The Beam: Season One (2 page)

Now, that same anger was booing
her
. Hating
her
. Throwing things at
her
.
 

A shoe struck the stage. Who would throw a shoe? How would they ever get home? The shoe was heavy — someone’s idea of a dress shoe simply because it was black. The shoe nearly hit Natasha’s foot. She jumped back, shocked.

The man who’d thrown it yelled, “Thieving cunt!”
 

And Natasha thought,
This is Directorate.
 

Natasha stepped back, away from the tomato, the shoe, and the rolling rubber ball as if they were bombs. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. She’d poured her heart out. They were supposed to love her. She wasn’t supposed to be booed. She wasn’t supposed to be the whipping girl for the world’s social woes. She’d gotten her fame and fortune through hard work, clawing her way through the same system that was in front of everyone. The difference was,
she
had taken a chance.
She
had gambled.
They
— the bastards who were booing her — had just accepted their government dole and complained. Who were they to boo her? But that was what the venue got for selling cheap seats, for giving away tickets as promotions. Elegant affairs were supposed to be accessible only to elegant people —
especially
this close to Shift, when things always went to crap and when mixing classes was always a recipe for disaster.

The boos grew louder. It was so unfair. Natasha’s well-deserved applause had been shocked into silence, and a handful of loudmouths were getting all the attention. And this was going out on the Beam feed, too, so everyone was watching her moment crumble thanks to a handful of assholes. Soon, boos were the only sounds in the seats, oddly harmonizing with the thunking of objects landing onstage.

A well-dressed man, his eyes offended on Natasha’s behalf, jumped onto one of the jeering miscreants. The booing man fought back, throwing them both over a chair. Those around them stepped away. One of the malcontents closer to the stage turned to stare at Natasha as if she’d caused the fight and threw something at her. Natasha flinched away. Whatever the man had thrown struck and shattered a light, and with the explosion of glass and sparks, the paralysis remaining in the seats started to crumble. A few of the rabble in back began changing sides, apparently swayed by well-reasoned arguments from the troublemakers — sage truisms such as
Get the diamonds out of your ass!
And
Fuck you!

“Natasha!” hissed a voice. She turned to see Jane, her tour manager, beckoning her.
 

Natasha looked out at the brawl unfolding in the theater — the same theater that, moments earlier, had harbored a sea of adoring fans. What had gone wrong? She looked back at Jane. In the second it took to look away, Jane had easily grown twice as impatient. She had doubled the size of her gestures, and the number of arms used to make them. Her eyes looked angry, baffled by Natasha’s stupidity.
 

“Natasha!”
Jane repeated. “Get the hell over here, will you?”
 

“They threw a tomato,” was all Natasha could say.
 

Jane rushed forward and grabbed her star by the wrist, then began to pull on Natasha’s arm nearly hard enough to yank the limb from its socket. Natasha’s high heels threatened to spill her, but she’d had years and years of practice at remaining stylish and beautiful even under duress, and managed to keep her footing. She shambled along behind Jane like a dog on a leash. They stepped through a black curtain as something broke on stage. It sounded like glass or porcelain.
 

“Your hover,” said Jane. “Go with James.
Now
. Get the fuck out of here.”
 

“But I’m supposed to sign autographs,” Natasha said, dazed.
 

Jane jabbed at the curtain with a pointed finger. The gesture made the black drape swing, and Natasha saw through it that security and police had come to the front of the stage. The crowd was trying to climb up. Were they trying to escape the melee, or had they
all
turned on her?

“You want to sign for this crew?” said Jane. “You’ll need a riot mask. They’re falling apart out there!”
 

“Why?”
 

James’s hand was already replacing Jane’s on her wrist, and a moment later, the bodyguard’s strong arm was around her shoulder as well. Jane was supposed to manage tour dates, James was supposed to protect her. Only Jane would yank her along. James, on the other hand, knew better ways to move her.
 

“Come on, Ms. Ryan,” he said. James shaved his head, but wore a brown porkpie hat like a hipster. It was a strange look to counterpoint his broad, muscular body.
 

