several times a day.”

  “Right. I’ll take care of it.”

  Either he didn’t know about laundering money or he was stringing Perim along. But Vedor didn’t seem the type to know about such things. Not that appearances couldn’t be deceiving, he just had an innocence that was hard to feign. From the shiny new shoes to the neatly combed hair, Vedor radiated naïveté. No furtive glances to see whether Perim believed his last words, no quick movements when surprised. Still…something niggled in the back of Perim’s mind. It was probably his paranoia.

  “Oh! I wanted to show you where I dubbed up the grid.” Vedor transferred a holoimage to Perim. A blue grid of dense mesh glimmered in the dimmed light. Pink nodules shone in a pattern on the blue mesh, each radiating lines that extended to the edge.

  “We had an attempted intrusion last night, but security held.”

  “Really? Can you send me the feed?”

  “Sure. Okay, I’ve laid an error correction mesh to cut down on polarization fluctuations and double photon emissions. Makes the server more secure and helps eliminate batter attempts.”

  “I’m impressed, Vedor. Excellent. Only this nodule in the bottom corner, it doesn’t shine as brightly as the others.”

  “Oh, that’s probably just an anomaly in the laser diodes.”

  Was that a moment’s hesitation?

  “I see. Well, as I said, excellent work. And now, I’ve got another meeting to attend, so if you don’t mind.” Perim rose and Vedor jumped out of his seat.

  “Of course. I’ll be in my office if you need me.” Vedor walked to the door, beaming a smile back at Perim as he went.

  Perim tapped his chin and gave instructions to Cog. “Activate the tap in Vedor’s office.”

  Was Vedor a spy? He would know one way or another soon.

  He tapped open a line to the communication vice president, Liz Bryn. Her slender brown face held a look of deep concern.

  “What’s wrong, Liz?”

  “The news of scandal filtered through our S&P rating. It took a dive, and wireheads are pinging me left and right, ’specially the Banner. It’s all, ‘Gather ’round, boys, and bring a rope while you’re at it.’”

  “Liz, you’re all doom and gloom. This will blow over, mark my words.” Liz had a tendency for melodrama, which usually made for a good communications/propaganda officer in the staid world of wiho providers, but Perim wondered if it would be a liability in a time of scandal.

  “I’d rather be marking the days off my ski vacation in the Alps, but it looks like I’ll be chained to my desk for the time being. Any marching orders?”

  “Make nice, like with the mainstream media. Just tell them we cannot comment on an ongoing investigation, but that the alleged charges have been committed by those who have already left the company. Our financial position is strong and we’re sure that American Hologram will be exonerated.”

  “Standard shmeck. Look, they’ve already started digging, so it’ll only be a matter of time. I hope you’ve got a Plan B.”

  “Don’t worry, Liz. I definitely have a plan.”

  Chapter 8

  The odor in the small motel lobby reminded Thia of the moldy shed at her grandmother’s house, where she was sent to retrieve various gardening tools when she was a child. She had been afraid of the dark, dank lean-to, but even more afraid of her grandmother.

  The motel lobby held two stained chairs that formed a half square in the middle of the floor. The worn rug looked as if it hadn’t been vacuumed in a year. Clashing curtains topped with a layer of dust shielded the musty room from the glare of the neon sign outside. One bright light shone above the registration counter, casting gloomy shadows over the rest of the small lobby. A grinning jack-o’-lantern that sat next to an outmoded computer monitor greeted her from the edge of the counter.

  “Can I help you?” The speaker was a burly man with terracotta skin and wispy hair. Either he couldn’t afford hair replacement therapy or he didn’t care that the top of his head looked like a moth-eaten mohair sweater.

  “I’d like a room for the night. Smoking,” Thia said.

  “No problem.” A tag bearing the name, Shiloham Zyan, was affixed to his shirt. “Where you from?” He flashed a bright smile as he began tapping on the monitor screen.

