The Beam: Season Two (23 page)

Jameson smiled.
 

“How long have you known me, Jameson?” said Natasha.

“Not long enough to violate the magician’s code.”
 

“I’m sure you’ve told the other bigwigs you know.”
 

Jameson made a large X on his chest with one finger. “Cross my heart, I have not. They aren’t magicians.”
 

Natasha swiped her hand through the holo web, scattering its pieces. She could undo the damage each had done and re-knit the interconnected idea bubbles, of course, but for now it felt great to break something.
 

“Dammit, Jameson! I don’t want to tone it down! I just don’t
want
to, okay?”
 

“If you make a huge splash with this concert, I’m telling you it’ll backfire. Even if you make millions and please a lot of fans, they’re going to be the wrong fans, and you’ll get exactly the wrong reaction. Your old fans used to be almost underground. Remember that? You got bigger, and earned mainstream fans. Lots and lots and lots of them. And look, you can please
those
people just fine with the big show you want to put on, with pyrotechnics and nano blast displays and a holo-immersive dance floor. You’ll get all sorts of Beam coverage; you’ll hit the top of the feed and cling for a week. Maybe more. Sales will explode…”
 

“Which is the whole point!” Natasha interrupted. She heard the whining in her voice and knew it as whining because Jameson hadn’t said what he
really
had to say. That was still coming.

“…for six months,” he continued. “Or a year. Two if you’re lucky. What then? Six years between Shifts is a long time, and a big, splashy — a big,
mainstream
— concert will do two things. One, it’ll make you hugely popular with that mainstream audience. And two, it’ll make up the underground audience’s minds against you. They’ll decide that if you’d sold out before by shifting Directorate, you’re
really
selling out now. Those people won’t see your return to Enterprise as a blow for what you feel is right. They’ll see it as you grasping for new and spectacular levels of income that wouldn’t be possible in Directorate. And believe me, Nat, people
know
how huge your Directorate dole is. If it looks like you’re coming back so that you can make more than
that
, it’s going to…”

“But that’s not why I’m coming back!”
 

“Why
are
you coming back, then?”
 

“I’m tired of the do-nothing Directorate atmosphere. I have no incentive there. No fire. I’m tired of their internal politics and the way they lift everyone up — well, up as far as the line, anyway — even if they’re useless! Only those who deserve to succeed should. Fuck the rest!”
 

“Well,” said Jameson with a smirk, “I wouldn’t let that particular speech into your press kit.”
 

“You know what I mean.”
 

Natasha realized with horror that she was near tears. You could configure your Viazo settings to prevent telltale emotional giveaways like tears and sweat and tumescence, but she rarely bothered. Usually when in this room, Natasha wanted to cry and sweat and tumesce as much as possible.
 

“Sit down.”
 

Natasha crossed her arms, blinking toward the hanging window.
 

Jameson reached out and touched her leg. “Please.”
 

She sat. Eventually, Natasha looked over, still blinking back moisture.
 

“I’m telling you this because I love you. You know that, right?”
 

Natasha nodded.
 

“You’ve already won. You made it on your own, and while some people will think you sold out by shifting to Directorate, many of those people will see things your way again if you shift back
in the right way.
You’ve proved your point to Isaac. You’ve proved the same point to yourself. You don’t need him, or his money. Okay? You’re on top here. Agreed?”
 

“Sort of.”
 

“‘Sort of.’” Jameson shook his head, repeating her words with disbelief then let it drop. “Look. The only way to lose now is to lose it for yourself. If you shift back and do it humbly and start with small concerts — and by small, I mean ‘Natasha Ryan small,’ which is still damn big — then you’ll win back all the underground fans who lost interest when you shifted to Directorate. Those loyal people give you a base to build a new career, not the fleeting resurgence of fame (and the inevitable has-been aftertaste that’s sure to follow) you’ll get by appealing to the masses. You say you’ve hated most of the songs you’ve written since being Directorate. Okay, fine. The fire will help you find the deep soul and heart I know you still have in there somewhere. But you can’t reach it with ego, sweetheart. You have to let it flower. Quietly.”
 

“I want to make a splash first
then
let it flower.”
 

“Doesn’t work that way. You’ll kill whatever integrity your true fans feel you have. Go big, and you won’t just be coming back in a less-effective way. You’ll be killing whatever chance you have of returning to the old Natasha. In your fans’ eyes, anyway.”
 

Natasha had crossed her legs and arms, her virtual body language closed. She tried to see above her anger. Was she thinking of her career and fans, or her pride? Did she want to gain respect or make a statement?
 

Natasha felt furious and petulant as Jameson watched her with his beautiful, kind, deep, and mysterious eyes. She didn’t want to consider the idea that he might be correct because it felt like a concession. If she shifted quietly and began doing moderately sized concerts again with new, hopefully more soulful material, she might regain her old following and reputation. But if she did that, it felt to her — and it would feel to Isaac — as if she’d given in. And as hard as this was, the idea of believing that she
herself
had sold out and failed to speak her mind hurt like a dagger in the ribs.
 

“I don’t need to make it too flashy, I guess.”

“And not right after Shift. Not prime on The Beam. No deals with the network pages.”
 

“How am I supposed to get the word out with no press?”
 

“You’re Natasha Ryan. Believe me; word will get out just fine without you pushing it. If it happens that way, it’ll look like you were content to keep things quiet — a decision between you and Isaac and nothing more, certainly not a move to spark publicity — but that against those intentions, the story got around anyway.”
 

She shook her head. “I have to let them know, Jameson.”
 

