Boris seemed happy to be out of Genie's quarters. He sprawled on his side over one of the air vents, showing his cream-colored belly and begging to be petted, or maybe begging for another taste of the stuff that wasn't cheese. He would eat anything, she'd discovered, including cooked broccoli and pasta, but he liked greasy things best.
Genie finished her sandwich, giving a last few crumbs to the cat, and scratched behind his ears as he sniffed politely after the food. He flattened his whiskers against his ginger-striped cheeks. She drew her knees up and folded her hands under her chin, and practiced being invisible.
She scrunched herself up a little tighter and kept her eyes down, watching the tip of Boris's tail twitch thoughtfully as he slitted his eyes at a black-and-blue butterfly. At least there were advantages to being invisible. She was pretty sure that the grown-ups had forgotten all about her, even Papa, because they were talking about all kinds of interesting things, and they were the sort of interesting things that people usually wouldn't talk about if they remembered she was listening.
For example, Charlie was saying to Papa right now, “… this is on the list of things I'm not supposed to tell anyone, Gabe—”
“According to whom? I'm on the contact team, after all. We're all supposed to have the same clearances.” Papa leaned against one of the sturdy lab tables, his coffee cup vanishing inside his hand.
“This isn't to do with the contact team.” Leslie said it, not Charlie, but Genie looked up and saw the way Charlie's face seemed to reflect the emotion in Leslie's voice. Creepy.
“It's not any creepier than you talking to me,” Richard said, and Genie bit her lip.
I can't help it if it bothers me, can I?
“Sure you can. You're smart enough to know that you can decide what bothers you, and decide what you think is good or bad, instead of just reacting.”
Papa hadn't stopped talking. “If it's not contact stuff, why is it so secret?”
“Because it's nanite ‘stuff,'” Charlie answered. “Which is why we think we need your help.”
Boris, annoyed at her neglect, reached out and grabbed Genie's soft foam ship-shoe. His claws went through it, even though he didn't mean her any harm. She would have yelped, but she was invisible, and if she made any sound, somebody might notice her. Instead she reached down and roughed up the fur under his chin. He stretched back out again, relaxing. She hoped he wouldn't purr too loudly.
Papa set his coffee cup down, but not before he finished whatever was left in the bottom. “Richard?”
“Right here, Gabriel.”
“Is what they're about to tell me likely to reconvince me that we need to go over our operating systems for trap doors?”
“Actually,” Richard answered, “I think it will convince you that you want to try to reprogram the tech from scratch. On the other hand, the risks involved in that—”
“Like Jenny's life, you mean? And my daughter's?”
Silence. Genie bit her lip. He'd definitely forgotten she was there. Genie shivered. Her butt was getting numb from sitting on the air register, but this was interesting.
“And mine,” Richard said. “Although none of the nanotech that I inhabit appears to have problems yet, I am concerned.”
“Putain de ordinateur. Richard. Problems?”
“Forgive me, Gabriel. Before the EVA, Charlie discovered that the… nanotech in the ecospheres was dropping out of its networks for an unexplained reason. Or reasons. At first we thought they were dying, but further experimentation has led us to believe they're just… losing communication with each other.”
“And this is ongoing?”
“In patches. Or batches. They'll just stall.”
Papa sighed and looked around for his coffee cup. Charlie gave it back to him, refilled. “I hope you have a good reason why I wasn't informed of this, Dick.”
Leslie “coughed.” “Prime Minister Riel swore us to secrecy.”
“So you're making me a party to treason?”
“Yes. Well, it's not treason for me; it's just espionage. But since the rest of you are Canadians—”
“Okay,” Papa said, looking down at his hands. “Spare me the hairsplitting. And you want me to find out who's hacking the machines and disabling them, and how, and why?”
“Your reputation for perspicacity,” Richard said, “is not exaggerated, Mr. Castaign.” Genie could hear the amusement in his voice. Papa obviously could, too, from the way he rolled his eyes.
Richard, I shouldn't be here for this.
“Genie, I think you're more than grown up enough to understand this conversation, and why it's important, and has to be secret. Don't you?”
“I think the whole team should know about this,” Papa said.
“Jeremy already does,” Leslie answered.
“Then Ellie needs to be brought in.”
“All right. What about Paul?”
Richard chuckled, a dry, almost mechanical sound. “I expect, somehow, that Dr. Perry would be just as happy not knowing about this little contretemps. I should hate, after all, to force him to choose between his loyalty to Constance, and to Canada.”
Premier Xiong looked thinner in the space of a very few days, Riel thought, contemplating his image floating over her desk for a precious few seconds as she collected her thoughts. Not short days, though; abrogating cliché, the days had been as long as any she cared to remember. And they didn't promise to get any shorter in the near future.
When we're finished saving the world, she thought, I'm going on a nice long trip someplace warm, changing my name, and buying a pineapple plantation. Or maybe sugar cane. And then I'm going to let the whole damned place go to seed, and sit on the front porch and play poker and drink daiquiris until my eyes cross.
Her eyes wanted to cross now, or at least to fuzz with exhaustion. She hoped her cosmetics were up to the task of making her look like a functioning human being, because she didn't feel like one. “Premier,” she said, and kicked her shoes off under the desk. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?”
“You have an… interesting concept of ‘pleasure' in Canada, Prime Minister.” He let his eyes sparkle, as if he were flirting with her. One of the contradictions of the modern age; even the leaders of totalitarian states needed to be able to wield charm with natural grace and confidence.
“I think I can be forgiven for finding you more entertaining than next year's fiscal realities.” She passed a hand across her interface plate, summoning coffee. “I don't think you'd be calling me on the secure hot line unless you had something too important to trust to diplomatic channels.”
“I don't think either of us can afford to trust much to diplomatic channels at this juncture. Unless your political position is considerably more secure than my own. Or than I have been led to believe.”
“I do have a few trustworthy advisers,” she answered, letting the wryness show in her voice. She could not afford to like this man, any more than he could afford to like her — but neither one of them would be in the position they were in if they weren't good at getting people to like them, to trust them, to confide. The irony and symmetry pleased her, and she smiled.