“That’s no airline ticket,” I say hollowly, meeting Lord Aaron’s eyes.
“But what is it?” Duke Spencer says, scanning. “Something with Amalgamated. See their logo, there?”
Lord Aaron looks back to his screen and his eyes widen as he goes oddly pale.
“What?” I whisper, and my quiet words make him startle.
“What if…oh. Oh no.” Lord Aaron pushes his hair off his face and ties it back with an elastic band from his pocket. Duke Spencer’s eyes mirror my own alarm, and he moves behind Lord Aaron and leans low over his shoulder. The office is wrapped in tense silence for several minutes, save for an occasional indecipherable muttering from Lord Aaron. He opens another document. And another. Then he’s flipping through files too fast for me to track what he’s looking at. Finally he leans back; his forehead is misted with sweat despite the cool temperature.
“It’s the bots,” he says, and I hear the despair in his voice. “Contracts for the bots. That first one is a five-hundred-million-euro contract with the German government. Then a number of smaller contracts for private companies. It’s the same in every location—contracts between Sonoma, Amalgamated, and local interests. Public and private sector.”
“So…he’s pitching the bots? We knew he was going to be doing that. Or,” I amend, “we assumed that was the next step.”
“These contracts are drafted and negotiated. They’re final documents, ready for signatures. The pitch must have come ages ago. He’s traveling around for the signings. That’s why he’s only staying a few hours in each city. Meet, sign, destroy the working class, and move on.” Lord Aaron slams his fist down on his desk with a crack that makes us all jump.
I don’t hear Saber come up behind me until I feel a supporting hand on my waist.
“This just goes on and on.” Lord Aaron points at the calendar for next month. “See, there’s the business trip he’ll inform you he’s taking in a few more weeks.”
“Signing contracts with more countries.” I don’t need to look at the screen to know.
“Seven more.” Lord Aaron props his forehead on his hands, elbows braced on the table. “He’s out doing it right now. Impoverishing millions to line his pockets with a few extra billion.”
“But there’s nothing we can do about it,” Lady Mei says tentatively.
Lord Aaron wheels his chair back, narrowly missing Duke Spencer’s foot, a frantic gleam in his eyes. “I don’t think any of you understand how drastic this is. This,” he says, flinging his hand toward the computer screen, “is only the beginning. I could see that the Foundation was going to be overwhelmed—even with only serving the Sonoma employees—but I thought we’d have a couple of years at least before this turned into a truly global threat. Your husband,” he says to me, almost accusingly, “has been working very hard behind the scenes.”
“And that’s my fault?” My voice is icy, and Lord Aaron gets the message.
“My apologies,” he says, closing his eyes and rubbing at his temples. “I’m shooting the messenger, aren’t I?”
“A bit.” The sins on my own head weigh heavy enough.
Lord Aaron lets out a deep, rattling sigh. “Let me try to explain. At the moment, the wealthiest five percent of the world controls eighty-five percent of the world’s money. Conversely, the poorest half—half—of the population do ninety-five percent of the manual labor. As those jobs are replaced, who benefits? The wealthy. That eighty-five percent of the wealth? It’ll rise to ninety. That may not sound like a very big change, but in the bottom ninety-five percent that’s like losing one job in every three.” He spreads his hands wide. “Rough estimates, of course, but supported by centuries of precedence and economics. This is the beginning of a genuinely catastrophic change.”
I let the numbers slide through my head, and it makes more sense to me than his frenetic ramblings in the SUV. Numbers: that’s a language I can understand.
Lord Aaron slumps back in his chair. “Bots don’t stop to eat or sleep. Each one can replace three humans, minimum. Every human job supports about four people: spouses, children, elderly parents, you know. Every bot sold condemns about a dozen human beings to poverty, eviction, malnutrition. With money fleeing to corporate sovereignties like our own, national interests won’t be able to bear the strain of so many unemployable poor. How long before they cast off responsibility? Leave people to starve in the streets?” Lord Aaron’s eyes dart to Saber and he lowers his voice. “Hundreds of millions of people will be in the same straits that drove your friend’s family to leave Mongolia a decade ago. But this time, there will be nowhere for them to flee.”
