“Hello, Chris,” Hubbard/Bell said, extending his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
I shook it. “And you,” I said. “I’m sorry, I’m having a bit of déjà vu at the moment.”
Hubbard/Bell smiled. “I get that a lot,” he said. He sipped from the glass: scotch on the rocks.
“Sorry,” I said. “I was just surprised.”
“So you know who Lucas is,” Dad said, watching our somewhat cryptic exchange.
“No, it’s not that,” I said. “I mean, yes. I know who Lucas Hubbard is, of course. But I also know…” I trailed off. It was considered rude to acknowledge that an integrated Haden was using someone else’s body.
“You know the Integrator I’m using,” Hubbard said, sparing me the faux pas.
“Yes, that’s it,” I said. “We’ve met before.”
“Socially?” Hubbard said.
“Professionally,” I said. “Briefly.”
“Interesting,” Hubbard said. A rather good-looking woman walked up and stood next to him. He motioned to her. “And this is Accelerant Investments’ general counsel, Samuel Schwartz.”
“We’ve met,” Schwartz said, looking directly at me.
“Have you, now,” Hubbard said.
“Also professionally,” I said. “Also briefly.”
“Indeed,” Schwartz said, and smiled. “I didn’t make the connection as to who you were at first when we met, Agent Shane. I had to look you up halfway through the conversation. I do apologize.”
“No apology needed,” I said. “I was out of context. Speaking of which, you are looking a bit different from when I last saw you, Mr. Schwartz. It’s an unexpected look.”
Schwartz glanced down at his body. “I suppose it is,” he said. “I know some Hadens who enjoy cross-gender integration, but I’m not usually one of them. But my usual Integrator was unavailable this evening and I was a last-minute addition to this party. So I had to work with who was available.”
“You could have done worse,” I assured him. He smiled again.
“I don’t know how I feel about you knowing these two better than I do,” Dad said, charmingly, smoothly.
“I find it a little surprising myself,” I said.
“As do I,” Hubbard said. “It doesn’t seem possible that your father and I haven’t crossed paths before, all things considered. But then, aside from our various offices, Accelerant Investments doesn’t do much in the field of real estate.”
“Why is that, Lucas?” Dad asked.
“As a Haden, I’m less engaged with the physical world, I suppose,” Hubbard said. “It’s just not front of mind for me.” He motioned at Dad with his scotch. “I don’t think you mind me not competing in your field.”
“No,” Dad said. “Although I don’t mind competition.”
“That’s because you’re very good at beating the competition,” Hubbard said.
Dad laughed. “I suppose that’s true,” he said.
“Of course it is,” Hubbard said, and then looked at me, smiling. “It’s something the two of us have in common.”
* * *
As we sat down at the table for dinner I called Vann, using my inside voice so no one at the table would know my attention was elsewhere.
Vann picked up. “I’m busy,” she said. I could barely hear her over the background noise.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“I’m in a bar, having a drink and trying to get laid,” she said. “Which means I’m busy.”
“I know that Lucas Hubbard uses Nicholas Bell as an Integrator.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Hubbard is sitting across from me at the dinner table right now, using Bell.”
“Well, shit,” Vann said. “That was easy.”
“What should I do?”
“You’re off the clock, Shane,” Vann said. “Do what you like.”
“I thought you might be a little more excited,” I said.
“When you see me tomorrow, on the job, I will be excited,” Vann promised. “Right now, I’m otherwise occupied.”
“Got it,” I said. “Sorry to bother you.”
“So am I,” Vann said. “But since you did I’ll tell you I’ve made progress on our corpse. The DNA came back.”
“Who is he?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“I thought you said you made progress,” I said.
“I did. The DNA analysis didn’t come up with anything but it determined that he’s probably of Navajo ancestry. Which might explain why we can’t find him in the database. If he’s Navajo and he lived on a reservation, then all his records would be on the reservation’s databases. They’re not automatically tied into the U.S. databases because the Navajo Nation is autonomous. And strangely distrustful of the United States government!” Vann fairly cackled that last line.
