Palmer Lake, Persephone was displeased to learn, lay outside the Golden Promise Ministries’ compound. Her target was at the far end of a private road, beyond a gateway just around the corner of the hill from Pinecrest. In between interrogating the concierge about nearby beauticians and whether the fitness center had an elliptical trainer, she’d pumped him for details: GPM ran these courses regularly, and usually gave participants a guided tour of their ministry on the final day. Not good, she told herself. If they were going to keep her exposure down to a supervised tour, how was she going to plant her spyware? More importantly: What were they trying to keep out of sight?
The timbered hall was furnished for a talk—a podium at the front and rows of chairs facing it—but there was a buffet spread at the back, with coffee urns and trays piled high with cookies, cake slices, and sushi rolls, as for a corporate motivational junket.
Aiming to stay in character (a London high-society divorcee or widow, hunting for meaning in an over-privileged, sterile existence), Persephone drifted towards the coffee urn. It was already the focus of some attention by a handful of over-groomed men in office casual and a corresponding gaggle of women who, from their costumes, were desperate not to fade into the invisibility of middle age. As she took in faces, a woman of a very different sort—young and perky, blonde, clipboard-armed and badge-wearing—stepped in front of her. “Can I help you?”
“I do hope so.” Persephone injected a faint quaver of uncertainty into her voice. “This is the Omega Course reception, isn’t it…?”
“Sure! My name’s Julie, and I’d just like to take a few details if I may, ma’am? If you wouldn’t mind telling me your name?”
“Persephone Hazard. Um, this is—”
“Don’t you worry, Mrs. Hazard, you’re in the right place.” Julie patted her arm, clearly intending reassurance, then scored through a line on her clipboard. Persephone took note, careful not to snoop visibly: from the size of the list they were expecting fewer than thirty people. “From London, I see? Wow, you’ve come a long way today!”
“I flew in yesterday,” Persephone confided. “There are no direct flights via British Airways so I caught the afternoon shuttle from—”
Two sentences and Julie began to nod like a metronome; it was amazing how fast most people zoned out if you babbled at them, in Persephone’s experience. (It was all true, easily verifiable—drown ’em in data and they won’t suspect you’re holding out.)
“Thank you, that’s wonderful,” Julie gushed as soon as Persephone gave her a crevice to lever her way back into the conversation-turned-monologue. “Now I absolutely have to go and take other names? But make yourself right at home! Help yourself to the spread and Ray will be right along in a few minutes to introduce everything. Meanwhile, why don’t you circulate?”
Persephone nodded and thanked Julie fulsomely, then went about putting her advice into practice. If bonding was the name of the game, then over the next twenty minutes she scored: a property developer called Barry, a local TV anchor called Sylvia, a state senator, and a newly minted partner in a corporate law firm—work that smile!—half the men were divorced or newly upgraded to wife 2.0, so it wasn’t entirely a gold-digger’s paradise, but they were all united by a common factor: the need for something else in their life.
Persephone was discreetly pumping Senator Martinez about his stance on right-to-work legislation when she felt a sudden change in the atmosphere in the room. Allan Martinez wasn’t looking at her anymore: his gaze tracked over her shoulder, and she turned, following his eyes round towards the doorway. Which was open, to admit Raymond Schiller, beaming, and a couple of assistants—a bald man in smoked glasses and a gray suit, and a homely-faced, middle-aged woman in a blue dress.
“Hello, everyone!” Schiller called, raising his arms. His suit was immaculately cut, his white shirt worn with a power tie, a small silver cross pinned to his lapel. “Welcome to the Golden Promise! I’m glad you all could make it here today. I mean to make it worth your while. I think this could be the most important meeting of your lives—and by the time we’re through, I’m hoping you’ll find your way to agreeing with me.”
He clasped his hands together—not in benediction, but in a gesture of defensive self-deprecation. “I want to wish you all a very warm welcome. Some of you may be wondering, ‘Hey, what have I gotten myself into?’” A ripple of nervous laughter spread around the room. “Well, don’t worry. We’re not here to pressure you; you can leave any time you want. This might just not be the right time for you. That’s okay; you can leave whenever you like, and come back whenever you like. Nobody’s going to stop you. It’s a free country.”
Once started, Schiller kept going for nearly a quarter of an hour, tickling his audience, playing on their nervous curiosity with self-deprecating humor, bringing himself down several pegs until he presented himself as seeing eye-to-eye with them: no longer a mega-famous preacher on a pedestal, but a down-home fellow the men in the audience could see themselves sharing a beer with. Persephone nodded along, happily in her element, taking mental notes. There were tricks here, flickers of eye contact, hand gestures designed to manipulate the onlookers’ perceptions. His focus wandered the room, meeting eyes and engaging like a jolt of lightning recognition from the base of the spine. When he spoke to the women his spin was slightly different, less overtly masculine, stressing the mystical; when he spoke to the men his manner became more laconic, less emotionally loaded.
He’s brilliant, she realized, with a flash of admiration normally reserved for a deadly freak of nature like a black widow spider or a sleeping tiger. He hadn’t even gotten started on the subject of the course—the Omega, humanity’s destiny, the answer to the greatest question, as the promotional pamphlet put it—and he was already establishing himself in his audience’s minds as a trusted guide, an old and reliable friend, leader, and helpmate.
Ray was good: it went beyond being an inspirational speaker. He had a grip on his audience’s attention span and interests, not just their ears. The talk was more like an afternoon chat show than a sermon. Stomachs full of cake and coffee, heads full of questions, and the audience were nodding along with him enthusiastically rather than nodding off to sleep. Schiller was going to supply the answers—but not until after dinner.
Persephone leaned back and waited for her opportunity, a vacant smile fixed to her face.
I BLINK AND OPEN MY EYES. “OW,” I MUMBLE VACANTLY. THE tat on the inside of my left wrist aches and shimmers before my eyes, my bladder’s full, my neck’s stiff and sore, and while I’ve been sitting in this bloody chair the sky has begun to darken in the west. I shake myself and stand up, wobbly from being in one position for too long. Slide time—I must have been experiencing the show in real time with Persephone.
I’m acutely aware of her self-image, her body feel mapped onto my own—I feel odd, squat and narrow-hipped and dumpy. It’s quite strange; I thank my lucky rabbit’s foot that she’s not having a period. I waddle to the bathroom and empty my bladder, worrying. Am I going to have to do this the whole time? Sixteen hours a day in a chair (hell no, I ought to be in bed) kibitzing on someone else’s sensorium? How about—
Huh. I completely forgot about Johnny. Should I call him up, too? But not like that; I just need to talk to him, make sure everything’s running to plan. Traviss said I could use the tats to talk. I try to remember the protocol; unlike the straight over-the-shoulder monitoring function, it requires a drop of blood and a minor invocation.