[ 2.7 ]
Unable to find the courage to return to his cabin, Serafin wanders the halls of the Oberoi. He feels like a dozen people are screaming inside of his head, and while he’s only capable of picking out scattered pieces of their invective, one comes through clear enough:
Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.
For a moment, he allows himself a scintilla of self-pity: what did they expect? He’s not a trained media expert; a week of hectoring from that awful PubComms kit wasn’t going to fix that. The entire operation was doomed to failure from the start, honestly.
But still, losing his temper like that?
You’ve successfully lied to people with a gun pressed against your temple, and you let Alvin Lane get you untethered? He’s been around since before hypermedia even existed.
Idiot, idiot, idiot!
Lane was out of bounds, of course, but why should that matter? Serafin had three tasks, three points the packet had marked as essential: first, don’t contradict the profile. Second, deny any connection to SIS. Third, you had nothing to do with Centerport. Simple. A child could do it. Maila could do it.
The first was trivial. The second always going to be a wobble, to be honest, but his implant had dumped a special blend of artificial sincerity into his bloodstream when the question came, helping him keep his voice steady, his temperature down, and his pupils undilated. And he had a little cover there: the most honest man in the universe might have some shaky biometrics when being interrogated on Copernica 24.
As for the third, the business with Centerport: that had always been a strange one. He had been on Luna when the massacre had happened, and he had no sources or assets out there, no connection at all, as far as he knew. The Centerport questions had seemed strange at the time — from what he can remember — but there have been rumors floating around for years that the UFA had been involved. Perhaps that was why the uprisers had latched onto it? They believed Serafin was SIS and they believed Centerport was done by SIS, so put the two together, and you’ve got a nice piece of agitprop. What does it matter if it’s not true?
Three tasks. Just three. And he’d accomplished them, hadn’t he? Obeyed his orders to the letter. Their only failure had been one of omission: they hadn’t scribbled don’t humiliate yourself with a public meltdown like a damn fool at the end, but the mistake was understandable. They’d probably assumed he was an adult. A professional.
Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.
“Are you alright, sir?” a blank asks. Evidently Serafin’s demeanor is alarming enough to trigger the machine’s customer welfare protocols.
“Go spin.”
“Sorry to disturb you, sir.”
There will be a message when he gets back to the cabin, a message from van Arden. Short, like always, with van Arden — and vague, because it’s public comms. It will say everything that’s currently racing through Serafin’s mind, and it’s going to be worse because it’s all going to be true.
He returns to the little cabin and collapses on the bed, not even bothering to remove his arm. He’s not really planning to sleep, but he’s so exhausted he finds himself drifting off in a stew of self-recrimination. There’s an apocalypse looming just a tap away, but it will keep.
He hopes he doesn’t dream.
You’ll be fine, Ashley’s memory whispers in his ear. You’ve nothing left to dream for.
When Serafin wakes up, his arm — the absence of his arm — is throbbing, and the thin fabric of his pillow is damp against his cheek, but he feels… not happy, exactly, but better than he did before. The peace of a condemned man accepting his fate, perhaps.
He pushes himself up, takes a breath, and spins open his comms panel.
You have a priority message from Lucy Serafin.
That will keep.
You have a priority message from van Arden.
“I’m sure I do.”
You have also received an unusually large volume of communications in the last six hours. Would you like some additional tools to manage these messages?
“Like what?”
If you’d like to automate responses depending on message content, you can sign up for our Aracom Limited Virtual Intelligence Personality Communications package. Sentimentals can also be made available upon request.
“Oh, yes, sentiment, I’m sure that will be invaluable.”
The computer takes him seriously, and the analytics bloom like flowers above his head. He’s still sleepy enough it takes him a moment to realize that the bars and graphs are overwhelmingly green and blue.
“Wait a minute,” says Serafin, running his hands through the data. “This is… is this just from the last six hours?”
Yes. The range can be expanded or limited at your request.
“Give me a random message.”
“Right on, sir!” drawls a man in an HEV suit, damp hair stuck to his forehead. “About time someone told the damn truth on the certifieds for once! Lane and the rest of those sniffs at C24 act all high and mighty, like they know better, but you’ve been out here with the rest of us! You know what’s really going on. I’m just sorry you weren’t there in person so you could bop him one on his smug little snout! God bless you, Mister Serafin!”
