Cumulus (14 page)

“Get to the fucking point.” Martín pressed his lips together into a thin line. “If you’re going to manipulate me, don’t try to do it with philosophy.”

Graham sighed. It was always so disappointing to work with someone who didn’t appreciate the finer details. You just couldn’t win them all.

“You will reach out to Huian,” said Graham. “And tell her that you have reconsidered her offer and have decided to accept. You will sell Tectonix to Cumulus.”

All the color drained from Martín’s face. He stood mute for a full minute.

“But the board,” he said. “I’ve spent every ounce of my reputation convincing them to back my vision and turn down the acquisition. I can’t just come back the next day and reverse the decision. It won’t make sense. It would be too much of a red flag. They’ll refuse. They’ll find a way to throw me out.”

Graham’s expression hardened. “Then I suggest you get creative.”

“It’s impossible.”

“Necessity is the mother of invention. And neither of us want that video of Stephanie being double-teamed to reach the prying eyes of the internet.” Martín’s eldest daughter was studying particle physics at Princeton, and had developed a propensity for threesomes. In her latest foray, the camera embedded in the room’s wall screen had a perfect angle on her giving one track runner a blowjob while another one took her from behind. She hadn’t been actively recording, but Cumulus had persistent records from every sensor on every device. Graham’s access had allowed him to simply pull whatever records he wanted. “It’s just harmless experimentation, but some people can be so close-minded and unforgiving.”

Martín charged, fists swinging in wild arcs. Graham ducked under the flurry of blows and drove a shoulder into Martín’s solar plexus. Then he swept Martín’s feet out from under him and twisted an arm behind the man’s back as he fell. By the time Martín hit the floor, Graham had the arm torqued into a bind.

With this little visit, Graham’s initial gambit was nearly complete. The pieces had been set in motion. Cumulus was arguably the most powerful organization in the world, on par with national governments. He had installed himself as its intelligence chief, and proved his worth to Huian. But he wanted to wield power, not simply do the bidding of the powerful. That meant reversing his relationship with Huian. Oh, he had no desire to be CEO. Official leaders were nominal figureheads at best, distracting from the players who really pulled the strings. He had already used the powers she had initially granted him to isolate her and enflame her paranoia. She depended on him more and more for trusted advice. By controlling her reality, he could deliver precisely timed fear, hope, and insight. Huian was his marionette, and he would rule Cumulus through her. He held her in a bind tighter than the one securing this man’s arm.

Martín gasped like a dying fish. The air had been knocked out of him by the impact.

Graham leaned down and whispered into his ear. “I’m sure a promising young woman like her would be able to get out from under it. Eventually.”

It
was
too easy.

26

EMPLOYEES CRUISED ALONG
the network of internal campus paths on skateboards. Despite the chill in the breeze coming in from under the Golden Gate Bridge, a group was holding an impromptu beach volleyball tournament on a grid of courts. But now that autumn was in full swing, sweaters and boots were everywhere.

As Cumulus had grown, Huian had noticed how the apparel had changed. There was obviously no dress code, and in the company’s early days, their small team of developers had not been unfashionable so much as intentionally flouting any norm that didn’t suit their personal comfort. Hoodies and science-fiction-themed T-shirts ruled the day. But as they grew from an uppity startup into a Silicon Valley behemoth, Cumulus had needed to hire marketers, analysts, salespeople, strategists, attorneys, managers, and many, many others to fill in all the operational niches an organization of their size required. This new influx of people shifted the overall culture of the place, and now the atmosphere was trendier. Hand-cut leather, designer clothes that tried very hard not to look like designer clothes, and expedition-grade outdoor gear were the new norm. The geeks had given way to the hipsters.

Huian entered the squat gray building that was Security’s headquarters. She passed through a series of biometric scanners and other sensor equipment, and then descended three floors and entered the Security command center. Screens covered the walls of the large circular room showing views of a variety of ongoing crises from all over the world. Analysts worked in groups, their screens covered in code and complex interfaces. There was a raised dais in the middle of the room with a wide table and a dozen chairs.

Karl sat at one end of the table, deep in conversation with two of his lieutenants. An analyst approached the trio, gave a report, and returned to his station with new orders. A constant buzz of energy and activity gave the command center the atmosphere of a beehive.

Huian walked up to the dais and caught Karl’s eye. He waved the lieutenants away.

“I came to check up on the protest situation,” she said.

“I figured as much,” said Karl. “That’s why I’m down here too.”

He waved to an analyst, and the surrounding screens resolved into a panoply of live video feeds.

Karl gestured. “You’re seeing shots from our eye-in-the-sky surveillance drones, Bandwidth Wi-Fi drones, delivery drones, Fleet vehicles, security cameras, and phones that have good angles.” He waved his hand at an adjacent display that was cycling through text far too fast to read and flagging specific words with highlights. “We’re running a full semantic model on any communication coming in or out of the group, audio, text, or passive recording from phones in people’s pockets. Same thing for all the news feeds. That should help monitor the overall temperament of the group and alert us in advance if they enter a downward spiral. Fleet is using its swarm algorithm to route around it. We certainly don’t want an accident.”

The group on-screen had swelled from hundreds to a few thousand, stretching over a few city blocks as they marched. Huian had always found social dynamics to be a fascinating subject. People talked about internet products and media going viral. But just like any biomimetic concept, the viral growth of ideas closely mirrored the actual epidemiology of real world viruses. And ideas had gone viral long before the internet was invented. Mob mentality. Religious zeal. Anything that enabled groupthink.

“As you can see, they’re still far from the Green Zone and out of our area of interest,” said Karl. “But I have a pod tracking it just in case that changes.”

“What about local police?”

Karl waved a hand, and one of the cameras zoomed in, showing a few uniformed officers walking ahead of and behind the crowd.

