Ramez Naam - Apex

Her heels clinked on the cold marble of the lobby.

Bo Jintao was ahead, his back to her, walking away, flanked by his aides and his guards. He was leaving. She had to rescue this moment.

She moved faster. Lu Song clutched at her hand, holding her back. She twisted free, surged ahead. She had to make her apology.

Premier Bo! She tried to say. It wouldn’t come.

Closer. She was closer.

She raised her hands, stretched them both out ahead of her to beseech, striding faster, cursing these heels, this dress.

“Premier Bo!” the words ripped free of her throat, and he turned, stopping.

His face was cold indifference.

Her striding foot caught the hem of her gown, the stupid gown, and then she was falling, her hands outstretched now ahead of her, to ward away the cold marble floor that was racing at her so fast.

Pain. Her wrist. Her knee. Her mouth. The world swam.

“Zhi Li!” she heard Lu Song say.

She was on the floor. What?

She’d fallen.

She looked up, saw a hand reach out to her, palm up. A man’s hand, a young man’s. The aide.

“Tssk.” Another hand appeared, older, lined. A slight wave of a finger, and the offered hand withdrew.

Bo Jintao.

“Zhi!” Lu Song cried her name from just behind her. Her lover, about to come to her aid.

The rest of Bo Jintao swam into view above her. He gestured again with one hand, as if waving away an insect. She sensed sudden motion, heard deep voices she didn’t know behind her. Then Lu Song’s voice made plaintive sounds. Her lover did not appear to help her up.

Fear constricted Zhi Li’s chest. There was a taste of blood on her tongue, sharp and metallic.

She opened her mouth, searching for the most sincere apology she could find.

Bo Jintao spoke first, “You have a very clever way with your words,” he said, his voice light, almost jovial.

“Minister Bo,” she started, her breath short. “Premier–”

He cut her off, his tone darker now. “You’re a prominent person. That gives you certain responsibilities.” His voice was low, dangerous. He loomed above her. She was panting, her heart pounding.

Somewhere behind her, Lu Song’s voice made more plaintive sounds, like an animal, barred from the one it loves.

“Do you think stirring up discord is a good idea?” Bo Jintao paused. “Do you think that’s a good use of your popularity? A responsible way to behave for someone who millions adore?”

She had no idea what to say, what to do. She just stared up at him, one hand slowly rising to her mouth, the metallic taste still flowing onto her tongue. Terror gripped her.

“Do you want things to escalate? Protesters in the street perhaps?”

He crouched down, closer to her. She could feel the heat coming off his body now.

Her heart pounded in her chest.

“Where do you think that would lead?” His eyes searched hers. They were cold eyes. Dark eyes. The eyes of a man who could ruin her without remorse.

“Soldiers? Gunshots? Tanks?” His eyes bored into hers, not letting her go. “Students, dead in the street? Or worse? More Shanghai events? Tens of them?”

She swallowed, said nothing. She couldn’t breathe. Didn’t trust her words not to betray her.

“Is that what you want, Zhi Li?” Bo Jintao asked. “No?”

Bo Jintao stood back up to his full height, his hands straightening his suit.

“Your nation educated you,” he told her, looking down. “Your nation marketed you to the people. Your nation made you. Now you owe your nation a certain degree of service and respect.” He smiled faintly at her. “And if that’s too difficult to accept, then remember that the state owns your face . It owns your voice . We can make a billion copies of you . Think on that the next time you try to undermine your country.” He shook his head. “Because that would be the last time.”

Then Bo Jintao and his aide and his guards walked away, leaving her with Lu Song and a very on-edge Dai and Qi.

Later, in the limousine, as it drove them to the airport and her private jet and their homes in Shanghai, Zhi Li scanned the video feeds, again and again.

The fan tubes had dozens of videos of their interview. All were missing that question. Fans slyly commented that Zhi Li had said something very clever. Others complained that their phones had malfunctioned at that very moment. None dared mention the word coup. None dared speculate that censor codes had deleted those seconds of video from their phones, though everyone must know it was so.

Even as she watched, posts mentioning camera malfunctions began to disappear before her eyes.

Her hands clenched into fists.

She turned to the sanctioned channels next. And they had the full interview. All of it. Jin Lien asked her, “What would you think of acting opposite Lu Song again?”

And on every channel it was the same. Zhi Li looked over at her lover, looked back at the cameras, and smiled broadly. “If the studio could land Lu Song for the male lead,” her smile broadened even wider. “That would be perfect. Just perfect.”

Zhi Li shook in frustration and rage, as a mute, trembling Lu Song held her.

She woke in Shanghai, in Lu Song’s penthouse suite in the Pudong, the closer of their homes to Shanghai’s airports, to messages on her phone, from producers, directors, collaborators.

Budget cuts.

Production delays.

New directions for projects.

Zhi looked out through the floor-to-ceiling windows, out across the gulf between buildings, to where her own face, twenty floors tall, winked and smiled and sipped the latest expensive drink.

Then the real Zhi closed her eyes, clenched an all-too-human fist, and shook.

28

Strategic Direction

Friday 2040.11.09

They met in an apartment rented under a false identity. Breece couldn’t remember being so happy to see Kate and the Nigerian ever.

If only Hiroshi were here, some part of him whispered. He put that away for later.

He picked Kate up when she entered, and whirled her around and around, burying his face in her long black hair as she laughed and batted at him.

Then the Nigerian picked him up, with a giant grin across his broad face, spun Breece around and around and around as Breece laughed, until finally Kate demanded that their weapons specialist put the new Zarathustra down.

“What would the movement think?” she asked, laughing. “It’s not dignified!”

“No dignity in this one!” the Nigerian bellowed joyously. “No dignity!”

But he put Breece down, eventually.

Breece briefed them at the kitchen table, over big bowls of chicken stew and rice that the Nigerian made. He walked them through it all: the contact from the mysterious hacker who knew so much, the infiltration of Barnes’s security, the takedown of Barnes himself, the judgment he’d passed, the hacker’s delivery as promised – of Barnes’s files, an incredible treasure trove for and about the movement.

They grilled him on the hacker, and, time and again, Breece had to say that he simply didn’t know. He didn’t know who the hacker was. He didn’t know how the hacker had found him. He didn’t know how the hacker had penetrated Barnes’s security so easily. He didn’t know why the hacker cared. He didn’t know if the hacker was American, or Chinese, or Indian, or Russian, or something else. He didn’t know anything.

“I was suspicious too,” he said. “The whole drive down…” His mind went back to it, driving, in the dark, in a rainstorm, his car’s navcomp illegally hacked to forget his location.

He shook his head. “I kept thinking I was heading into a trap. I couldn’t figure out the angle. And then, sneaking up to the house… the same.”