Perfect Gravity (Wanted and Wired #2)(12)
“The vid god and the senator, still very much in love, danced the night away at the Expo Guadalajara. Sooooo romantic,” trilled the Ursula Dioda chatbot, who was commenting in-line with Angela’s live emote.
On their third turn on the dance floor, toward the end of the evening and long after Angela’s feet had gone numb from the pain of her could-sub-as-a-torture-device shoes, a reply came in, filtered through mech-Daniel but apparently from the same darknet contact as before: “I see that bliss fullness on the vids, and it is quite lovely.”
To which she said, “Did you tremble like a guilty thing surprised?”
And on the next turn, a reply: “Every time.”
Angela glowed from the inside out.
No one would be hunting Mari Vallejo for murder, not after tonight. How could they, when the man she’d supposedly killed was so obviously here? Just log into his wife’s live-emote feed, feel her joy.
That night was the best performance of Angela Neko’s career.
It was also the last.
? ? ?
She didn’t have time to rest or soak her achy feet. She barely had time to change clothes before she needed to get moving again. No rest for the weary, no succor for the damned.
She had a town hall scheduled for tomorrow evening and quite a bit of prep work yet to do. Her bag was packed and next to the elevator, her coat folded on top of it—the weather would be cooler in her home state of California. A government transport would be arriving to fetch her in a matter of minutes, and she’d sleep in transit. Mech-Daniel would keep her on schedule, would get her to her stage marks on cue. No thinking necessary.
Guadalajara had been grand, but her bubble was shifting north for a while.
Rebranded in a sturdy old-wool skirt, wrinkle-free poly blouse, fresh hairdo hooked on, and pillow shoes that no one would have to see but that felt like heaven on her sore feet, she sagged into a chaise longue in the hotel suite. While awaiting the transport, she replayed the events of the evening in her mind and planned out her next steps.
She had put the rumors of Daniel’s demise to bed tonight. A private message informed her that her people had retrieved the body and wiped the records of it at the county morgue. They were taking it to a private crematorium, where she could observe its destruction personally.
She was so close to freedom she could taste it.
Zeke was still looking good in the polls, even though Daniel’s fake death story had knocked him off the number one rank for news items. No worries, though; she could get him back up there. Angela was flush with confidence.
And maybe something else. I see that bliss fullness on the vids, and it is quite lovely. That so didn’t sound like Kellen, not even a little bit. But it was Wordsworth and on his secret darknet channel, and every cell in her body wanted it to be true. She wanted to, needed to believe he thought her lovely, even after all this time.
Even after all she’d done.
She wondered if he would be watching her town hall tomorrow. She’d build in a private subtext just in case. Something from “Desideria,” so he wouldn’t think she was completely heartless, flirting secret messages at him so soon after Daniel’s death. Kellen would comprehend. He’d always had a gift for absorbing subtlety.
Surprised by joy—impatient as the wind. Yeah, that summed up tonight, not to mention the pulse of ache in her chest.
The cloying scent of whiskey wafted by her head, followed by a proffered bulb of amber liquid. She waved it aside. “Thanks, Dan-Dan, but I have to leave soon. Can’t get too comfortable.”
“I have been in contact with our transport, and it is still some minutes away. After what must have been a taxing performance tonight, you deserve something of a private celebration.” Mech-Daniel stretched the glass toward her again.
True. She did. Oh, fuck it. Angela accepted the drink and took a long, throat-singeing gulp as mech-Daniel, now in his usual uniform of poly-printed loose pants and shirt, rounded the end of the chaise longue and stood before her.
He looked ridiculously pleased with himself, but that’s kind of how he always looked in private. No one who had spent any significant time with Daniel when he was alive would confuse the real man with this sweet, puppy-eyed machine.
Too bad for him Angela had always been more of a cat person.
“There is a corporate microclime for citrus just south of here,” mech-Daniel said. “So the sour is fresh.” He nodded toward the drink she was downing.
No shit. So fresh it made her want to pucker, but she didn’t. She took it down to half and made an appreciative hum in the back of her throat. The sound wasn’t quite a good-boy but close enough. He grinned adorably.
“I have logged only six messages this evening. Would you like to hear them?”
Angela didn’t reply, just took another pull on her drink. Warm languor infused her body, and she blinked back sleep.
The first message was from Zeke. He needed her to do a rally online party tomorrow. Man, she hated these things. The day-to-day of governing, she was fine with that. But getting elected and staying elected and everything associated with electedness curdled her joy. She tapped a “sure, I’ll be there” and moved on.
The next reminder was for a floor vote on Thursday. They’d pass around a biometric vote board, so she couldn’t telepresence in. Damn it. Confirmation of a new cabinet member. Not her. Not the war ministry. That appointment—her appointment—was on hold, presumably pending any war-worthy threat.