“They have a small presence,” said Karl. “Mostly just preventative. They’re hoping that seeing cops will prevent people from doing anything stupid. Our liaison checked in with the chief. Oakland has only one riot unit now. They’re prepped, but I doubt they’ll bring them out unless it gets really ugly.”

She and Karl had stood at this very table and watched conflicts break out all over the world. Sometimes the Department of Defense would send a representative to use Cumulus assets to complement the federal surveillance network and monitor an ongoing operation. But it was rare to watch something happening so close to home. Although the crowd was still in the middle of the Slums, it wasn’t that far from her house up in the hills. Maybe a twenty-minute Fleet ride.

“Have you made any progress figuring out why this started in the first place?”

Karl grimaced. “It’s always hard to give a concrete answer to a question like that when we’re in the middle of a developing situation. But it appears that a local resident was murdered in her home this morning. She was shot multiple times, and it looks like it was targeted. Police are currently in the middle of forensics, but they don’t have any strong leads so far.”

Huian frowned. “What’s the annual homicide rate in the Oakland Slums?”

“Two hundred and seventy-nine last year.”

“At risk of sounding callous, what’s so special about this one? There weren’t two hundred and seventy-nine protests last year.”

“In this case, the victim was respected and well-liked by local residents. Hopefully, we’ll find out more once the investigation gets moving, but I doubt it. These days, OPD murder investigations essentially amount to adding a new file to the pile of cold cases.” Karl shrugged. “Your question is good, but not easy to answer. First, because we don’t yet know enough. Second, because these kinds of things often don’t have clear-cut logic behind them. Often, resentment or frustration builds up over time, and then something small instigates an explosion.”

Huian thought about her various fights with Vera over the years.

“I totally understand,” she said. She made a mental note to talk to Graham. She could use his counsel on this.

27

LILLY DIDN’T REALIZE
she was crying until she reached up to wipe the wetness from her cheeks.

The photos were hanging in her bathroom-turned-darkroom. While she waited for them to dry, she had wrapped herself up in a fleece blanket and collapsed onto the couch. Now that she was home, the tides of adrenaline that had surged through her body all day long were finally receding. Exhaustion followed close in their wake.

The world had gone haywire. Just twenty-four hours ago, she had been finishing up at the wedding and quietly resenting Marian’s managerial style. Since then, she had escaped a narrow run-in with Security thanks to a cryptic billionaire, discovered Sara’s corpse and shadowed her murderer, and been enlisted by the bereaved Godfather of Oakland to assist in the unofficial effort to avenge his dead lover. A few tears were probably healthy.

She burrowed deeper into the couch. It was a relief to be back in the tiny apartment she called home. Her kitchenette was stocked with instant noodles. The sofa was lumpy but comforting in its familiarity. The oak coffee table reminded her of the smell of sweat and sawdust. Her dad had used the project to teach her a thing or two about woodworking. She had loved the rough warmth of his hand over hers as he showed her how to use the lathe. The sheen of the varnish gleamed in her memory.

She jerked up into a sitting position. She must have drifted off. Her phone was ringing. She snatched it up.

“Hello?”

“Are they ready? I really need to get this story out. Frederick is breathing down my neck.”

Because her mind was still scrambling back toward consciousness, it took her a moment to recognize the voice. Henok. It was Henok. So he was asking about the pictures. Lilly noticed how dark her apartment was. Hadn’t afternoon light been shining on the coffee table when she sat down on the couch?

“What time is it?” she asked, trying to keep the grogginess out of her voice.

“Eight,” said Henok. “I thought it wasn’t supposed to take that long. Seriously, I don’t understand why you don’t just shoot digital.”

Shit. The pictures would have been ready ages ago. She must have slept for hours. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she tried to get her thoughts in order.

“I’ll be right over with them,” she said.

“Good, see you soon.”

Henok was one of those people who quickly settled into familiar ease with new acquaintances. Lilly had a small group of very close friends. Henok seemed like the kind of guy who befriended anyone he met. That kind of easy trust required more emotional generosity than Lilly could usually manage, but she found the trait endearing. That said, she didn’t know how to feel about the whole Frederick situation. It was well known that he ran the Oakland Slums’ organized-crime ring. Visiting his headquarters had made it even more blatant. But if he was that out-in-the-open about it, he must have some understanding with the police. And the police themselves hadn’t appeared too keen on doing much of anything about Sara’s murder. To Lilly, Frederick’s enforcers weren’t much different from Security officers. Both carried the threat of violence against those too poor or weak to afford protection or defend themselves. And, to Frederick’s credit, he
was
trying to investigate Sara’s murder. Vigilante justice it might be, but if the alternative was inaction, then maybe he was on to something.

Walking over to the kitchen sink, she splashed some cold water on her face. Then she pulled a manila envelope out of a drawer, and went to collect the pictures.

Three years ago, she had spent a week converting her bathroom into a darkroom. Duct tape secured double layers of black garbage bag over the small window. She had replaced the standard light with a red bulb that didn’t ruin the photo paper. Towels were stuffed into place around every edge of the door, and then taped over. For the photos to develop properly, she couldn’t afford to let just any old photons in. Lines of string connected the shower rod to nails she’d hammered into the opposite wall. The newly developed photos hung like laundry.

Now that she had opened the bathroom door, the normal light from the living room mixed with the glow from the darkroom’s bulb to bathe the pictures in an ominous amber, diminishing color and contrast. Sara’s body lay splayed in her living room. A figure hurried away from her house via the side gate. The man ducked into the West Oakland BART Station. He entered the North Berkeley café, and exited in different clothes. His face turned over his shoulder to check out the ass of the passing jogger. He exited the small office building housing the private practice of Dr. Flint Corvel.