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It’s curious how the smallest things can tinge the way someone feels about another person. For me, it was Zinder’s teeth, which had an almost phosphorescent glow. It was probably supposed to make him more glamorous and heroic. When I first met him at one of Sosha’s wild parties, he had a sort of determined grit that was so sincere. And he was scruffy around the edges, like many esports stars. Years went by before I saw him again. And now, at age 55, he gave me an odd sensation—like seeing an old acquaintance’s cousin or brother: physically similar, but not the same guy.
Yet, at the same time, it wasn’t especially surprising to learn that there was more to the man than shoot-’em-up survivor games. Back in the day, I’d had a sneaking suspicion something was rattling around in that brain of his, that it hadn’t shown itself yet.
Eventually, he decided to capitalize on his popularity by venturing into politics. Gone were his green hair, sandals and baggy athletic sweats. Now he seemed to fall out of bed in multi-million-dollar suits. Which is an exaggeration, but probably not by much.
The transformation had taken time, and becoming a political animal came with a price. Now lines were etching his forehead and a sort of permanent glowering expression when he didn’t think anyone was watching. He had the look of someone ravenous—for ideas and new government policies that he could capitalize on, for friends in high circles, for power.
A couple of nights after the Theseus attack on Nuhope, I thought about Zinder when I was alone in my penthouse apartment. I was savoring one last drink, staring out at the firmament of jewel-like high-rise apartments across northern Manhattan. My obsessive desire for a child was just an old ache buried under a mountain of new distractions at Nuhope.
Now those jarring teeth of his seemed emblematic of some unsettling truths. Of course, I was grateful that Zin Zin had found me out on that beach and seen fit to appoint me Nuhope’s president and CEO. That ride to the party in his limo was just one of many ways that he made clear to the world that I meant a great deal, that he valued our alliance.
But the avalanche of information that he and Silverman had shared with me about Nuhope before I took the post didn’t reveal the extent of the dreamisode seeding. Yes, I knew that dreamisodes were used by advertisers and that the government planted a few patriotic promotions. But handing out low-level mobiles that delivered subliminal messages in dreamisodes that numbed the emotions of millions of people each and every day? To get even more Chav to fight in the U.A.’s wars?
I can’t say I was stunned, because I’d been around too long for that. But Jarat Ellington’s info bomb shook me (and so many others) to a keener sense of wakefulness.
At first, I told myself it was just misinformation. Why would I trust anyone who highjacked Nuhope’s communication system and ruined a celebration that was so meaningful to my company and to me personally? But after I got control of my anger, I had a little tête-à-tête with the man at Nuhope heading up dreamisode messaging. He told me that what Ellington had said was, in fact, quite true. I felt like a bride who had always known her fiancé was flawed but discovered that he was severely scarred in some pretty tender places on her wedding night.
Yet at the same time, I’d been waiting for some ugly revelation like this. Of course, there was more to Nuhope than what I’d been led to believe. Any corporate warrior would anticipate that. I’d armored my mind, waiting for more. And here it was. Trust a little? No fucking way.
As I tried to relax, sipping my wine in front of that splendid New York window view, the irony of the situation made me laugh. I actually agreed with a merry little band of Theseus rebels who were intent on undermining the company that I headed. The dreamisodes were frickin’ awful.
But my hands were tied at that moment. If I sounded any kind of alarm, Zinder and the board would think I was inept—swayed by a rebel group’s agenda. Nuhope’s profit margin would get squeezed tighter than a sex bot’s vagina if the revenue that the dreamisodes generated just went away without some kind of replacement. Profitability was everything.
I had no intention of going quietly into the bloody night. No seasoned executive would ever do that. I needed to watch, plan, and form a few key alliances. One of them was already in my sightlines, and she had no idea what I was about to ask her.
# # #
THREE DAYS AFTER THE Theseus attack, I made my way down one of Nuhope’s top-floor corridors toward a meeting in Zinder’s office. Damage control was the order of the day. I’d just come from some intensive meetings with the research, marketing, and programming department heads.
Recordings of Jarat Ellington’s wallscape speech had exploded on both the BaseNet and OuterNet. So had the footage of his car, ablaze with flames. Even though he was presumed dead, Ellington’s fuckability stats were through the roof. (That data set was never something Nuhope released to the press, but it was closely monitored internally.) The social chatter about Ellington and Massot was growing at a tremendous rate, and opinions were tipping in their favor.
