Julia Karr - Truth

“Was there a problem with the information I gave you?” I glared at Lessig.

“Manners, Miss Oberon. Manners.”

“The information,” I said to Lessig, “was it not what you expected?”

“Oh, I haven’t even seen it yet. Angelo, stellar assistant that he is, offered you a ride to work so you wouldn’t be late. You declined. He thought that odd. So did I. Since I was just across the street, I thought I’d see if something was wrong. Is there something wrong?

“No. I’d rather be late than accept a ride from Mr. Fassbinder. I don’t like him.” Or you, I added in my head.

“Honesty. How refreshing. He doesn’t care for you either. Oh, but I suppose I should be careful what I say—me, of all people! After all, wouldn’t want it on News at Eleven .” He laughed and waved his hand around to reference the surveillance. “Lucky for me, I control News at Eleven .”

It dawned on me that Lessig didn’t know that this room had a surveillance block. One that I could control. If I could get Lessig to admit to his lies and his blackmail… could Dorrie record it, maybe even broadcast it through Rogue Radio? It might be too late to help me, but she could give it to the NonCons after I was gone. But how could I tip her off?

“No worries here,” I countered, trying hard to keep my voice airy and light. “This room is surveillance-free to protect the art. Talk all you want. No one’s recording this.” I hoped that would be enough.

“Oh, little girl, no place is free of surveillance, except perhaps my penthouse and your current place of residence.” He raised his eyebrows. “Besides, you think you can fool me?” Lessig snorted.

“Fine, if you don’t believe me, try to contact Angelo on your PAV,” I said. “It won’t work.”

He took out his receiver, frowned, then put it back. “Well, then. Shall we have a frank heart-to-heart?”

“Why not?” Dorrie’s PAV wouldn’t work with the surveillance shields up either. I’d have to turn them off. Acting nonchalant, I perched on the corner of my desk, keeping the lever hidden from Lessig’s view. Leaning on my arm, I pushed it down. What I hadn’t anticipated was a single beep, probably indicating satellite connection.

Lessig jerked his head around. “What was that?”

“What was what?” I shrugged.

“That electronic beep.” His eyes narrowed. “Nina, Nina. Are you trying to pull a fast one on me?”

“You mean the temperature control? The thermostat is automatic—it beeps when the temperature changes. You know, to safeguard the art. I don’t even notice it anymore.” I got off the desk and approached him. “Listen,” I said, “I held up my end of the bargain. I spied on Jonathan Jenkins—”

“I have yet to see if that information is valuable. I’ve been waiting for years to set up Jenkins. Never liked him. Never liked anyone who was friends with your father.”

“You said you’d get my grandfather out of custody, if I did what you wanted. I did it. Now, I want my grandfather back.” My voice sounded steely, but I was shaking inside.

“Your grandfather.” Lessig wet his lips. “Alan Oberon’s father.” He cocked his head. “I think you must have misheard me. I can’t imagine helping anyone who’s related to Alan Oberon. Ever.”

His pointed stare was infuriating. “You promised me—you said, if I spied on the Jenkinses, you’d save my grandfather!” My heart thumped in my chest, and anger raged through me. I knew something like this would be coming, but I didn’t realize the sheer fury I would feel at hearing him say it out loud. “I should’ve known not to trust you, not after you spread those lies about my mother and the fake FeLS station.”

“Lies?” His eyes bored into me. “And just what do you know about FeLS that I don’t?” He grabbed my arm.

I jerked it away. “Since we’re being honest, Mister Lessig ”—I practically spat the words out—“I know all about FeLS. My mom’s the one who found out the truth about the government’s liaison program—that it was a sex-slavery ring. And I know you lied about her involvement in it.”

“Ah, yes. The perks of being the most trusted newscaster in the Americas. The face of Media. I can show whatever I want, say whatever I want, and people believe me. Fake space station”—he snapped his fingers—“no problem. Sex-slavery ring? Pin the scandal on Ed Chamus and your mother. Piece. Of. Cake. The basic details on FeLS were true—nice of Jenkins to give me that information—but I couldn’t let the world know that we were trafficking girls through FeLS, let alone who the girls went to. Can you imagine what would happen if I let the idiots in our society know that their most trusted leaders had a taste for virginal sex-teens? So I created the rest of the story—the fake space station, Chamus being the ringleader. All of it.”

“You made those Alerts up? You are sick.”

“Sick? Little girl. What I am is the most powerful man in the world. I can make or break anyone.” A smile twisted across his face. “I could even bring down the GC president if I wanted to. That old pervert loves the FeLS girls. What he doesn’t know is that I’ve got the vids to prove it.”

Suddenly, there was a furious pounding on the door. Fass-binder’s voice came through, screaming, “Kasimir! Stop! Shut up!”

Lessig spun around, and I raced back to the wall. He flung open the door, and Fassbinder stumbled into the room, flailing to keep his balance.

“Kasimir—she’s broadcasting this. It’s all over the airwaves. Everything. FAVs. PAVs. Alerts. Everything!”

“What? There’s no reception in—” The realization dawned on him. I looked around for an escape, but he was too quick. With murder in his eyes, he yanked me to him. Searing pain stabbed through my shoulder, but I bit back a scream. “Turn it off!” he yelled. “Now!”

“I’m not recording anything! Look, I’m not doing anything!” I held out my PAV, and he brushed it aside.

“You lying bitch! No worries, Miss Oberon? We’ll see about that. Angelo, get the old man on the view.” He twisted me closer, wrenching my shoulder more. “See this?”

I looked at the screen of his PAV. It was Pops in a transchair, those same tubes pumping liquid into his arms.

“No.” My voice was shaking. I couldn’t take my eyes off Pops. He looked so weak, sick.

Lessig spoke into the viewer. “Charlie. Do it.”

The same goon who’d yanked Pops by his hair now pulled the tubes out. Pops shook violently. He slipped out of the chair, writhing on the floor. Convulsions racked his body, and although I couldn’t hear it, he was screaming in agony.

“Stop it!” I punched Lessig in the gut with my good arm. “Pops! No!”

Fassbinder moved to grab my free arm when suddenly Brie and Joan came flying out from behind the boxes, a flurry of arms and legs. Joan clawed at Lessig, and I pulled away from his grasp. Brie was quick and efficient in her attack—in a heartbeat, Angelo was on the floor unconscious, and Lessig was crumpled in a heap on top of him.

I lunged for the viewer. “Pops! Pops!” He lay still on the floor. The guy who’d killed him toed him with his boot and then walked away. “Pops.” I couldn’t stop looking at his lifeless body lying there.

“Nina. Nina.” Brie helped me up. “Nina, I’m sorry, but we can’t stop. There’s no time. You and Joan have got to get out of here. Lock the door and turn the shields back on.”

I pushed the lever up, and the viewer screen went black. I hurled it across the room. “The door locks automatically,” I said, touching my shoulder gingerly. “I think he broke my arm.”

Brie’s hands moved quickly over my shoulder. “No, it’s just dislocated. Lie down. Joan, Dorrie, hold her for traction.” Joan looked dazed but did as she was told. A few seconds of searing pain, and Brie had worked my arm into place. At least now I could move it, though carefully. Brie took Ginnie’s scarf and fashioned a sling out of it. “Come on,” she said. “We’ve gotta move.”