Beneath the Shine

  Percy looks down at his fingernails, filed square and polished dark purple with a deep rich sheen, like a night sky. “Probably an incoming com on her Cerepin from Mommy dearest. Poor Anna’s family is under siege, new threats daily. It’s had a rather devastating effect on her social life, I’m afraid.”

  “What? Why are they being threatened?”

  He stares at me incredulously, then breaks into a wide smile, as if he’d just gotten the punch line to a joke. He inclines his head toward Anna, who is at the top of the staircase, frowning as she stares into space. “You really don’t know who she is, do you?”

  “I don’t have a Cerepin to give me all the answers.”

  “Then let me help you out.” He joins me on my step and nudges my shoulder with his in a conspiratorial way. “You have just made the acquaintance of Anna Fortin.” There’s that smirk again. He looks like he thinks this whole situation is hilarious. “You may have heard of her mother?”

  Crap. Gia Fortin strikes again. “She said her mom told her to be nice to me,” I mumble.

  “Ah. Well. I’m sure a political animal as cunning as yourself can puzzle this one out. This”—he tugs at his cuff—“is why I stick to fashion.” Each of his cuff links is a flower, as it turns out. The rubies are the petals. “Slightly less likely to result in bloodshed. Shall we?” He offers his arm.

  I gape at him.

  He lays his palm over his chest. “You have slain me with a glance.” But his expression is one of barely restrained laughter. “Welcome to DC, Marguerite. The city is at your feet.” He glances down at my new boots, and I am suddenly very aware that I’ve already managed to scuff them. He is smiling as he meets my eyes again and leans forward to whisper, “Do watch your step.”

  Chapter Three

  Marguerite

  I sit in the cubicle and put on the goggles, already feeling queasy. With unsteady hands, I slip in the two earpods, and the noise from the learning room—thirty voices all having one-sided conversations—cuts off abruptly.

  It’s been a year since I was in school. When El came to Houston and invited me and Mom to join the campaign and travel around the country with them, he made sure to tell her that they would provide a tutor for me. He also made sure to specify that the tutor would be human, not virtual.

  There were reasons.

  I wipe my clammy palms on my pant legs. I was fine during the homeroom discussion—there, we sat in a circle and Mr. Cordoza said everyone had to turn their Cerepins to “blank.” He walked us through a discussion of AI accountability in light of a few recent incidents in which cannies committed crimes after being infected with malware. Most of the kids in the room ignored me, looking away whenever I spoke, but Anna and one other girl, Kyla, kept talking right to me, so it ended up being a conversation between the three of us and the teacher. Fine by me.

  Mr. Cordoza went out of his way to be nice to me, without being a stooge about it. I think he and Anna are on the same page—they both handle me a little like one would a loaded weapon.

  When he dismissed us to our individual learning sessions, my gut started to churn. I mean, I knew it was coming—Clinton is actually notable for the amount of time spent in what is called “organic learning,” which basically means that you get to interact with an actual human teacher like we did in that discussion with Mr. Cordoza. Research has proven that humans pick up social skills in complex interactions with other humans, who are not nearly as accommodating as cannies, so places like this one, swimming in the tax dollars of the 1-percenters, provide teachers who have a heartbeat.

  My school in Houston did, too, once upon a time.

  “Marguerite Singer, welcome to my classroom,” says a male voice as my goggles light up, revealing an empty room containing just a stool and a screen. When I look down, I see my own hands on the surface of an old-fashioned school desk.

  When I look up, Aristotle is sitting on the stool in front of me. He has thinning white hair and a goatee. Teacherlike. Nothing about his appearance is designed to distract from the learning process.

  It is all I can do not to rip the goggles off my face.

  Aristotle rises from his stool, steepling his fingers. “Your previous tutor’s lesson plans have been uploaded, so we’ll simply continue our discussion where you left off. Later, we’ll do some games and exercises to assess your problem-solving style and strengths, as well as your learning needs and preferences.”

