Robin Wasserman - Torn

“I assume there’s an implied or ?” M. Poulet asked dryly.

“Or we go public,” Jude said. “And it doesn’t matter what you try to do to us here—there are people waiting for my signal. If they don’t hear from me in the next hour, they’re going to release everything we have on the network. You’re done.”

It was no bluff. Zo was waiting.

“ Do to you?” M. Poulet sounded like he was holding back laughter. “What exactly would we do to you?”

“What wouldn’t you do?” Jude said.

Now the peals of laughter burst through, cold and hollow. “I don’t know what kind of gangsters you children are used to dealing with, but this is a business. You come in here, wasting our time, making your petty little threats, acting as if we could ever have something to fear from you .” As he spoke, the joviality drained from his voice, until all that remained was steel. “Let me be perfectly clear: We have nothing to fear from you. You’re children—not even that: mechanical copies of children. While we are a multinational corporation offering the world a new and exciting technology that will improve the lives of millions. You think anyone’s going to repudiate that because we’re ‘inconveniencing’ a few skinners?” He smiled coldly. “And you’re assuming that releasing information on the network is your right, rather than a privilege you’re accorded by the corps who sponsor the zones. You’re assuming that BioMax has neither the power, the technology, nor the will to scrub the network—every inch of it—of any inconvenient allegations.”

They couldn’t. The network was teeming with billions of zones; it was a sprawling kingdom several times more populous than the flesh-and-blood world. It would take a massively sophisticated search-and-destroy algorithm, not to mention ridiculous computational power, to scrub our posts before they leached into the fabric of the network. Not to mention the fact that zones were supposed to be impregnable. Everyone knew there were hackers, and even the best news zones fell prey almost daily to prank posts and attacks, but the whole point of the network was supposed to be the accessibility of information, the impossibility of locking up any truth that wanted to be free. Thousands of potential truths jockeying with one another for supremacy, maybe, but that was supposed to be the democracy of modern life, the freedom to choose our own reality. The freedom to know.

Then again, maybe it was time I stopped relying on supposed-to-be s.

“What could you possibly be thinking right now?” M. Poulet said, clucking his tongue with fake sympathy. “Perhaps you’re wondering where else to turn. Surely someone can help you, am I right?” He leaned across the table and skimmed his hand across the screen, bringing it back to life. “Him, perhaps?”

The Japanese man who appeared on the screen was someone I’d never seen before. He looked to be about my father’s age and wore a neatly tailored suit with no visible tech, but his red pupils indicated this was no Luddite. I’d seen a prototype of the same lenses at a recent BioMax show-and-tell—they were some kind of artificial cybernetic implant that, among other things, allowed their recipient to process and index visual stimuli as if they were text in a network database. So while I was a stranger to him, his glancing at my face would trigger an automatic network search that would, within seconds, relay to his neural implants anything he wanted to know about Lia Kahn.

But he wasn’t looking at me. Neither was M. Poulet. They both had their eyes fixed on Jude. The Japanese man smiled and offered him a shallow bow.

“I think you know M. Sani,” M. Poulet said. “Go ahead, congratulate him. Just this morning he and I put the finishing touches on a partnership that will enrich both our companies, not to mention all who benefit from our technological innovation.”

Jude just stared.

“I suppose we owe it partially to you,” M. Poulet said. “BioMax and Aikida have been rivals for far too long. You helped us both see that our interests lay in cooperation, rather than competition.”

Finally, I understood why Jude looked like he was about to fall over. We hadn’t just been outplayed. We’d been laughed off the field.

“We had a deal,” Jude growled.

“And now we’ve made a better one,” M. Poulet said.

“It will be a great endeavor,” M. Sani added, enunciating crisply to make up for his slight accent. “We are all looking forward to it.”

M. Poulet gave the screen a bow, and it went dark. “Not all of us, I assume,” he said to Jude.

Jude didn’t say anything. None of us did.

“Surely you didn’t think we’d actually let you follow through with your pathetic little plot,” M. Poulet added. “You’d do well—all of you—to remember that we’re in control here. Surely, Lia, at least you understand how much control we have. And what we can do.”

I suddenly understood. This is the man who sentenced me to death . He was practically bragging about it. So disgustingly certain that there was nothing we could do to him.

Maybe he was right.

“Will that be all?” M. Poulet concluded. “Because if so, I have some actual business to attend to today.”

Call-me-Ben cleared his throat. “Lia, if you and your friends would like to discuss this further—”

“I think they’ve wasted enough of our time today,” Poulet snapped. “We’ve both got busy days ahead of us.”

His meaning couldn’t have been clearer if he’d fitted Ben with a leash and muzzle.

“My assistant can show you out,” Ben said, cowed. Pathetic. Though no more so than we were.

“We can find our own way,” Jude said.

“Oh, I think it’ll be best for you to have an escort,” M. Poulet said. “Don’t you? Wouldn’t want you wandering off and getting lost on our property again, now, would we?”

So we lost even that battle. We followed Ben’s assistant, not speaking, avoiding one another’s eyes. We did as we were told.

We retreated to the outer edge of the parking lot, which was nearly empty but for our two cars. It must have been obvious from our expressions how the meeting went, because neither Zo nor Sari asked. They just watched us warily, waiting for someone to make a move.

“Assholes,” I finally said.

Jude snorted. “Can we skip the ritualistic licking of wounds?”

“Right, no point in dwelling on past mistakes,” Riley said. “Especially when they’re yours.”

“Mine? This was your idea.”

“My idea to go, yours to talk—and talk, and talk, and talk, and say nothing. As usual. And then there’s Aikida.” He shook his head. “You’re some master strategist.”

It took me a second to identify the expression on Jude’s face, as I’d never seen it there before: humiliation. And almost as soon as I caught on, it faded away, replaced by pure anger.

Sari draped herself over Riley, her head on his shoulder. “Is anyone going to tell me what happened?”

“What do you care?” Jude spit out. “What the hell are you even doing here?”

“Leave her alone,” Riley said.

Jude scowled at Sari. “She’s a big girl. Let her defend herself.”

“She shouldn’t have to.”

“And Lia shouldn’t have to deal with this crap,” Jude said. “But you bring that here and rub it in her face. Nice.”

“Can we not do this?” I said.

“She’s none of your business,” Riley warned him.

Jude smirked. “Which she are we talking about?”

“Jude, don’t.” Knowing as I spoke that it wouldn’t do any good. “We’re all a little tense after—”