Or failed one. Hard to tell with her.
“Walk with me,” she says, already moving.
I fall into step beside her as she leads me away from the crowds, toward a quieter corner of the courtyard where the shadows are deeper and the music fades to a murmur. The reflecting pool stretches beside us, the water dark and still. I know the autumn night air is progressively getting colder as the evening ticks on, but my skin feels like it’s on fire. I subtly do my breathing exercises, knowing that’s what Bayo would be reminding me right now. He’s gone quiet, though, in case Van Veen has some sort of super hearing like Vanguard. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s also suited up with all sorts of tech, nanobots in her bloodstream and all that weird scientist stuff.
“Global Dynamix has spent years cultivating Vanguard’s image,” she says, her voice low enough that I have to lean in to hear. “The all-American hero. The symbol of hope. It’s effective, needed, but it’s also limiting. There are those within the company who believe we’ve created a cage for him—a gilded one, certainly, but a cage nonetheless.”
“And you’re one of those people?”
She doesn’t answer directly. “I created him, Ms. Baxter. Not in the way the tabloids suggest—I didn’t build him in a lab like Frankenstein’s monster—but I oversaw his enhancement. I shaped what he became. I know him better thananyone.”
There’s something in her voice when she says it. Possession, for sure, but something else too, something that sounds like hunger.
Interesting.
“He’s remarkable,” she continues, a softness coming over her features. “More remarkable than even I anticipated. But remarkable things need to be understood. By the public. By the world. And yes, by the people who think they can control him.”
“People like Conrad Marsh?”
Her expression doesn’t change, but I catch the slight tightening around her eyes. A nerve touched.
“Mr. Marsh is the CEO. He has his priorities. I have mine.” She stops walking and turns to face me fully. In the dim light, the shadows carve her face sharply. “What I’m saying, Ms. Baxter, is that your approach intrigued me. Most journalists want the story Global Dynamix is selling. You seem to want something else.”
“I want the truth,” I repeat then wince internally. I’m starting to sound desperate. And I am desperate, in more ways she could ever know. I need this interview, I need this mission, or I’ll probably be consigned to a desk in the corner for the rest of my career.
“Yes, you keep saying that.” The corner of her mouth curves upward. “The question is whether you’re prepared for it.”
Before I can respond, she reaches into her clutch and produces a slim black card. She holds it out between two fingers, like an offering—or a dare.
“My email,” she says. “If you’re serious about this piece, send me an email with your proposal. It will need to be vetted by Vanguard, by myself, and by Mr. Marsh. If you manage to pass all three, then you pass Go.”
I take the card.
“That easy?” I can’t help but ask.
“Nothing about this will be easy, Ms. Baxter.” She finishes her champagne and sets the empty glass on the edge of a nearby planter. “I’m giving you an opportunity to prove yourself worthy. What you do with it is entirely up to you.”
She starts to walk away then pauses, looking back over her shoulder. pale grey eyes catch the light from the party, making them seem almost luminous.
And then, she’s gone, gliding back into the crowd like she was never there at all.
I stand alone by the reflecting pool, the black card heavy in my hand, trying to figure out what just happened. Almost there, so close, and all that jazz.
I turn to face the shadows so no one can see my face as I speak.
“Bayo?” I whisper. “Please tell me you got all that.”
“Every word,” he confirms. “It sounds promising, but I wouldn’t want to be stuck in an elevator with her.”
“Yeah.” I look down at the card, running my thumb over the embossed letters. “Me neither.”
Across the courtyard, I spot Vanguard again. He’s still surrounded by admirers, still smiling that perfect smile, but for just a moment, his gaze finds mine through the crowd. He doesn’t acknowledge me, doesn’t nod or wave or give any indication he remembers our conversation.
But he sees me. I know he does.
And so does the woman who made him. I can feel her watching both of us from somewhere in the party.
I sigh loudly, and Bayo says what I’m thinking.