He looked at her for a long time. Jameson had been light and almost joking throughout their chat but now looked dead serious, like a physician about to deliver bad news.
 

“I’m not going to convince you, am I?”
 

“To keep my comeback concert quiet? To hide my shifting as if I’m ashamed of it? As if I’m trying to slink back without anyone noticing?”
 

“No, Nat,” said Jameson. “To tone things down so you don’t look like a whore.”
 

“Now I’m a whore?”
 

Jameson sighed, shaking his head. “You asked me here to help you plan. We’re friends, so I was happy to help. Still am. But I don’t want to help tie your noose. You can keep doing that fine on your own.”
 

“Keep?”
 

“I need to go.” He stood, his immaculate black suit falling into perfect lines below his chiseled chin with its dark, shadowy stubble. “We’ll talk soon, okay?”

“Goddammit, Jameson!”
 

Before Natasha finished her words, his avatar had blipped out. In the final second, he’d glanced at the bed, and in that glance Natasha saw a thousand judgments at once.
 

She sat in the quiet room with her arms crossed over her chest, steaming. Tears began to flow, scouring her cheeks like acid. After a few moments, she swiped them furiously away.
 

She was Natasha Ryan, and this was her goddamned life. She’d do the concert her own way. She didn’t need Jameson’s help; she’d just thought it would be a fun thing for them to plan together. And why not? Of all the people in the world, Jameson Gray would understand. His wealth was a pie to her crumbs. His power and renown made Natasha seem like a nobody. He should have been the perfect person to help plot her triumphant return: Mr. Enterprise, who’d made his way by dazzling crowds and taking what he deserved.
 

I don’t want to help tie your noose.

She wasn’t doing that. Was she?
 

“Canvas!” Natasha almost shouted. She flinched, shocked by her fury.

“Yes, Mrs. Ryan?”
 

“Get me Andre.”
 

“Andre is online, Mrs. Ryan, but his vitals show his mood as angry and perhaps violent.”
 

Natasha felt a mirthless grin crawl onto her mouth.
 

“Then tell him to hurry.”

Chapter 6

“You can come out now,” Nicolai said.
 

Across the apartment, Kai heard a mechanical sound that she assumed was a metal deadbolt clicking into place. She looked up at the corner dashboard, wanting to see a green perimeter that meant the place was sealed, but the canvas was still off. She felt like the little girl she’d once been, shivering in drippy ramshackle shelters and hiding from gangs.
 

She forced her breath to settle. Nicolai’s conversation with Micah had taken what felt like forever. They hadn’t spoken loud, and her cochlear implant required Beam connectivity for auditory augmentation to work — something to do with sending weak signals to The Beam for algorithmic enhancement. So she’d been in a ball in the closet for the entire time, unable to hear, certain that Micah would come in at any moment.
 

That
much of the conversation she’d managed to get without her implant. Nicolai had sounded so guilty that he might as well have painted
Kai and I lied to you and she’s in the bedroom now
in red on his forehead.
 

Kai could hear his footsteps approaching the closet door. Her feet had gone numb, and she was sitting on a grove of dress shoes. She’d wanted to move but was afraid to make noise. Maybe
her
hearing couldn’t be enhanced without Beam connectivity, but she wasn’t so sure about Micah’s. After seeing the next-level immersion rigs in his brother’s apartment, it was abundantly clear that those above her had a rather significant technological advantage. She didn’t feel terribly dignified. Nicolai’s shirts were on either side of her head, like she’d been sitting at the bottom of a laundry chute. It was dark and light on oxygen. There was little reason for the closet to have airflow, seeing as nanos maintained the clothes and managed cooped-up scents.

“I said, you can come out now,” Nicolai repeated from the other side of the door. “He’s gone.”
 

“I’m just getting ready for you in here,” said Kai.
 

“I can’t figure out how to open this door with the canvas down. Hang on.”
 

“Ooh, I’m so hot. Come ravage me under your laundry.”

“Is there a knob inside or something?”
 

“I
hope
there’s a knob inside soon. I’m going to wrap my hand around it and…”
 

“Just push to the left, okay? Your left, if you’re facing the door.”
 

Kai shrugged for no one to see, then laid her palms against the door and shoved. It opened slowly. The required force made her shiver. She and Nicolai, by pushing from both sides, had effectively grabbed the door in a single giant hand. If she’d been trapped in the closet herself — something she didn’t entirely understand, seeing as the canvas was off and she must have triggered a manual pneumatic once inside — she might never have been able to get out.
 

“You okay?” Nicolai said, looking down.
 

Kai looked back up at him. She realized she had a fallen shirt draped over most of her head.
 

“I’m
better
than okay. I’m role-playing as a ghost.”
 

Nicolai extended a hand. Kai took it then stood. She tossed the shirt behind her, thinking that one of Nicolai’s house bots would pick it up and press it if he ever turned his apartment back on.
 

“I’m sorry. I had no idea he was coming.”
 

“Neither did I.” Kai brushed at herself, freeing an errant sock. “Clearly. Did he wonder why your canvas was off, or know anything was up?”
 

“He’s not stupid. I’m sure he knew something was up, but maybe he just thinks I have a gay lover.”
 

“Why was he here?”
 

Nicolai seemed to think.
 

“You don’t
know
why he was here?” The idea made Kai’s heart flutter. Micah Ryan did nothing by accident, and crossing town to visit his brother’s speechwriter wouldn’t be an exception. He’d had a reason. Kai hoped her paranoia about what it was turned out unfounded.