My gaze whips around to Saber, but the stony look on his face tells me he already made that connection. My stomach hurts.
“The entire world will be in economic crisis,” Lord Aaron finishes.
“Except the wealthy.”
“Exactly.”
“What are you going to do?” I whisper.
“I don’t know,” Lord Aaron replies just as quietly. He rises slowly from his chair and squeezes Duke Spencer’s hand. “I need to walk. I’ll not be decent company for a while. You’ll excuse me, I hope.”
Without waiting for an answer, he rises from his desk. Just before his hand turns the knob, Lord Aaron pauses. He doesn’t look back at me as he whispers, “Justin Wyndham is nothing short of evil. Evil. You remember that. And don’t you ever let him convince you he’s anything less.”
“I won’t,” I promise. My hands are shaking.
Duke Spencer starts to follow Lord Aaron, looking back at me and Lady Mei with apology in his eyes, but Lord Aaron lays a gentle hand on the duke’s chest. “Stay,” he says softly. Then gives a shallow, self-deprecating smile. “Let me sulk alone for a while.”
Needing to do something once he’s gone, I seat myself in Lord Aaron’s soft, leather-upholstered office chair and begin assembling a data crawler from some of Lord Aaron’s and my preexisting hacks. Lord Aaron has his mission—his passion, even—but I still have to find a way to personally get out from under the thumb of one of the richest and most powerful monsters in the world.
Preferably before he becomes even richer and more powerful.
The others in the office settle in as I code, occasionally pausing to consult Mateus’s files—wiped clean from my tablet and residing offline on Lord Aaron’s external hard drive. While I work, Lady Mei curls up in an armchair in the corner and pulls out her tablet—likely to play a game or read a book, but at least she stays. Duke Spencer paces, occasionally peering over my shoulder, but since I don’t explain myself, it’s more of a symbolic gesture of support than a helpful eye. Saber has resumed his post against the wall near the door, his eyes dark and unflinching as he watches me.
Soon enough I’ve cobbled together a search assistant to highlight potentially interesting tidbits, but other than the contracts, the unencrypted contents of Mateus’s tablet prove mind-numbingly mundane. Manga—apparently Mateus particularly enjoys illustrated stories about the everyday trials of Neotokyo housewives. Reams of communication with a sister in Romania, a minor functionary in Sonoma’s local sales force. The King’s schedule in agonizingly minute detail, covering every waking moment, and some notations about his sleeping schedule as well. Surprisingly little actual information, which, in hindsight, makes sense: wouldn’t want to carry around a tablet full of incriminating evidence.
“Oh, damn, look at this,” I say, scanning through one rather simple document. “Mateus is writing a book.”
“A book?” Lady Mei says, jumping up from her chair. “Is it any good?”
I snicker as I skim the first few pages. “Not really.”
“It looks like a thinly veiled fantasy about a CEO who suddenly discovers an attraction to his stalwart administrative assistant,” Duke Spencer says wryly.
I meet Lady Mei’s eyes over Duke Spencer’s head, and then we burst into undignified giggles. “I al
ways suspected,” I say, wiping at my eyes. The fit of laughter is just what we needed to break up the tension.
“How dreadfully cliché of him. But does His Majesty suspect?” Lady Mei asks dramatically.
“Surely he hasn’t missed it,” I say, closing the florid prose and moving on to the next weirdly titled document. “Oh! This one is marked Trade Secret. This should be good.” I squint at the jumble of technical jargon, complete with equations that might be calculus but also bring to mind a chemistry assignment I once had, too many years ago. “What do you suppose this is?” I ask, scrolling down. “It’s about seventy pages long.”
“Oh, hey,” Duke Spencer says, scooting closer. “That’s a lab report. Looks like it’s from the agricultural division.”
“How can you tell?” asks Lady Mei.
“My parents headed up the ag division in the US,” he explains. “They were reviewing documents like this all the time. Growing up in that environment, you pick up a few things whether you want to or not.”
“Do you know what it means, then?” I ask.