Serafin shakes his head, astonished. “Is that… what else are they saying?”
Would you like a sampling of average messages?
Serafin nods.
“Great job.” “Out of line.” “Thank you.” “You should run for office.” “Finally, someone says it!” “Thank you for everything you’ve done.” “It’s about time!” “Abergel’s doing his best!” “Who are you really working for?” “Lane’s just out of his depth one this one.”
Good Lord.
Jim Serafin, media darling. He never would have guessed.
“What about general media?” Serafin asks.
Certified media reactions average sixty-three negative. The uncertifieds are strongly positive, depending on political alignment.
Amusing, but irrelevant.
“What about what I said? Did they believe me?”
Yes.
“Am I a member of SIS?”
Popular media samplings suggests eighty-seven percent believe you are not a member of SIS.
“And the Centerport business?”
Over ninety-five percent of people believe you were not involved. However, a significant minority continue to believe the Solar Intelligence Service may have played some part in the event.
Serafin shakes his head. Could his outburst have helped, somehow? After all, SIS agents are supposed to be fearless and dispassionate. But this is all so far from his comfort zone, it’s hard to get a sense of what’s going—
You have a priority message from van Arden.
“Put it through,” Serafin says, before the fear can grab him.
van Arden sits, staring off into space, clearly irritated. He pinches his lip like he’s trying to hold himself back from saying what he really thinks.
When he’s ready:
“Jim,” he says.
“Saw the broadcast. Pretty sure that wasn’t in the packet, but I suppose it worked. Next time you decide to make a move like that, I’d appreciate a heads up.”
Serafin gets the impression it’s a good thing they’re light years apart, or this would be a sterner conversation. van Arden must have seen the polling and sentimentals before sending the message.
“Oh, one more thing. Management loved it. Absolutely delighted. They’re going to want a repeat performance, and soon. You’ll want to stop by the shop when you land.”
The message ends.
Idiot.
You lucky, lucky idiot.
Serafin looks up at the ceiling and lets out a shuddering breath he didn’t realize he was holding, astonished and relieved. He’s not sure about that “repeat performance” nonsense, but reading between the lines, the message sounds like a reprieve, or at least a stay of execution.
Perhaps there’s still hope. If Serafin just does his time, gets cleared by the docs — does a few more stupid interviews, if that’s what they want — maybe then they’ll finally let him come home, and get back to work.
He realizes he’s hungry, and heads to the canteen, which is almost empty. It’s the same slush as before, but it tastes better somehow. Now that the interview’s finally out of the way, he can start focusing on the Idea.
That bit about Piapil was intriguing, though; perhaps it’s even true. It wasn’t unheard of for intelligencers to get nocked into different companies — although Yeniceri would be a somewhat unusual choice. It would also be odd to put two agents on the same boat without letting them know, but certainly not outside the bounds of possibility. And as far as the interview goes, it makes they wouldn’t want to tell him beforehand — his surprise was genuine; all the better for the narrative.
One of the few things Serafin knows about his case is that the uprisers received a tip-off about an SIS agent being on the lighter, although it’s not clear if they had a name. The boys in propaganda will probably leak that detail, if they haven’t already, let the press make the connection:
The uprisers were looking for an SIS agent.
Piapil was SIS.
Ergo….
If you tell someone something, they might not buy it. But if you let people hear two things, and let them connect the dots on their own — those ideas, they’ll cling to ‘til the bitter end.
Not a bad bit of work, really. When all is said and done, Serafin will have his deniability, the recording will be discredited, and the fight will carry on. It’s not very clean, but it’s likely the best they can do, given the circumstances.
A woman hustles into the canteen, shouting and sobbing, her pace hampered by her long, tight skirt. Serafin’s so lost in thought it takes him a moment to realize it’s Maila, in the same dress as last night, with Herman trailing behind her.
“This is just like what happened with Ainsley!” Herman shouts.
“It’s not the same!” Maila wails, trying to grab a bottle of water and slapping the dispenser when it doesn’t comply. “You know it’s not the same! You said, Hermy!”