  “North Carolina,” Thia replied. Which was true. A little truth went a long way in keeping aliases straight. She scanned him and sent the visual feed to the central imaging lab. The quick and dirty search yielded preliminary information, scrolling in orange on the edge of her vision: Shiloham Zyan was the owner/operator of a small motel on Route 301, born in Augusta, Georgia, married with five children, whose electronic transmissions showed no criminal activity. He was having an affair with a Ravi Benar from Odenton, looked at porn sites two to three times a week, and had a recent prostate infection, most likely caused by a prior case of chlamydia.

  “Ah, I have a friend from North Carolina. How was the traffic coming up?”

  “There was an accident on ninety-five, so I cut over to three-oh-one down by Richmond. Figured I could take ninety-seven up to Baltimore.” People became suspicious of those who refused to engage in small talk, so it was a skill Thia learned early on. The more details offered, the more believable the story.

  “Oh, yes. Baltimore is just up the road.”

  “Yeah, well, I was just about to fall asleep, so I figured I’d best stay the night somewhere. Better safe than sorry.”

  “Oh, no question. Okay, just give me your national ID card, please, and sign the screen.” He turned the monitor toward her, proffering a stylus.

  Thia did as she was bidden.

  “Okie dokie. I have you in room number seven.”

  “Ah, my lucky number.”

  Shiloham grinned. “Mine, too.” He winked at Thia, who did her best to maintain her composure as she took the key card. He had some nerve, she thought. The door banged shut as she left the rancid lobby.

  The pungent tang of stale sweat accosted her as she entered her room. She tossed her travel bag on the bed, then went to each window and opened it. A small ceiling fan hung over the bed and she turned it on full blast.

  The modest room held a bed, a nightstand, and a dresser that looked as if it might fall in on itself. The bathroom boasted a toilet and a sonic cleaner so tiny she would have to kneel inside it. What were motels coming to now? In a few more years, guests would probably have to stay in
coffin-sized rooms. They were already being offered at airports for those who missed their flights, or were snowed in.

  Thia didn’t turn on the lights, but let her eyes grow accustomed to the dark. She sat on the bed and spiraled into Cog. Needles of color—red, purple, chartreuse—shot away from her, then coalesced into a helical whorl.

  “Welcome to Cognition,” sounded in her head. She grabbed a pack of cigarettes from her bag, lit one, and sat down on the bed. Smoke spiraled and hung in the dark room within the translucent red menu. She took a drag and blew the spiral into an aura.

  Nicholle hung out with the jet set, sometimes reported on in the society pages, usually seen with some designer or her man of the month. She seemed to change mates like she changed hairstyles. Like her brother.

  Thia didn’t have to look far. The front recto of the Ynquirer featured a dazzling picture of Nicholle in a red beaded evening gown, leaving the Kennedy Center. Stock photo, had to be. She was at least ten pounds heavier the last time Thia saw her. The headlines blared the news: A Family Affair! Company President Makes Off With $20 B! Brother Made Off With $50 B!

  Thia scanned the article and found Nicholle had eluded the authorities, that the company techru was missing, and that she was once linked with the Quatrocellini heir, Marc.

  “I remember him,” Thia said to herself.

  So Nicholle was on the run, most likely with Chris Kappert, and not likely to turn up at any of her residences, knowing the boys in blue would be hounding her. Which meant she had gone underground. Thia tried to imagine Nicholle living anywhere that didn’t have golden faucets and fawning servants. She was probably driving Kappert crazy, poor guy.

  But where were they? They could be anywhere, in some rundown building in the suburbs, a basement in the purlieus, a downtown apartment. If she could track Nicholle’s financial transactions, it would make it a hell of a lot easier. Thia punched up the DOI database and entered Nicholle’s name. The recto flooded with information, psychological profile—ENFP; employer—National Gallery of Art; places frequented—work, restaurants, designer stores, friends’ houses; bank, credit, investment accounts—zero balances. Zero balances? What the—?