“How often does that happen?” I asked. “Even if you live on a reservation, if you ever leave it, you probably do something that gets you into our databases.”
“Maybe this guy never left,” Vann said. “Until he left.”
“Do we have a request in to them?” I asked. “The Navajo Nation, I mean.”
“Our forensics team does, yeah,” Vann said. “DNA, fingerprints, and facial scan. The Navajo will get to it when they get to it. They don’t always put a priority on our needs.”
Up at the head of the table, Dad started clanging on his wineglass, and then stood up.
“Have to go,” I said. “My dad is about to make a speech.”
“Good,” Vann said. “I was about to hang up on you anyway.” And then she did.
* * *
Dad’s speech was his standard-issue “at home with donors who everyone is pretending are friends” speech, which is to say that it was light, familiar, casually intimate, yet at the same time it touched on themes important to the nation and to his not-quite-formally-announced senatorial campaign. It went over like it usually does, which is to say very well, because Dad is Dad and he’s been doing the public relations thing since he was in high school. If you can’t be charmed by Marcus Shane, you’re probably a sociopath of some sort.
But at the end of the speech there was a switch up from the text. Dad mentioned “the challenges and opportunities that Abrams-Kettering offers each of us,” which I thought was a little out of context, since only Hubbard and Schwartz and I had Haden’s. So I cheated and did a quick facial scan of the other people at the table. Five of them were CEOs and/or chairmen of companies that catered to the Haden market one way or another, with all the businesses headquartered here in Virginia.
That explained it, then. And also why Dad was especially keen to have me at the dinner.
Which meant, of course, that I was put on the spot.
“And what do you think of Abrams-Kettering, Chris?” one of the dinner guests asked me. The facial scan registered him as Rick Wisson, the husband of Jim Buchold, the CEO of Loudoun Pharma. Buchold, who was seated next to his husband, shot him a look, which Wisson either missed or ignored. I did not imagine their ride home that night would be especially pleasant.
“I don’t think it will be particularly surprising to you that my opinion closely matches my father’s,” I said, punting the conversational ball over to Dad.
Who naturally caught it easily. “What Chris is saying is that as with most topics relating to Haden’s, we talk a lot about it as a family,” he said. “So what I end up saying is a result of long discussions between the three of us. Now, I think everyone knows that I was publicly opposed to Abrams-Kettering. I still think it was the wrong solution to something that wasn’t a problem—we know as a group Hadens are contributing more to the national economy than they take out of it. But Abrams-Kettering did pass, for better or worse, and now it’s time to see how we make this new environment work for us.”
“That,” I said, pointing down the table to my dad.
“What do you think about the walkout? And the march?” Wisson asked.
“Rick,” Jim Buchold said, as pleasantly as a snarl could be offered.
“It’s not out of line for dinner,” Wisson said, to his husband. “Not for this dinner, anyway. And Chris here is an actual Haden.”
“There’s three of us at the table, actually,” I said, nodding over to Hubbard and Schwartz.
“With all due respect to Lucas and Mr. Schwartz, they’re not exactly going to be affected by the changes in the law,” Wisson said. Hubbard and Schwartz both smiled thinly at this. “You, on the other hand, have a job and are out there on the street. You have to have some thoughts on it.”
“I think everyone has the right to their own opinion and the right to peaceably assemble,” I said. When in doubt, fall back on the First Amendment.
“I worry about the ‘peaceable’ part of it,” said Carole Lamb, down the table. She was one of the people for whom the valet was hired. She was old and crankily conservative in the way only old liberals could be. “My daughter tells me the D.C. police are calling in their entire force this weekend. They’re worried about rioting.”
“And why is that, Ms. Lamb?” Sam Schwartz asked.