  He keeps talking. I’m just . . . lost in this. All I can think about is Dad and how excited he was when he first heard of Aristotle. “Margie,” he said to me, “this is going to revolutionize my classroom.” He had the biggest smile on his face, and he was gesturing with his big hands, his hair shaggy around his face, his beard long and bushy. His students joked that he was a bear trying to disguise himself as a man. They loved him. His energy and passion were infectious.

  Aristotle is still talking. “You’ve clearly covered a great deal of the French Revolution, so we’ll focus on the Reign of Terror for today, beginning with its political and social catalysts.”

  “The people were sick of being mistreated,” I say flatly. “They wanted equality and fairness in their society. And that is something I can totally get behind.”

  “Actually, one of the causes of the Reign of Terror was widespread frustration that the early promises of the revolution—measures to end poverty and increase that equality you mentioned—had not been fulfilled. The external threats to the country had largely been resolved, and so the revolutionaries focused on the internal threats to their hoped-for changes.”

  “Right,” I say. “The nobility. The people lucky enough to be born to the right families, so they got to live a life of wealth and privilege while their neighbors starved.” Bianca’s face flashes in my mind, along with her diamond-dusted collarbone. Between that and the way she was attacking me, I’m guessing her parents are technocrats of the highest order. Probably racking up billions while not giving a crap about the jobs they’re costing working Americans.

  “—used violence as a deterrent for counterrevolutionaries,” drones Aristotle. He’s gesturing at the screen behind him, where images from the revolution are being displayed. One shows a guy with a frilly thing around his neck and a long crimson tailcoat, and I instantly think of Percy. I’m betting he would have loved revolutionary French fashion—until they chopped off his head for being a pretentious idiot.

  “Marguerite?”

  “Huh?”

  Aristotle smiles. “Your biostats indicate your attention has drifted.”

  I can’t bring myself to care. I used to love classes, but this guy’s not a teacher. He’s not even a person.

  He leans forward. “Would you like to take a break?”

  “Yeah.” I strip off my goggles and rip out my earpods, then glance around. I’m in a big room lined on three sides with cubicles, each filled with one of my classmates staring at the blank white walls. Unlike me, they’re using their Cerepins for their learning sessions. With their lenses and auditory chips, their tech seamlessly meshes with their bodies. They can access the whole virtual world, the entire Mainstream, any channel, any experience, any information, with a literal blink of their eyes or a simple flick of the gaze, tilt of the head, murmured command—even, I’ve heard it rumored, a simple thought for the newest versions. The richer you are, the more like a machine you can become.

  Bianca is sitting a few seats down. As if she senses me, she leans back from her desk and looks my way, then smirks and blinks, just once.

  She’s recording me, I’m sure.

  My goggles are flashing on my desk, a warning that Mr. Cordoza will be alerted if I don’t get back to it.

  I make it through my lesson, with my AI teacher using the French Revolution as a classic example of how initially noble ideals can be corrupted step by step and how power speeds up that process. By the time it’s over, I am so badly in need of a voice from home, some sense of the familiar, that I can barely hold back the tears.
I bow my head and whisper, “Com Orianna.”

  My comband screen goes fuzzy for a moment and then hums as it tries to reach my best friend back home. I haven’t talked to her since just after the election, when I told her I wasn’t coming back to Houston. I sag in my seat as her face appears, too pale, sleepy eyes, hair mussed and spread across her pillow. “Hey,” I say. “You’re still in bed? I thought I might catch you between learning sessions.”

  “It’s an hour earlier than where you are,” she mumbles.

  “But it’s almost noon here.”

  She starts to sit up, then winces. Her fingers slide up the back of her neck and poke at her neurostim device. She shivers from head to toe and blinks fast. “There we go. Now I’m up.” Clear-eyed now, she peers at her comband. “You okay? Saw your vid last night. Looks like you had fun at the ball.”

  “Yeah, but my carriage turned into a pumpkin at midnight. I’m me again.”

  “You look thrashed. I saw that King Troll got up in your comments this morning. Saw you start to get into it with him.”

