The Operator

“And you are lying,” Michael said calmly, and Bill cringed even as Helen smiled.

“Not this time,” she said with a fond chuckle. “You will be accelerated, but it’s not right yet. You’re correct that your desire to work bests Peri being manipulated into it, but we need a field test to ensure that the safety measures we’ve implemented are adequate. Peri is easier to control if there are issues. That’s why she is first, not you.”

It sounded more reasonable coming from her, and Michael sat back, his expression empty, as if he was finally starting to believe. That the safety measures she mentioned were to control drafters, not ensure their continued health, was not worth bringing to Michael’s attention.

“We need to monitor Peri, see where we need to adjust the formula. It’s too chancy with her in the wild the way she is. The way to make the acceleration viable and permanent is in her, but we need her alive to find out how to do that. Do you understand, Michael? We need her sacrifice to tell us how to make it safe for you.”

Michael drummed his fingers, head cocked. “Rich people are good at lying.”

Bill was horrified, but Helen laughed in appreciation. “True, but I’m not lying now. I like you, Michael. Bill was right to ask me to meet you. Scrubbing you would be a mistake.”

Shit, he thought, wishing she hadn’t said that. Michael was deathly afraid of being scrubbed, days or months of memories artificially removed to better manipulate him—so much so that he refused to jump unless his own life, or pride, apparently, was in danger.

Michael’s thin smile had faded. Noticing, Helen stood, effectively getting them all to rise. “Leave her to us, Michael,” she said as they returned inside, and the stabilizing air pressures blew her niece’s artwork to the floor. “Peri is serving a function to benefit you, and until that task is over, she is to remain alive.”

Michael’s face showed the first hints of belief, and Bill began to relax.

“You are very good,” Helen praised as she examined Annabelle’s glittery haze. “One of a kind as Bill has promised me. Eager to act, unafraid of possible ill consequences, strong enough to see yourself through. Perhaps even more important, you get the job done, but you are splashy. Do you understand?”

“You want me to be more bland?” he questioned in disbelief.

“I want you to stop thinking you know all the options.” Picture in hand, Helen went to the corkboard easel standing in the middle of the room. More artwork decorated it, and she searched for a thumbtack. “We want you around for a long time, and you’re not being careful,” she said as she stuck it in the place of most importance. “Like Annabelle’s page, you’re bright and sparkly, attractive to the point of distraction, but the goal was to make a memory of our trip to the zoo, and no matter how pretty this page is, it doesn’t fulfill the goal and it won’t go into my scrapbook.” Head cocked, Helen eyed the glittery mess. “She has talent, for a six-year-old.”

Michael was scowling again, but it vanished when Helen turned.

“It will come, Michael,” she said, taking his hand. “Let Bill deal with this as he sees fit. It’s his job. You will be accelerated when we know it works safely. In the meantime, impress us with your new understanding.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll keep the glitter off it,” Michael said calmly, but Bill could see the threads of dangerous thought running through him, and his lip quirked to fight the smile. Perfect.

“Good.” Satisfied, Helen dropped his hand and looked at her watch again. “Do you have time for a late lunch? The storm is likely hours away.”

Bill let his smile show, eager for it. “Yes, ma’am. That would be appreciated.”

“Wonderful.” She gestured for her security, and Bill was satisfied when he saw Michael note where they came from. This was working better than he’d hoped. Lunch, followed by a short tour, perhaps? “My niece is waiting. Enjoy your meal. Gentlemen?”

Both Bill and Michael shook her hand, and without a backward glance, she walked out, heels clicking on the imported tile. A man came in after her, gesturing for them to follow him. To lunch, presumably.

“She’s not going to eat with us?” Michael said, and Bill exhaled, relieved.

“No. We were lucky to get even this much of her time. And now that you’ve seen her, don’t talk about it.”

“Who would I tell,” he said idly, but his eyes were scanning everything, finding the layout of the place and noting how security hung with her, not covering the entire premises.

Pleased, Bill clapped him across the shoulder. “Good choice in not wearing the suit.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

An almost-not-there heat radiated up from the thermal stone the commercial square was paved with. It was there to keep Lloyd Plaza clear of snow, but Detroit allowed the solar stones to free all their stored energy during festivals. It nearly felt warm as Silas tugged his winter coat close and waited for Peri at one of the outside tables.

People milled around him, taking up the tables or gathering beside the nearby small stage lit with neon and loud with preshow patter. The upscale clothing store Sim’s Mules was behind him, the holographic simulations in the window getting a workout as they spiraled through a bewildering array of sparkles, colors, and styles, recognizing the clothing passing before their windows and mimicking them to lure patrons in. One of them had fixated on Silas’s unmoving form, posing in the latest Armani suit as he beckoned to him. The complex algorithm had probably noticed his shoes and extrapolated his tastes from there.