Twenty-Six #3
They had decided that Nadiya and Giselle would take the winter market and the outskirts of the town, so she and Julian headed to what appeared to be a small café.
Strangely enough, the smell of sugar wafted from it.
Was Deckard so committed to the immersive quality of the simulation that he had installed a working oven?
Was there some ignoble CIA employee inside right now, baking bread?
She and Julian found an unobtrusive spot on a bench outside. After dusting off the snow, they sat.
“Did you catch what was on the television this morning?” Klaudia asked.
“I thought it was just another one of Deckard’s gimmicks.”
“It was a recording of a real broadcast from several weeks ago. From when Hauke was giving the press conference about Satow.”
“The doctor from the article?” Julian frowned. “Do you think that’s supposed to be some sort of clue?”
“Maybe. Or just a red herring.” Klaudia glanced around the town center, struck once again by how real it all felt. A child
slipped on the ice and a spurt of blood dribbled from his nose. It stained the ground—an interaction between the projections
and the physical world she had previously thought impossible. “But we shouldn’t overlook it. At the moment, it’s the only
real hint we have.”
“That and the blueprint.” Julian sighed. “The fact that Deckard won’t even tell us what the cube is doesn’t fill me with confidence.”
“Me either,” Klaudia admitted. “But he swore we had everything we needed to find it. I’ve been trying to work backward, thinking
about why each of us was chosen. . . .” She didn’t like the direction of the conversation, but she pressed on. “You were talking
to Giselle this morning.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“You seemed friendly.”
“She’s the only person here who’s not liable to shank me in the shower, if that’s what you mean.”
“Don’t be so dramatic.” Klaudia’s fingers curled into her palm. “You can take that bandage off now.”
“This?” Julian touched his cheekbone. “No, I’m keeping it. Proof of your affection.”
Klaudia’s face heated, and she hoped that her flush didn’t show. “You could at least try and be helpful. What were you and Giselle talking about?”
“Nothing requiring national security clearance,” Julian said. “She was telling me about her sisters. Her family. I might not
get my speedboat license while I’m here, but today I learned the square footage of a double-wide trailer.” He shrugged. “She’s
funny. Endearing.”
“And . . .” Klaudia hesitated a moment, biting down on her lower lip, “do you think what is says in her file is true? About
her memory?”
“Hard to tell from a conversation about Meemaw’s diabetes. Did you know they actually call their grandmothers that? I honestly
thought it was a joke.”
“I’m sure that condescension toward the working class served you well on the campaign trail.”
“It’s called humor, Klaudia.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“Tough audience,” Julian said. “I’ve never seen you laugh. Well—”
But he had. During the Thymos tournament. She had been so overcome, her mind racing, bile rising in her throat, and what had
come out was a laugh. Soft, shuddery, almost crazed. It nearly killed Klaudia to remember it now. He had seen so many sides
of her that she had never wanted to reveal.
“Let’s move on,” she said icily. And Julian, to his credit, didn’t protest.
“All right,” he said. “Operating under the assumption that what it says in her file is true, what would that mean for the
mission?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out. I’m guessing there’s some sort of code-breaking element to it. Gathering intelligence
from around Traumstadt and then using it to get past a series of locks . . .” Klaudia glanced around to make sure that none
of the holograms were watching them too closely. “If so, I’m very curious to hear what she’s gleaned from her walk.”
“Me too.”
They lapsed into silence, and Klaudia tried not to feel frustrated by how opaque everything remained. So far she had accomplished
nothing this afternoon other than letting Julian Joyce-Young III make her blush.
Suddenly, Julian turned to her and said, “I’m sure it’s occurred to you that we could just . . . refuse.” His gaze arced up,
toward the false sky. “Stop playing Deckard’s game.”
Of course it had. From the moment they had been herded into the helicopter, Klaudia had wondered what would happen if she
had told Dr. Iver no. He could have taken away her privileges, revoked the letter of recommendation that would have guaranteed her that top position.
But would that really have been worse than whatever fate awaited them here?
Klaudia could not even develop a formula to predict their chances of success. There were too many unknowns. Too many variables.
No answers. Only inelegant solutions.
“You’re asking the wrong question,” Klaudia said. “When you were running for mayor, did you ever pause to think about what
would happen if you lost? No, because it’s a pointless thought exercise. There’s no utility in imagining failure. There’s
only the game as it’s played. Stop weighing the possibility of defeat and start considering the conditions of victory.”
Julian went silent again. The imitation snow swirled around them. Then—
“I hate it when you do that,” he muttered.
“Do what?”
“Win me over.”