They both seem drunk, although Maila’s much worse off. They don’t seem to have noticed Serafin.
“Oh poor little Maila, sad little Maila, the little orphan,” Herman bellows. “But I know. You say you’re just flirting, you’re just having a bit of fun, but I know, you stupid little curve. You say you love me—”
This sets off her off. “I do love you!”
Herman slaps her.
She falls to the ground, wailing, pawing at Herman’s legs, begging him for forgiveness.
Best not to get involved. Best not to get involved. Best not to get involved—
Serafin sighs, stands up. Herman’s barking something else, but it doesn’t really matter. Serafin gets close enough he can’t be ignored, but Herman ignores him all the same. Serafin touches his arm, and Herman waves him away.
“Get lost, or I’ll knock you silly!” Herman barks.
“Alright,” says Serafin.
Herman didn’t expect that. He pulls back a moment, realizes who he’s talking to.
“Jim,” says Herman, sounding vaguely embarrassed. “This is… we’re kind of in the middle of something, right now.”
“I see that. But I accept.”
Serafin’s response is sufficiently unexpected that the big man’s brow furrows, replaying this in his mind.
“Whaddaya mean, ‘you accept?’”
“You said you were going to knock me silly. It sounded like you were challenging me to a fight.” Serafin spins his hands in a there you have it.
“Jim.”
“Herman.”
“Come on, I’m sorry. I don’t want to fight.”
“Why not? I do.”
Herman shakes his head, trying to work through this.
“Okay,” Herman says. “You’re right, okay? I apologize. I got a little heated. We’re just… Maila and me, we’re just in the middle of something right now. Why don’t we take a step back, count to ten—”
Serafin considers this. Taps the bone underneath his right eye. “Counter-proposal: why don’t I give you a little touch-up so you and the missus can match?”
That does the trick. Herman’s chin tucks into his neck like a stone hitting water. He takes a step forward, ready to swing, but Serafin takes a step back, raises a finger.
“Let’s do this properly.”
“Your Goddam funeral!”
“Oh, Hermy!” whines Maila, reaching out for his hand.
“Shut up,” Herman snaps, snapping his arm away. “Man wants to dance, we can dance.”
“Hermy—”
But Herman is already following Serafin to the interface rooms.
“Any preference?” Serafin asks, tapping his knuckle against the door to authorize payment.
“Anywhere you want, sport.”
“Camp Khaled gym,” Serafin says, just for the nostalgia, and the doors slide open.
The recreation isn’t perfect, of course — the interface rooms on the Oberoi are only equipped with the bare minimals, so it can’t reproduce the smells, or the wet, heavy air — but the visuals still bring him back. Serafin can’t help but smile when he sees the faded versuses above the trophy cases, tapping his fingers against the glass as he passes by the gloves of the legendary Malik “The Ram” Ramani, the ASF vet who went on to become the first space-born Interplanetary Heavyweight Champ.
“You know I boxed in college, right?” Herman says. “You sure you want to do this?”
“Oh yes,” says Serafin, tossing his jacket on the table next to the ring and unbuttoning his sleeves. “Are you sure you want your child bride to see this?”
Herman shakes his head, more to express astonishment than answer the question. “What about the arm?”
Serafin double-taps his bicep. “Baseline.” The artificial muscles flex and adjust accordingly. Serafin raises his false hand, supine — satisfied?
Herman grunts.
“As long as we’re getting the formalities out of the way: contract.” A gray diamond appears, hovering in the air. “Unarmed physical combat. No weapons, no stakes. No permanent harm, no fatalities.”
The diamond glows white. “Understood.”
“James Augustus Serafin, consent granted.”
His half turns green. Serafin taps the diamond, and it floats over to Herman, who glowers but accepts.
“Herman Gilbert Schott. Consent granted.”
The diamond flashes, fully green, and then fades away.
The bell rings.
“Okay, bud,” says Herman. “I don’t know what got into you, but —”
Serafin punches Herman in the mouth.