  I roll my eyes. “Not for long. I shouldn’t ever reply, though. It doesn’t help.”

  “Frag-flow-er,” she says, exaggerating each syllable. “What kind of stupid name is that?”

  “I’m sure it was chosen by committee. He’s probably just a flack on Gia Fortin’s payroll.” I bite my lip and glance around as I realize someone might hear me. Everybody seems immersed in the lessons.

  “. . . just ignore,” Orianna is saying. “Sore loser.”

  I lean my head on the side of the cubicle. “I’m trying.”

  “Hey. You look like you need one of these.” She lifts her hair from her neck to show off the little black pod attached to her skin just below her hairline. “Screw Cerepins—I’ll take one of these babies any day.”

  “You got a new one. Was it pricey?” I squint to try to see her new neurostim device, but the image is pixelating randomly, either because the network in Houston is so crappy or because her comband is too old to manage the data, or both.

  “You kidding? Each new version is cheaper! Which is good because they wear out fast. But boy, do they help. Everyone in the fam has one now.”

  “I’ll tell Uncle Wynn you said that,” I tell her. “That’ll make his day.”

  “Good. Tell Mr. President that Orianna Ross approves.” She draws out that last word, syrupy smooth. “So, you gonna stick it to those technocrites?” Her lips stay pouty even after her voice falls silent and her eyes half close. For a moment I wonder if her screen has frozen, but then her eyes shut all the way.

  “You sure you’re awake?”

  “Almost.” She reaches up and taps her device again, then lets that shudder run through her. “There we go.” She gives me a goofy grin. “I miss you, you know that?”

  My throat goes tight. “I miss you, too.”

  “You might miss me, but I know you don’t miss being here. When is our new commander in chief gonna fix us up?”

  “Is it bad?”

  She shrugs. “Another shooting.”

  “Someone we know?”

  “I think it was Trey’s older brother.”

  “The one who moved to Chicago?”

  “Came back in the fall after he got laid off. Don’t know why he thought it’d be any better there. Only place it’s better is where you are. And maybe California. Boston.”

  “We’ll make it better everywhere,” I say to her, but it doesn’t look like she hears me.

  She rubs her eyes. “That’s three shot since the new year.” She touches her neurostim. “Only reason I’m not crying all the time.”

  Her eyes meet mine for the first time, and even through the pixelation I can see they’re bloodshot and shiny, her pupils small, like her comband is on the brightest setting. “Listen. Don’t you forget about us. Don’t get so used to all that fancy tech that you become one of them.”

  “I won’t! You know I won’t.”

  She scowls and taps at her screen, which freezes.

  “Orianna? Can you hear me?”

  The screen stays fixed on her frowning face. I end the com and try to reconnect, but all I get is a This user is busy message. I’m alone again.

  Actually, not really. When I turn around, I realize that Anna is waiting behind me with Kyla, the only other student who didn’t ostracize me in homeroom. She has plain shoulder-length black hair and no visible diamond dust, making Kyla instantly more approachable than most of my classmates.

  “We just finished and wondered if you wanted to sit with us at lunch,” Anna says.

  I glance around, as if another, better deal is going to come my way, and notice Bianca staring at me again. “Sounds good.”

  We join the flow of glittering, perfumed bodies moving toward the cafeteria. Kyla and Anna walk with me between them, and only one person kicks my heel as I pass, so it’s a definite improvement on the morning. For now, I’ve decided to put aside the fact that Anna is Gia Fortin’s daughter. I’m on guard, sure, knowing she could use anything I say as some sort of ammo, but as long as I don’t actually trust her, we should be fine.

  Once in the cafeteria, I grab an eerily perfect-looking salad and a protein bar and head for a seat at the table Kyla has staked out. “My parents are scientists at the Department of Artificial Intelligence Regulation,” she tells me with a smile.

  “Oh,” I say as I sit, my stomach sinking. “Are they still . . .”

  “Employed?” Kyla asks. “Sure—they’re not political appointees.”

  “How are they with the change of administration?” I ask as Anna joins us.