“She said they’re worried that the Hadens who are marching won’t be scared of the police,” Lamb said. “Threeps aren’t the same as human bodies.”
“Your daughter is worried about a robot uprising,” I said.
Lamb looked over at me and immediately blushed. “It’s not that,” she said, hastily. “It’s just that this is the first mass Haden protest. It’s different than any other protest.”
“Robot uprising,” I said again, and then held up a hand before Lamb got even more flustered. “Threeps aren’t human bodies, no. But they’re not Terminators, either. The ones we use to get around on a daily basis are intentionally designed to be as much like the human body as possible, in terms of strength, agility, and other factors.”
“Because it’s still a human running the threep,” Dad said.
“Right,” I said. “And a human is going to use a machine scaled to natural human capabilities better than one that’s not.” I held up my hand. “This is a machine hand, attached to a machine arm. But it’s rated for human power. I’m not going to be able to flip this table in a rage. The marchers aren’t going to be stomping down the Mall, tossing cars.”
“Threeps are still tougher than human bodies,” Wisson noted. “They can take a lot of damage.”
“Well,” I said. “I’ll tell you a story. Mom and Dad will remember this one. When I was eight, I got a new bike for my birthday—”
“Oh God, this story,” Mom said.
“—and at the time I had just found out about BMX stunts,” I continued. “So one morning I made a ramp out on our driveway and was jumping off of the thing, working up the courage to do a spin or something. I finally psyched myself up, pedaled as fast as I could, zoomed up the ramp, tried a spin, and flew ass over handlebar off the bike and into the road, right into the path of a panel truck doing thirty. It hit me—”
“I really hate this story,” Mom said. Dad grinned.
“—and I disintegrated,” I said. “The impact tore my threep apart. My head literally popped off and flew into the neighbor’s bushes. I had no idea what happened. I had the feeling like I was shoved really hard, the world spun around, and then all of a sudden I was kicked back into my own body, wondering what the heck had just happened.”
“If that had been your human body, you would have been dead,” Dad pointed out.
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “Which you or Mom mention every single time the story gets brought up. The point is”—I turned back to Wisson—“threeps might be tougher than human bodies, but they can still get damaged. And threeps aren’t cheap. They cost the same as a car. Most people aren’t going to want to let a cop whack on their threep with a baton any more than they’d want a cop to use a baton on their fender. So I don’t think we’re going to have to worry about that robot uprising. The robots cost too much money for that.”
“What happened after the truck hit you?” Schwartz asked.
“Well, I was without a threep for a while,” I said, and there was laughter to that. “And I think the driver of the moving truck threatened to sue Dad.”
“He said I was at fault because I owned the threep and the threep came into his path, and he had the right of way,” Dad said.
“He wouldn’t have had a case,” I said. “Personal Transports are a special class of machine under the law. Short of manslaughter, hitting a threep with a truck carries the same penalties as hitting a human body.”
“Right, but I didn’t want to have my name in the news over it,” Dad said. “So I bought him off. Paid for the truck damage and gave him floor tickets to the Wizards.”
“You’ve never given me floor tickets,” Buchold said.
“Don’t get any ideas,” Dad said, and everyone laughed again. “Besides, Chris is an FBI agent these days. Now you’d get in trouble if you hit my kid with a truck.”
“The other thing I remember is that the next threep I got was a real lemon,” I said, and turned to Dad. “What model was it?”
“A Metro Junior Courier,” Dad said. “A really janky model.”
“Uh-oh,” Hubbard said. “Accelerant owns Metro.”
“Well, then,” I said. “I blame you.”
“Fair enough,” Hubbard said. “Although this was twenty years ago, right?”
“About,” I said.
“Then I didn’t own it yet,” Hubbard said. “We bought it eighteen years ago. No, seventeen. Seventeen?” He turned to Schwartz, who looked surprised. Hubbard looked annoyed at his counsel, but then reached out to pat his hand reassuringly. “Seventeen,” he said finally. “We bought it because the stock was depressed from a bad run of models, including the Courier and the Junior Courier.”
