The Beam: Season Three (4 page)

“Now wait just a minute…”
 

“I don’t fault you for any of it, and I won’t tattle. Besides, it’s right, in a way. Spooner-birthed hive thinking caused many of the problems that your Lunis drug claims to solve. I’d have considered it, even if just for altruism.” Noah gave Spooner a smile. “The problem is that no one will adopt it.”

“Why?”

“Because nobody wants
less
connectivity and distraction. They want more.”

“You’re sure of that, are you?”
 

Noah nodded. “I’ve based my entire business on it. Enough that, frankly, I’d have used the access I just told you about to quietly insert faults into the incubator programs controlling Lunis production if I saw it as a threat. But the world needs opposites to keep its edge. Agonist and antagonist. But in the end, there’s no good and bad. Only
variety.
Those who understand that — and have the means to control it — will need to band together.”
 

Spooner chewed his lip, waiting for Noah, seemingly unsure of what was coming.

“I don’t know if you truly don’t know me or if you’re just playing stupid,” Noah said, “but some day, all the world will know my name as well as yours. I want what my team calls your ‘fragmentation engine’ because one of my projects needs it — but I’m really after a larger prize. One that assumes the engine because it would be part of the bigger deal.”
 

“What deal?” Spooner asked. “What are you playing at?”
 

“Partnership.”
 

“Between For the People and Quark? It doesn’t make sense. FtP is finished. Officially, the lunar base is barely functional. People stopped caring about staring out into space when problems hit at home. Although the East was willing to keep holding hands and get through this little global calamity together, the NAU seems to have realized it was better off and could get through on its own — especially if it didn’t squander resources trying to help those beyond its borders.”

“I’m not talking about partnering businesses,” Noah said. “I’m talking about partnering
us.”

“Who,
us?
You and me? I’m not looking for another mastermind group to join, Mr. West. I have more money than I can spend.”

“Noah,” Noah said. “Call me Noah.”
 

“Fine. Noah.”
 

“I’m not only talking about you and me. And I’m not just talking about money.”
 

“What then?”
 

Noah told him.
 

The charismatic Brit dropped his doubtful expression and began to smile.
 

Chapter Two

Micah tried to access his dashboard several times while waiting. Each time, he felt stupid and lost when it failed to appear in front of his virtual eyes.
 

He needed to lower the temperature. It was too hot inside this immersion. His chair was hard and uncomfortable. He also needed a dose of calm. He didn’t like to show nerves, and these days he had plenty. It wasn’t so much sending Kai after his mother that had him on edge, and it wasn’t worry that Rachel’s friends in the secret club he suspected she belonged to would find out. Anyone who knew Micah wouldn’t be surprised by his siccing an assassin on his mother, and anyone who knew Rachel wouldn’t blame him. It wasn’t even Carter Vale’s Prime Statement bombshell about Project Mindbender that made Micah uneasy. But the stew of all three, taken together, was working on his gut in a way that no one stimulus could by itself.
 

Micah hated the idea that any of his seams might be showing. He hated the way he felt less than totally in control. Most of all, he hated knowing that he’d chastise Isaac for being exactly as he was right now. If you didn’t like the way a situation stood, you changed it. You didn’t sit there with clammy hands like a victim.
 

But he couldn’t change any of what was happening. He couldn’t accelerate his wait. He couldn’t make the inner office door open early. He couldn’t bully Lawrence, who Micah suspected might not be a real person, seeing as the real Lawrence would be nearly a hundred by now and not rich enough for the best enhancements.
 

And now, he couldn’t even pull up the immersion’s dashboard, no matter how many times he tried.
 

Maybe he was failing because he was too nervous for control, even though he should feel perfectly calm. Or maybe he was failing because The Beam — in this place of all places — didn’t obey Micah above everybody else. But mostly, Micah suspected he was unable to pull up the immersion dashboard because he wasn’t
in
an immersion…and that he was, as hard as it was to believe, actually
in Clive Spooner’s genuine office, in the for-real, non-simulated world.
 

That wasn’t really a shock. Of course he was in the real world, but he kept wanting to pinch himself. It was so damned hard to believe. Clive
never
took meetings in person. Not even with the man he’d known since he was a manipulative little toddler — or at least that’s how it sometimes seemed.
 

Clive had known Rachel Ryan back when she’d still had human bones. He always had and always would dwarf even the great Micah Ryan in ways Micah could barely understand. Micah bowed before no one, but he’d grown up in the shadow of the man who’d turned the rock circling the planet into an international treasure. Nobody pulled as many strings as Clive once had — as he still, in all probability, still pulled better than anyone today, even in the walled-off East. Micah was too good for heroes, but he’d watched Clive Spooner captivate the world, same as everyone, and that conditioning ran deep.
 

And now Clive had accepted an in-person meeting. Here, in his office, at the top of the twisted black Licorice Spire.
 

Micah looked at Lawrence, wondering if the man was a clone. Supposedly, they existed, and his lack of certainty felt like an unforgivable gap in knowledge. When Xenia could do all it could for the Beau Monde with its biological replacements, why would anyone bother to duplicate unenhanced human flesh as a clone? And even if it was possible, would you clone simply to preserve a competent assistant? Why even
have
an assistant when AI could surely do it better than Lawrence 2?

Micah stood. Lawrence looked over. He looked maybe twenty-eight and had an embarrassingly boring haircut.
 

“Tell him I have an appointment,” said Micah.
 

“He knows you have an appointment, Mr. Ryan.”
 

