I stare at the girl I’m supposed to abduct. When I agreed to a favor, I never agreed to this, but there’s no turning back now. Of course kidnapping is Plan B. Only if the first plan fails. I guess I’ll have to make sure it doesn’t. I quickly flip through the holograms. One image is pretty much like the next. Her expression doesn’t change. Grim. Bored. It’s hard to tell what’s going on in her head, but smiling isn’t part of her repertoire. Every hair is smoothed into place and pulled back into a long ponytail tied at the base of her neck. Utilitarian. Jet black and severe. The Secretary’s daughter.
There are ten images but nearly all are the same. Same hair, same range of expression. Zero. I go through them again, this time slower, examining her features more closely. I’m looking at the fourth image, a full frontal view, her lips slightly parted like she’s about to speak, when I stop and turn my attention to my arms, a prickling sensation shooting through them. I watch one arm as the hairs on it literally rise before my eyes. This has never happened to me before. It’s like the BioPerfect has suddenly found this long dormant animal response and is testing it. I’m almost fascinated by this beastly reaction but in the next second my stomach clenches and a flash of heat hits me. My heart pounds. I look back at her image. Sweat beads on my forehead. This is insane. Something isn’t right.
Something isn’t right about her.
I stand up and walk away from the desk, pacing the room, trying to shake off the alarms I don’t understand. Is my body telling me something before my mind has put it together? The alarms subside. Was it just a random hiccup in my BioPerfect? I return to the desk and increase the image size. I look into her blank eyes, just inches from mine. Her irises are large and dark, such a deep dark brown I can barely see her pupils. But I do. They’re pinpoints, tight and guarded, on alert, belying her bored expression. What’s she hiding? But her face reveals nothing else. She’s had practice at this. Is that what disturbed me?
I look back through the file. The information is sparse.
Mother: deceased
At least we have something in common.
Schooling: The Virtual Collective
Not a clue. I swipe my iScroll and the Assistant appears. “What’s a virtual collective?”
“To activate, please give Assistant a user name.”
A name? But then I remember having to give my boxing instructor a name with my last iScroll. “Percel,” I say.
“Welcome to the Assistant, sir.”
“Locke. My name is Locke.”
“How can I be of service, Locke?”
I repeat my question for him.
“The Virtual Collective is a state-approved educational program.”
“What does the program do?”
“It provides guidelines and requirements for students who are in independent study programs.”
“So they don’t go to an actual school?”
“An actual school, sir?”
“You know, walls, bells, lockers, detention, that sort of thing? Real people seeing one another face-to-face?”
“Anchored Educational Systems exist within walled units for students who prefer that structure. No matches for the bells, lockers, and detention portion of your inquiry.”
“Thank you, Percel. That’s all.” He blinks and disappears back into my palm.
So, she doesn’t go to school. She’s isolated. Is that why she’s bored? I read more of the file.
Interests: Fencing. Chess. Bonsai.
Bonsai? Seriously? Having an odd interest is one thing, but something doesn’t ring true about having three. She’s seventeen years old. Girls couldn’t have changed that much in 260 years. Those all sound like old man hobbies.
Objective: Ingratiate yourself with Raine and her friends
They really have a way with words. And she has friends? That’s a surprise. Or are they all virtual? What kind of life does she lead?
First Meeting: 09/19/21
I push away from the desk and walk to the window. So this is my in with Secretary Branson? Get in good with his daughter and her friends so I’m invited over? Carver and Xavier couldn’t do better than that? And our first meeting is two weeks away? How’s that going to happen if she doesn’t even go to school?
I turn and look back at her image. I zoom in on her mouth, poised to speak, and I try to imagine what she’s about to say. I follow the lines of her lips, the curves, looking for a clue, and my pulse begins to race again. There’s something disturbingly familiar about her, but that’s impossible. I’m certain I’ve never laid eyes on her before. Yeah, something isn’t right.
Especially around her, I’ll need to watch my back.
Training
The next day goes by in a regimented blur. Xavier, Carver, and Livvy arrive early. They take turns with my training. Carver tests me on my background, asking me detailed questions about my “father” and the places he’s been assigned. Next, Xavier brings up Vgrams of each city where I’ve supposedly lived: Paris, Hamburg, Milan, Sydney, and half a dozen more. I’m apparently well-traveled. I walk virtual streets, climb stairs to apartments, memorize addresses, learn transportation routes, visit local bistros, and shop in the marketplaces. Every city is different, but by the eighth one, they all begin to look alike and we start over.
“Didn’t I do anything for fun?”
“No.”
After a second review of my newly created past life, Livvy takes over. She drills me on the staff who work for Secretary Branson, both at his office and at his residence. His right-hand man is a fellow named LeGru. She tells me to watch out for him. He’s often seen at Branson’s house. The home staff is minimal according to Livvy. Three full-time employees for one apartment hardly sound minimal to me. Dorian is the household manager and cook. Jory is the all-around maintenance person, and Hap is the personal assistant to Raine Branson. Her own full-time personal assistant? I roll my eyes at this piece of information. Even Jenna and Kara weren’t that spoiled. Livvy reviews the layout of the house again, at least as they currently know it, and which rooms they suspect might be Secretary Branson’s office. The apartment occupies the whole of the eighth and ninth floors. Most of the living quarters are on the ninth floor. Above that is a rooftop garden.
“Raine dabbles in bonsai and is sometimes seen up there.”
They’re watching her. Watching everything. I find it unsettling that this girl has become a target just by virtue of being the Secretary’s daughter. As Livvy finishes up with a few last details about the guard who works the front desk of the Tudor Apartments, I hear Xavier and Carver speaking in strained hushed tones in the next room. I try to listen but Livvy speaks louder, like she’s trying to mask their voices.