“I can believe it,” I said. “It was the last Metro model we ever bought.”
“They’ve gotten better,” Hubbard said. “I can send you over one of our latest if you’d like a test drive.”
“Thanks, but I just got this,” I motioned to my 660XS. “I’m not in the market.”
Hubbard smiled. “It’s funny because we’ve begun discussions with Sebring-Warner about a merger.”
“I read about that in the Post this morning,” Dad said.
“That story was only about sixty percent inaccurate,” Hubbard said.
“A-ha,” I said, and then looked over at Schwartz.
“What?” he said.
“That’s why you’re using an Ajax 370,” I said. “Market research.”
Schwartz looked at me blankly. “Very perceptive,” Hubbard said. “Yes, Sam’s been trying out some of the models, along with some other folks on my staff. There’s something to be said for hands-on experience, as it were.”
“Is this related to Abrams-Kettering?” Dad asked. “The merger talks.”
“Somewhat,” Hubbard said. “The government subsidy for threeps dries up at the end of the year, so right now we’re selling every threep we can put out there. But when January comes around everything’s going to contract. Merging’s a hedge against that. But I’m also interested in their R&D program, which is doing some interesting things.” He turned to me. “They’re doing some groundbreaking work in taste right now.”
“As in esthetics, or in, like, tasting things?” I asked.
“Actually tasting things,” Hubbard said. “It’s been the one sense that’s really never been well developed in threeps because there’s not a practical use for it. Threeps don’t have to eat. But there’s no reason why they couldn’t.” He pointed to my place setting, which was bare of food. “Your being at the table right now would be more natural if you were eating, and not just sitting there.”
“To be fair, I am eating,” I said. “Just in the other room.” And through a tube, which I did not say, because that might have been a little dark for dinner conversation. “And my seat cushion has an inductive charger. So my threep’s eating too, so
to speak.”
“Even so,” Hubbard said. “Chris, one of the great goals that you and your family have tried to realize is the idea of making people see threeps as human. Despite your good work, there’s still a ways to go with it.” He motioned over to Carole Lamb, who seemed startled by the sudden attention. “Our colleague’s daughter has made that point for us just this evening. Being able to have a threep sit down to a meal and actually eat would continue that humanizing path.”
“Maybe,” I said. “I have to tell you I wonder where the food would go once I tasted it.”
“There are better ways to humanize Hadens,” Buchold said. “Like giving them back their bodies.”
Hubbard turned his attention to Buchold. “Ah. Right. Jim Buchold. The one person at the table whose business isn’t affected by Abrams-Kettering.”
“I don’t think you can criticize Congress of keeping Haden medical research levels at one hundred percent,” Buchold said. “We’re looking to solve the problem, not profit from it.”
“That’s noble of you,” Hubbard said. “Although I saw Loudoun’s last quarterly. You’re profiting just fine.”
Buchold turned to me. “Chris, let me ask you,” he said. He pointed to my empty dinner plate. “How would you rather taste your food? Through a threep or with your own tongue?”
Now it was Wisson’s turn to shoot his husband a look, and rightly so. There was no way this discussion was not going to get awkward, fast.
But before I could answer, Buchold continued on. “We’ve been working on research to unlock Haden’s sufferers,” he said. “Not to just simulate eating but to give Hadens back the basic body integrity to do things like chew and swallow. To free their bodies and bring them back—”
“Bring us back from what, exactly?” Hubbard said. “From a community of five million people in the U.S. and forty million worldwide? From an emerging culture that interacts with but is independent of the physical world, with its own concerns, interests, and economy? You’re aware that a large number of Hadens have no memory of the physical world at all, aren’t you?” Hubbard pointed at me. “Chris here experienced lock in at two years old. What do you remember from being two, Jim?”