  Kyla gives me a nervous smile before dipping into her yogurt. “They just want to do their job, you know?”

  It hits me in too many ways. “Yeah. I know all about parents who just want to do their jobs. I get it.”

  Anna opens a bottle of sparkling water. “How was Aristotle this morning?”

  I frown. “Like, what kind of mood was he in? I don’t—”

  “No, I mean were you okay being in there?”

  “You know what happened to my dad,” I say quietly.

  She nods. “I think a lot of people here don’t—they didn’t pay a lot of attention to the campaign.”

  “I wanted to say something before,” Kyla says quietly. “I’m really sorry for your loss.”

  “Whose loss?” Percy leans on the table, holding a tray containing steamed fish and a protein bar like mine.

  “My dad,” I say.

  “Ah,” Percy says and lifts his coattails as he plops into the seat next to Kyla’s. “You’re a vision in cobalt,” he says to her.

  Kyla’s cheeks glow pink as she runs her fingers down the arm of her blue sweater, which fits her like a second skin. “I watched your vid on winter blues.”

  “And here I get to reap the benefits. Payment in full.”

  Kyla turns to me. “Have you seen Percy’s fashion vids? They’re almost as popular as yours!”

  “Wow,” I say in a voice that shows I’m not at all wowed. “Cool.”

  Percy just looks amused. “I’d be happy to give you a makeover, Marguerite. Sallese’s consultants have not done you justice.”

  “That’s a nice way of telling me I look like crap.”

  He leans back and slaps his hand onto his chest, showing off those dark purple–painted fingernails. “You do me a disservice, darling.”

  “Don’t call me ‘darling.’”

  “I apologize, my dear.”

  “Oh my god.” I turn to Anna, who has her sandwich halfway to her mouth.

  “He’s an acquired taste,” she offers.

  “I’m not really into fashion.”

  She nods without looking at me. “Obviously you have other priorities.”

  Just then, Bianca and company stride in. “Here we go again,” I mutter.

  “She’s harmless,” Kyla says. “Just hasn’t gotten over the regime change.”

  I chuckle. “You think I’m afraid of her? Ha
ve you ever been to Houston?” A streak of bitterness cuts right through me. “You guys really have no idea what it’s like out there.”

  “Oh, do tell,” drawls Percy.

  I grit my teeth. “Everything’s a joke to you, because you don’t see the murders or the home invasions. It happens all the time now—people who have been kicked off the subsidy rolls get desperate sometimes. Before the sponsored neurostim programs started—”

  Percy’s eyes flash. “Neurostims. The magical cure-all . . . that our current president made his fortune selling.”

  “I didn’t say they were a cure-all,” I snap. “But I’ve seen them help people through the rough patches! And, by the way, it’s the one piece of intracranial tech that people like me actually can afford.”

  “Because Sallese is so very generous,” Percy says. There’s something glinting in those blue eyes of his. Literally glinting. Like silver chips. He would be that vain. “I am certain that the fact that those charming little devices wear out after a few months and must be replaced by now-desperate individuals would have nothing to do with why he runs a charity program to give away the devices to first-time users.” His lip curls. “The first hit is always free.”

  “That’s totally unfair,” I say, “and totally rich coming from someone who . . .” I peer at his temple, and that is the first time I realize he doesn’t have a Cerepin.

  “Yes?” Percy leans forward.

  My nostrils flare. “Someone who doesn’t have the slightest clue how most people live. There’s hunger, and there’s violence—”

  “Violence is everywhere, darling.” His voice is the slice of a knife. “I don’t care if you are from Houston or Hawaii—don’t kid yourself into thinking you understand it better than I do.”

  Anna and Kyla look stricken, and even the kids at the nearby tables have fallen silent. Percy has shed his amused detachment like a coat. Now he’s a live wire, incandescent and dangerous.

  I clear my throat. Then I look at each of my new classmates at the table and down to the untouched food on my plate. “I forgot to wash my hands.” I get up and walk away, feeling Percy’s gaze on my back like a laser beam.