Julia Karr - Truth

“But what? Have you had sex? Have you and Sal done it?” She waited.

Me and Sal, at his house. It had certainly gone through my mind. “I’m still a virgin.”

“Those guys expected you to want to have sex with them.” She wrapped her arms tight around her. “What if no one had come to help you?”

“No, I don’t think they expected me to want it, no matter what they said. I think they were predators. But, Dee, not all guys are like those two. Most guys only want to have sex with a girl who wants to have sex with them.” At least the guys I knew were like that. Derek, Mike, Chris, Sal… they’d never force a girl. Ever.

“But I don’t understand. Why don’t the police arrest guys who try to force themselves on girls?”

“That, Deeds, I don’t have an answer to.” I really didn’t. I thought it tied back into when the Fems were around, that all of this was about power, not about sex. But I didn’t know how to explain that to myself, let alone to Dee.

We were interrupted by a tap at the door. Wei stuck her head in. “What are you guys up to? Mom wants you to come up for dinner if— What’s going on? Did I come at a bad time?”

“Two guys tried to force Nina to have sex,” Dee said.

“Wait, what?” Wei asked.

“Dee, why don’t you go tell Mrs. Jenkins we’ll come up for dinner. I’ll fill Wei in.”

“No, I should stay with you,” Dee said.

“No, you shouldn’t.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “They didn’t do anything. I. Am. Fine.” I stared her down. “Go.”

As soon as the door closed behind Dee, Wei said, “Are you really all right?”

“Oh, Wei, I thought they were going to kill me. One guy had a switchblade.” I proceeded to tell her the whole story. How Gordo had kissed me and stuck his hand under my sweater. How disgusting it was. And how scared I’d been. I started shaking just recounting the details to her.

She threw her arms around me and held me close. We sat that way for several minutes, until the trembling stopped.

“I can’t let Dee see how much this got to me,” I said. “I’ve got to be strong.”

“Let’s go upstairs,” Wei said. “Maybe getting your mind off of it for a while will help. I’m so glad they didn’t hurt you. Well, not any worse than that cut and some bruises.”

We were halfway upstairs when there was a knock on the door. It took both of us by surprise: not many unexpected visitors came by the Jenkinses’. Wei shot me a look and went back down to answer it.

“May I help you?”

“Yes. I’m Angelo Fassbinder. I’m looking for Nina Oberon.”

Skivs! Mr. Lessig’s assistant. “I’m right here.” I walked slowly down the stairs. Despite Lessig’s friendly manner at Paulette’s party, I knew I couldn’t trust him, not with the way he’d linked Ginnie to the FeLS scandal. I glanced at Wei. “Would you let Dee know I’ll be right up.”

Wei didn’t look any too happy about leaving me with Angelo, but what was he going to do here in the Jenkinses’ house? I ushered him into our apartment.

He scanned the furnishings. “Nice.” His upper lip curled. “Retirement and survivor benefits must pay better than I thought.”

“These belong to the Jenkinses.” I crammed my attitude down, waiting to hear what he wanted. At least focusing on this meant I wasn’t thinking about those two creeps.

“Ah, yes. Jonathan Jenkins does quite well as senior investigative correspondent. How fortunate for you that his family has taken pity on you.”

Because of Gran’s warning, I didn’t say the first thing on my mind—about how the Jenkinses were old family friends, and that’s what friends do. Besides, Fassbinder probably already knew everything about me. It’s not like Lessig couldn’t find out anything he wanted. “Would you like to sit down?”

“No. This will be brief.” He pulled out what looked like a tiny LED flashlight and zapped it around the room. “Interesting.” He replaced it. “Now, Mr. Lessig has a proposition for you regarding your grandfather.”

I took a step toward him. Maybe, just maybe, Lessig was still going to help me. Maybe Gran had been wrong. Maybe the odd feeling I had about him was wrong… Fassbinder curled his fingers into his palm and shined the nails with his thumb. He fanned out his hand, admiring his manicure, or whatever.

I was losing patience. “Yes?” I prompted.

“Mr. Lessig is a very powerful man.” He continued preening. “He can make or break people depending on how he tells a story. Just look at the sad truth about your mother.”

“That was a lie,” I said. “My mother didn’t have anything to do with FeLS.”

“Really? That’s not what the B.O.S.S. agents said. Are you sure there were no porn vids found after your mother’s death?”

I glared at him. He knew there were, and he knew they weren’t Ginnie’s.

“See? The truth always comes out. In any way that Mr. Lessig tells it.” A slow smile spread across his face. He was enjoying himself. “So, Miss Oberon. You would like your grandfather free?”

“Of course,” I said.

“Well, Mr. Lessig would be glad to deliver him—for a price.”

“A price?” My heartbeat quickened. “I don’t have many credits, but I have a job.”

He snorted. “Credits? As if Mr. Lessig needs more credits. He’s one of the richest men on Earth.”

“Then what does he want?” I was getting tired of playing games.

“Information, Miss Oberon. Information can buy anything.”

“What kind of information could I possibly have that Mr. Lessig would want? I’m sixteen. I go to school. I work part-time as a tier-two clerk.”

“Oh, you so underestimate yourself. You’re the daughter of the founder of the Resistance; you live in the home of a very wealthy Media employee. And your mother was a NonCon.”

I sucked in my breath. Prickles raced up my spine. Careful, I thought. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” No matter what he knew, I couldn’t let on that I knew anything. “My father died the day I was born. Surely you’re aware of that. And my mother was a tier-two cashier in a cafeteria. She was not a NonCon. The only thing you got right is that I’m living with the Jenkinses, and Mr. Jenkins works for Media.”

Fassbinder sighed. “I told Kasimir you’d be difficult.” He drew near to me. “You want your grandfather. Mr. Lessig wants information about Jonathan Jenkins. There have been suggestions made that Mr. Jenkins is a Resistance sympathizer. Especially after he took in the daughter of their founder.” He gave me the once-over. “Lessig gets the information, your grandfather lives. You refuse, your grandfather dies. Simple enough even for a low-tier sex-teen like you to understand, isn’t it?”

I jammed my fists in my pockets to keep from using them on Angelo Fassbinder’s face.

“I won’t spy on my friends,” I said.

“Really?” He took out his PAV, punched in some numbers, and threw a projection on the wall. “Bring him out,” he said to the projection.

I stared at the screen. At first it was just an empty room. A man entered pushing an older man in a transchair. The man in the chair had tubes running into his arms; his head was lolled over.

“Show me his face,” Fassbinder said.

The man pushing the chair grabbed the older man’s head by his hair and pulled him up so I could see his face.

“Pops! No!” I clapped my hand over my mouth, stifling a scream.

“Please”—Fassbinder rubbed his ear—“it’s not like he can hear you.” He turned off the projection. “Your grandfather is in reassimilation stage one-oh-one. Mr. Lessig has the power to stop the process. But you seem to think the cost too dear. Too bad for your ‘pops.’”