Herman comes in hard, swinging until he manages to land a shot to the ribs that makes Serafin’s eyes water, but in the pain there is exuberance. Until this moment, Serafin felt exceedingly nervous. He’s been training as much as he can, but this is the first time he’s gotten into a fight with a flesh and blood human being since the abduction. For months, his captors told him what he could do and couldn’t do, over and over, but it changed almost daily — you can smoke, you cannot smoke; you can talk, you cannot talk; you can pray, you cannot pray — until his cans and cannots got so jumbled in his head he couldn’t keep track any longer. He’s made some progress untangling the mess, but there’s one question he’s been putting one off for a while.
Can I fight?
The fears and anxieties about his work, his finances, his family, the interview, all fall away until all that remains is the canvas below, the lights overhead, and the violence in between.
For the first few minutes, all Serafin sees is fists. Herman isn’t in his prime, but there’s still plenty of power packed underneath the bulk. One good shot is all it will take, and even the bad shots still hit like hammers. Even he isn’t in his prime any longer, Herman still has thirty years and a few inches on Serafin.
But thirty years isn’t what it was thirty years ago.
And Serafin is very much not past his prime.
Herman manages to land another jab, but Serafin pays it back by crumpling Herman’s nose, painting his mouth with blood. Herman’s getting frustrated, even pinker than usual, and Serafin takes every opportunity to make it worse.
As the fight rolls on, Serafin’s confidence grows. Herman is strong, but he overestimates himself; keeps being surprised when Serafin doesn’t give in after another brutal flurry, keeps thinking if he causes enough pain, Serafin will give in.
There are other errors, as well. Herman is tough, but he’s not pacing himself — Serafin doesn’t give him the chance, nipping in every time the big man start to falter. The big man’s form is, honestly, impressive, but it only takes a few minutes for him to become predictable. He’s a boxer, not a killer. A talented boxer, to be sure. But at the end of the day, that’s all he is.
Serafin can box, but he is not a boxer.
The next lap around the ring, Serafin sees his chance: Herman throws a nasty jab that takes the skin off his cheek, but Serafin wobbles like it’s doing more than hurting. Herman gets greedy and takes a bigger swing, but Serafin isn’t there.
Why would he be? Someone left the gate open.
Time to come inside.
Before Herman can adjust his footing, Serafin switches his stance and does what he’s been trained to do, carbon fiber knuckles snapping forward to find the exact right spot — helpfully marked by combat vision — to send a shockwave rolling through the jaw up into the skull, rattling Herman’s brain hard enough to send the big man to Queer Street.
Herman wobble isn’t fake. Another good punch and he’s on his knees, one arm around the rope, the other in the air, trying to ward Serafin off or plead for mercy, it’s hard to tell. Serafin pushes Herman’s hand away and keeps throws fists until he’s confident Herman is no longer a threat, then keeps going until the contract re-appears, warning Serafin that he is coming close to violating the terms of their agreement.
Then, and only then, does Serafin stop.
Falling to his knees, he takes a moment to collect himself, before he crawls through the ropes and eases himself down from the ring. When he goes to retrieve his coat, there’s a sharp sting when he tries to put his arm through the sleeve, and he carefully measures his breath as he slides it on. He’s not sure whether his ribs or his stump will make it harder to sleep tonight; probably need to pick up some better pain-killers and sleepers at the pharma later.
Before he leaves, a curious impulse seizes him. He approaches Maila, who has not moved, except to wrap her arms around herself and weep.
“Maila,” he says, softly.
She turns her wet green eyes to him. Her mouth hangs slightly open, like she’s the one who got hit. He tastes copper, dabs at his mouth with his pocket square before gently clasping her shoulder.
“Maila, my dear. If you want to be a good-time gal, by all means, be my guest. But for God’s sake, don’t be sloppy. Don’t get caught. That’s the only rule. What’s the rule, Maila?”
“Don’t get caught,” she whispers.
Serafin gives her a pat-pat on the shoulder. “Good girl.”
A few months later, Serafin is surprised to receive a missive from Peverall Entomologics — a very proper and professional offer to become the company’s head of security. Serafin is amused, and perhaps even a touch regretful, but he doesn’t respond. Even if he had been inclined to take the position, he’s already moved on to other ventures.