Micah swore inside. That had backfired. He’d meant that he wanted Clive to know he had a
different
appointment (something that might make him seem important by implication) and that Clive’s lack of punctuality was going to make him miss it. He wanted to flex his muscles and let Clive know that even the great mogul wasn’t the only important thing on Micah’s schedule. But all he’d done, by phrasing things wrong, was force Lawrence to remind Micah that Clive knew he was out here and yet was in no hurry to honor his time.
 

“Can I get you something while you wait?” Lawrence asked. As if Micah could be pacified with shitty coffee. As if Micah were just another supplicant, waiting on bent knee.
 

“I meant, I have
another
appointment. I need to leave soon if I’m going to make it.”

Lawrence watched him pleasantly.
 

Micah took a step toward the hallway door, waiting for Lawrence to stop him.
 

“I need to leave,” he repeated. “I’ve scheduled these too close together, and I’d assumed we’d be on time.” He resisted the urge to tap the wall to show Lawrence what time it actually was. He knew from his display that Spooner had kept him waiting for nearly twenty minutes already, but showing the assistant might shame him into action.
 

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Ryan.” Lawrence looked back at his screen. It was so thin that Micah literally couldn’t see it from the side — an ergonomic floating model buoyed by nanobots and made to adjust to the viewer’s eye level as it changed throughout the day. As Micah looked at Lawrence now, it seemed that Clive’s assistant was simply ignoring him.
 

“Unless you want to ring in and tell him. That I have a short window before I absolutely
must
leave, I mean. But it would have to be right now.”
 

Lawrence gave Micah a pleasant smile. “Mr. Spooner prefers not to be disturbed while working. I let him know when you arrived.”
 

“You may want to remind him, though, seeing as I have to go.”
 

Another smile. “That’s quite all right, Mr. Ryan. If you must leave, you can call anytime to reschedule. Have a pleasant afternoon.”
 

Micah stood where he was for a moment then returned to his hard, uncomfortable seat. He was just letting his head hang in defeat when the inner door opened. A boyish shout greeted him before he could compose himself enough to muster some dignity.
 

“Micah! It’s so nice to see you in person, young man.”
 

Micah made his face cordial but otherwise neutral. Clive had always called him “young man.” In Micah’s mind, it wasn’t unlike being called “kiddo” or “sport.”
 

“I have an appointment,” Micah said, again looking toward the hallway door. “It’s very important.”
 

Clive came forward and wrapped an arm around Micah’s shoulders, rumpling his blazer. “Oh yes. Of course it is.”
 

“No. I mean,
I have an appointment.”
Again he looked toward the door, half gesturing to indicate his pressing need to be elsewhere because he was a vital, in-demand person who waited on nobody.
 

“Sure, sure. I ran long on a previous call. I know you have an appointment, but it couldn’t be helped.”
 

“I mean…” Micah trailed off, sighing. He wished Clive had just agreed to meet in a simulation, like a normal person.

“Have a seat, Clive,” said Micah, gesturing, figuring he might as well try and order the man around his own office to regain some pride. But Clive was already walking to a bar along one wall. He didn’t seem to have heard.
 

“Get you a drink, Micah?”
 

“It’s a little early, isn’t it?”
 

Clive poured brown liquid over ice then drank half of it in one pull. The cost of that long swallow, knowing the way a man like Clive stocked his home and office, probably exceeded most of the city’s yearly Directorate doles.
 

“Sure it is,” said Clive, flashing his winning smile. “Nothing for you then? Fine.” He crossed the room, sat away from where Micah had indicated, and made himself casual. Micah, who’d been about to accept the drink, sat watching Clive swirl his own glass, ice cubes tinkling.

Micah sat. The chair was too small.
 

“Why did you want to meet in person, Clive?”
 

“You were the one who wanted to meet.”

“Yes, of course. But I assumed we’d meet in an immersion like we normally do.”

“Mikey, do you know who I meet in person most often?”
 

“I’d really rather you call me Micah.”
 

“Your mother,” Clive said, answering his own question and ignoring Micah’s protest. “I used to have a chance to see you and Isaac. Now it’s all simulations. It feels like we’ve spent time together because we’ve met in so many — but I swear this feels new now, like I haven’t seen you in decades.” He sipped. “Nobody meets in person anymore.”
 

“Plenty of people meet in person,” said Micah.
 

“Sim this, sim that. Immerse this, immerse that. That’s the problem with being rich, Micah. Everyone always gives you the best, even if you don’t want it. Sometimes, I want the imperfection of personality. Not something that’s been sifted and sorted by The Beam. And what does it say that really it’s just me and your mother and — well, and select other people who’d bore you — who I take my real time to meet and share space with? I’ve missed you, Micah. Haven’t even seen you in an immersion for a few months now. How are you? How is life in politics?”
 

“Complicated.” He shifted.

“Well then. What can I do for you?”
 

Micah took a moment before responding. Clive had always been his insider within his mother’s private group, but even Clive wouldn’t outright admit it even existed, who was in it, how much power it really had, or anything else. They’d always danced around the issue in veiled metaphors and winks. Only recently had things begun to change a little, probably lining up with his mother’s forthcoming death — sooner or later, depending on Kai. If he had to guess, it meant that Rachel’s involvement would pass to Micah when she shuffled off this mortal coil. But begging to know more — even after Clive asked a question Micah could answer with a too-curious question of his own — would probably result in frustration. It was maddening how well Clive kept the group’s secrets.
 

Instead of asking directly about the group (“Panel,” he’d heard it called) and his chances of joining the zenith of elite, Micah sniffed at its edges.