“I picked up a few things,” he says dryly. “Not all the things. I don’t know what this is. But it’s old.”
“Old?”
“Early twenty-first century,” he says. “Look at the time stamp there—2034.”
“That’s from before Sonoman-Versailles even existed. King Kevin’s time. Well, CEO Kevin Wyndham’s time.”
“Might be his report,” Duke Spencer says. “Before he was a King he was a scientific genius.”
“And a bit mad,” Lady Mei pipes up.
“Eccentric,” I correct automatically, then chide myself. This is Lady Mei, who loves the finery of palace life even more than I do. Did? I certainly don’t need to defend the founder of our country to her. “Why the hell would something like this be sitting on Mateus’s tablet?”
Duke Spencer shrugs. “Could be related to a project His Highness is working on?”
“Do you think you could find out?” I ask. Despite having written the program that found this doc, I certainly can’t make sense of it. I’ll take code over bioscience any day.
“Maybe. I—still have friends, connections, back in the agro department,” Duke Spencer says haltingly. “I might be able to consult with them. Lord Aaron can help me encrypt the document to send it along, right?”
I nod, then hesitate. “Can you trust them?” It might turn out to be nothing, but if it’s not…
“To keep secrets? That’s what scientists do.”
I stare at the document for a long time before nodding. “You take it from here.”
WE ALL WALK together back to Duke Spencer’s new apartments, more because it’s on the way to the main section of the palace than for any particularly friendly reason. Lord Aaron’s absence seems to have made both Duke Spencer and me a little melancholy—Duke Spencer from empathy, I suspect, and me because I’m waiting for the consequences. If Lord Aaron wasn’t already determined to leave as soon as possible, he is now.
Lady Mei, on the other hand, chats about what she’s going to wear to the assembly tonight, and I hold tight to her arm, needing a connection to that memory of how carefree life used to be. We all ignore the tourists gawking on the other side of the velvet ropes that bifurcate the wide hallway. We’re so accustomed; they’re more like buzzing insects than people.
Duke Spencer enters a pass code on a concealed keypad before turning and fluttering his fingers in a rather pathetic wave.
“He’ll be back,” I say lamely. “These moods never last too long.”
Duke Spencer nods, stoic as ever, and opens the ornate door to his opulent lodgings as I turn to continue on my way.
Lady Mei’s scream brings me back around, and it takes several seconds before I realize what I’m seeing.
Julianna Tremain, hanging, swinging slightly, from the rafters.
“M.A.R.I.E.!” I shout. “Security! Now!” But of course—it’s Wednesday. More shrieks and screams sound behind me, and with a sinking heart I realize all the tourists who happened to be strolling in the general vicinity have now seen a dead body in the Palace of Versailles. Despite the screen rule, I retrieve my tablet from my reticule and send an alert over the wireless. Even as I push the buttons that will summon security to me, I hear the artificial clicks of a dozen handheld devices snapping pictures and probably—God save us—recording video.
Justin is not going to be pleased.
“Inside,” Saber says quietly, interposing himself between Lady Mei and the crowd, pushing her into the apartment and past the hanging form. “Spencer—Duke, whatever, come on!” He pulls on Duke Spencer’s cuffs, and finally the duke staggers into the foyer.
“Cut her down,” Duke Spencer chokes, tears streaming down his face. “Please.”
“One thing at a time,” Saber says in that same gentle, comforting voice he’s used on me so many times. “Danica, the door. Crack it and tell me if security is coming.”
He shuffles both Lady Mei and Duke Spencer farther into the apartment, and though Lady Mei stays on her feet, Duke Spencer slides down the wall into a heap. Saber assists the duke in tucking his head between his knees even as he sobs—awful, painful sounds coming from his throat.
I’m supposed to be keeping an eye out for security, but I’m still staring at the body, my hand clenched on the doorknob. Her face is contorted and white, cocked slightly to the side. Her eyes are not only open but bulging and bloodshot. The tip of a purple tongue peeks out from between Glitter-rouged lips, and briefly I wonder where she got it. I’ve never sold it directly to her, but many of the higher nobility share among themselves.