“I need Kiki.”
 

“I have your dog, Ms. Ryan. Come with me. It’s not safe here.”
 

“But they love me. They’re supposed to love me,” she said. Beyond the curtain, there was a yell, the scampering of feet, and the thump of a police slumbergun, followed by the sound of a body hitting the polished wood floor.
 

“Come with me. Come on. Let’s get you home.”
 

Natasha allowed herself to be led toward her hovercar. She was so catatonic that James had to buckle her in before taking his spot up front behind the steering fork. There was a small pink bag beside her on the seat. As the hover climbed, she reached inside it, pulled out the small white dog, and set him on her lap. She proceeded to tell Kiki that it was all fine, that Shift always caused a little unrest, and that other than the actions of a few rabblerousers, the performance had gone quite well. They loved her. They really did.
 

As James steered the craft into the thin traffic above District Zero and banked it toward Natasha’s penthouse, the star looked down and saw a dozen or more police cars arrive at the foot of the Aphora, their presence incongruous amongst the limousines and high-end hovers. She watched police swarm from their vehicles like ants rushing the theater, face-shields donned and slumbers held across their chests.
 

“It’s fine, Kiki,” said Natasha, petting her dog in short, quick strokes.

Kiki accepted his owner’s reassurances without protest or disagreement.

Chapter 2

“Isaac.”
 

After touching his flashing countertop to take the incoming call as voice-only with track-and-follow (necessary because he always paced while talking), Nicolai Costa said his one-word greeting, then listened as Isaac blabbed on for three full minutes to unburden himself. Yes, Nicolai was Isaac’s speechwriter. Yes, he was Isaac’s right-hand man, and yes, he was his chief advisor. But really, the core of Nicolai’s value to Isaac was as a buffer. Nicolai wasn’t responsible for
giving
Isaac information so much as he was responsible for
intercepting
information that would only worry or confuse him. And on the other side of the buffer, it wasn’t Nicolai’s job to act on Isaac’s fears and worries so much as to listen to them, then assure Isaac that it would all be okay. Nicolai didn’t precisely
do
most of what Isaac wanted done. It was Nicolai’s job to determine what actually needed to be done versus what was just Isaac being Isaac, then to handle things in whatever way he saw fit.

“They threw shit at her, Nicolai. Tomatoes. Fucking
tomatoes
, like Vaudeville. It took fifty police to stop what almost became a full-scale riot. She’s terrified. Well, of course, this is Natasha, so she’s not outwardly terrified, but she is just the same. I can see it. But she’s also… hang on, Nicolai.”
 

Nicolai had seen this move before and knew what was coming. Isaac was going to run out to his patio to say something he didn’t want Natasha to hear. Despite taking the call as voice-only, Nicolai could almost see Isaac scamper outside in his mind. Couldn’t Natasha see right through it? His departure had to say more than his words ever could.

Nicolai paced, waiting. He crossed the bank of windows looking out onto the city night below. As he passed his grand piano, his fingers feathered the keys. He kept promising himself he’d learn to play it one of these days, but a man only had so much time. Right now, he had his work writing for Isaac, plus his private creative writing projects. The piano would have to wait.
 

“You still there?” said Isaac’s voice. It seemed to be right in front of Nicolai.
 

“Where would I be?”
 

“I’d know, if you’d use video like a normal person.”
 

“Not everyone wants to be on video all the time, Isaac. What if I’m naked?”
 

Isaac made an impatient noise and continued. “Anyway, I was going to say that Natasha is
hurt
. Not like injured, but like… well, you know how she is.”
 

Nicolai knew. Natasha had practically grown up in the spotlight, and appreciation was, for her, like blood to a vampire.
 

“I understand.”
 

“The rioters were from our own party, from the Directorate. I don’t like it. It makes us look like a mob.”
 