I stare up at her and feel nothing. No, not nothing. Nauseated. But emotionally? Nothing. I should. Maybe it’ll come later. Maybe your third dead body is when you grow used to the sight.
Saber slips past me, righting a fallen chair—doubtless the one Lady Julianna used to do the deed—and climbing up on it. There’s a box cutter in his hand, and he’s sawing through the cord she used.
“Saber?” Should he be doing that? Interfering with a dead body? It feels wrong. Like desecration.
But before I can say anything more, he’s lowering the limp, dully attired body to the floor, touching her wrist, her neck. I can’t remember having ever seen Lady Julianna in such plain, unremarkable clothing, and in my puzzlement I almost don’t see the moment Saber wipes the Glitter from her lips with a handkerchief, an instant before pressing his mouth to hers.
What? Oh. CPR.
There’s no way it will work, of course. But Saber’s quiet efficiency never fails to astound. He’s just doing what any calm, reasonable bystander would do upon finding someone hanging from the ceiling. And in the process, making sure the inevitable autopsy fails to find Glitter on her lips.
This is a different Saber. Crime lord Saber. The person he so rarely lets me see, because I know what sort of experience would be required to make him this way. And even though he hates Glitter, hates Reginald, still he protects me. I don’t feel guilty so much as relieved.
It’s a particularly loud sob from Duke Spencer that turns me away from the charade. “She didn’t deserve this,” he says, his voice shaking. “She was the best of that whole family. I hated that she got dragged into everything. This—this is my fault.”
He needs Lord Aaron. I blink, activating my Lens. “Summon Lord Aaron Williamson,” I say quietly, knowing that within the walls of the Tremain-Harrisford apartments, M.A.R.I.E. will hear me.
My Lens flashes that he’s set his status to unavailable.
“Emergency override, on the authority of the Queen,” I snap, suddenly angry at M.A.R.I.E., of all things, for denying me what I need. “Contact Lord Aaron Williamson immediately.”
Lord Aaron answers the new emergency call in moments. “Spence?” His voice is tinny in the speaker on my pearl earring, but the desperation is as loud as a shout i
n a silent room.
“No. He’s fine. But he needs you. We’re at his home.” The call ends before I can utter another word.
Saber is still playing at CPR when the head of security bursts through the door, speaking into a screen on his wrist, presumably summoning extra officers. I catch Saber shoving the handkerchief into his pocket as he stands, looking bereft and hopeless.
It’s surprisingly convincing.
I look away and peek through the crack in the door out into the hallway. The frenetic chatter of the bystanders—not to mention the irresistible pull of drama—has gathered a crowd of both residents and tourists that swells as each minute goes by, and I’m bracing myself for the inevitable, which can’t be long in coming.
Sure enough, within minutes a frantic form comes bursting through the door in a cacophony of shrieks and wails.
Julianna’s mother, Duchess Tremain. Now simply Madame Tremain, I suppose.
The former duke follows behind his wife, stone-faced and sober at the edge of the foyer, but Madame Tremain throws herself toward her daughter’s body, only to be caught by Saber and a security guard in a simple blue uniform. They hold her back. One of the security officers has draped a thin satin tablecloth from a nearby console table over Julianna. It doesn’t cover her wholly, but at least her face is shielded from view. I rush back to the double doors, which the Tremains unhelpfully left standing open, and slam them shut in my hurry. Everyone turns at the noise, but I don’t apologize.
“Julianna!” her mother wails, and I can’t help wishing that her husband would take her in hand. Keep her from making such a scene. They’ve lost a daughter; must they lose their dignity as well?
Apparently so.
Madame Tremain crumples to the floor, fully prostrate, and lets out more of those high-pitched squeals and even kicks her feet a few times, like a child throwing a tantrum, and I remember the reports of her behavior when they were evicted. I thought the stories overblown at the time, but the potential is there. The spectacle is so diverting I almost don’t notice Lord Aaron’s arrival. He slips quietly through the doors and crouches beside Duke Spencer, embracing him. I can’t help but feel that the misused ex-husband’s display of quiet grief is far more soul-wrenching than the performance Madame Tremain is airing.