“Of course it was our people,” said Nicolai. “Enterprise don’t riot.” And it was true. There were plenty of Enterprise members in the rabble (there were more Enterprise than Directorate below the line, actually, seeing as Directorate received support from their party whether they worked or not) but those poor Enterprise were starving artists, not disgruntled workmen. Artists didn’t rise up. When artists took a gamble and failed their way into ghettos, they sat in dark corners, slit their wrists, and listened to Morrissey drawl on from a century in the past.

“What does that mean?”
 

“Nothing, Isaac. Is she okay?”
 

“She’s fine. But I have a speech tomorrow. A speech to these… these
fuckers
.”

Nicolai couldn’t help but chuckle, keeping the sound low in his throat. He paced his apartment as Isaac’s voice followed.
 

“I’ll rewrite your speech,” Nicolai said. “This could be good. Don’t worry. I can spin anything.”
 

Isaac blurted. “How could it be good?”
 

“Unrest over inequity should actually work in our
favor
, not against us. Sure, Natasha is your wife and you’re Mr. Directorate, but where’s most of the wealth outside of Directorate leaders? Is it in the Directorate?”
 

“Well… no…”
 

“Of course not. So do you see what I’m saying?”
 

Isaac was probably nodding. It was an affect some people had when they took most of their calls via video.
 

“So get some rest,” said Nicolai. “Tell Natasha I said it’ll all be fine. I’ll get you a new draft of the speech and you’ll see. This is good. We
want
the Directorate upset. If they aren’t upset, they might decide to go Enterprise when Shift comes. But if they
are
angry and make noise, then not only will it solidify them against a common opponent and make them want to stay where they are, but their bitching will also raise the antenna of some of the complacent Enterprise — folks who are living below the line and might move to us just so they don’t starve. You’ll see.”
 

Isaac mumbled, mollified.
 

Nicolai said his goodbye and then swiped the air, ending the call. A beep said he was alone again, so he made another circuit of his apartment, looking out over District Zero.
 

As he paced, Nicolai looked at his piano — an astonishing black and white trophy appropriate to a man of his station. The thing was worth thousands upon thousands of credits — and was, as Nicolai saw it, a giant status symbol begging in vain to be used for the creation of art. Nicolai didn’t have room for any more art in his life, though. He told himself for the millionth time that his scattered bursts of creative writing were enough. They would have to be. Eventually, he’d find time for music, just as he’d find time to birth a painting on the decorative easel that now supported a plant.
 

He plopped onto his couch, swiped a square in the air with his fingers, and watched as the overhead Beam projector gave him a screen. Then he reached over and grabbed a keyboard from the endtable beside him. A canvas as expensive as Nicolai’s could project him an airboard, but Nicolai had never understood how people could use those things. It was neat to wave your fingers in the air as if hitting keys, but without tactile feedback, the experience was clunky at best. Such failures of common sense understanding were almost standard in a lot of modern (elite) technology. Sure, it was
neat
and
cool
and
fun
. But was it
practical?
In Nicolai’s opinion, airboards were for people who wanted to pretend they were writing but never actually did.
 

His fingers clacked on keys. Words lit the screen. This went on for a while, until Nicolai realized he was just rehashing Directorate propaganda and rewriting an old speech — one of the few standard speeches from the party’s archives that had been given by Directorate leaders over and over and over again. He had told Isaac that unrest was good, but the problem was that Nicolai didn’t know if he actually believed it. You couldn’t quell unrest; you could only redirect it. Those people had come after Natasha because she was at the top of the credit/income ladder, not because of her party affiliation. Nicolai couldn’t make that class-based anger vanish, so his best bet was to refocus it in a useful way. The rioters’ problems — and all of the problems plaguing the Directorate — were the result of the Enterprise.
They control the wealth. They are keeping you down.

With a strange punched-in-the-gut feeling, Nicolai realized that it wasn’t the first time such deflection had been used. Back when there had been mass immigration into America (in the days before it joined the North American Union), economic woes were usually blamed on foreigners coming in and taking jobs. Before that, the default enemy was the Jews.