Nuhope’s most high-profile talkshow hosts, like Dove, downplayed the attack as nothing more than a slight disturbance at an otherwise glorious party. And even though so many people had been there and could refute it, everyone seemed to just want it to be true. Yet no sooner did the reports seem to quiet public perceptions, when up popped a new video on the OuterNet and BaseNet showing the hysterical crowd outside Nuhope and the exploding wallscapes.
A grandmotherly woman in a black gown and South Asian gentleman in a yellow cummerbund aped for the camera in a large number of the recorded pop-ups. It was jarring when the woman revealed vampire-like eye teeth when she grinned. Apparently, they’d recorded each other and were members of Theseus.
Only a week earlier, Zinder’s ascendancy to the Presidency in the next election seemed guaranteed. Now the Vice President’s reputation was tarnished. A Roper survey just out that morning showed that he had lost 20 percentage points in popularity. Massot was suddenly up about the same amount, which put them almost dead even at 46% Massot, 48% Zinder.
Making matters more difficult for Nuhope, Ellington had hacked into the company’s dreamisode software before he made his little surprise speech. That first night, when people ordered up a dream, a message appeared on their mobile screen: “Keep your sleep honest and harmless. Boycott Nuhope dreamisodes!”
It took the tech team a good eight hours to undo the hack. Granted, it only changed consumers’ behavior to a certain extent, because most people weren’t about to give up dreamisodes. (Ellington was right about the addiction aspect.) Still, there was a 7% drop in dreamisode usage, which meant that the company was losing billions of dollars in ad revenue. The Nuhope brand was suffering, too: audience numbers were down for several of its news and entertainment channels, making the revenue decline even greater.
All of this made Zin Zin and the company’s board of directors coil up like a bunch of fat rattlesnakes. Most executives at the top of the food chain were pissed too—none more so than Rico. The invasion was giving his reputation a bit of a bruising since he oversaw Nuhope’s security and technology. I almost felt sorry for him.
Yes, indeed. It was a helluva day to recruit a secret ally. My stomach clenched with the fear that somehow my plan might backfire. There was this meeting to get through first before I made that move.
I flashed my best serene expression as I sailed through the door to Zinder’s suite. But it was shot to hell at the sight of five bot guards. They surveyed me like I was some kind of murderous thug—until the baseline profile intel streaming out of my mobile made them back off.
I turned to Zin Zin’s blonde assistant, who looked like he’d just come off the Swiss slopes. “What a charming addition to the staff,” I said.
“Don’t mind them. Way too jumpy.” He wagged a finger at the metallic beasts. “Somebody needs a good reprogramming.”
A door swished open for me, leading down a private corridor to Zinder’s inner sanctum. The hall was decorated with the Veep’s various trophies from yacht and car races; a smattering of Emmy statuettes from his esports days; holograms of himself with various politicos and celebs.
A soccer stadium could have nestled comfortably inside Zin Zin’s office. He wasn’t there that frequently—the Veep spent most of his time in Washington or off on one boondoggle or another—which made the spaciousness all the more enviable.
Shades on the large windows blocked a view of the clouds outside. Instead, they projected a real-time view of Vancouver’s busy harbor, as seen from Zinder’s pricey pied-à-terre there. I really wanted some of those shades. A favorite beach in El Salvador would be my view of choice.
My mind stopped at the sight of Dove, eating a fried fish sandwich dripping with sriracha sauce. He was at the museum-quality conference table, ebony wood inlaid with a constellation of white marble, lapis lazuli, garnets, and tourmalines.
Ha! What young beauty had he made love to all night—to be so pressed for time that he was eating breakfast now? “Do you really think that’s appropriate?” I snapped.
Dove shrugged. “It’s what Jesus ate for breakfast.”
“We are meeting with the Vice President of the U.A. Show some respect.”
He licked the red sauce off his fingers, then popped the last of the sandwich in his generous mouth, all the while beaming at me.
A memory flitted back like an old ghoul—back when I was at Victory Star. That day when I looked out my office window and saw his silhouette in a Nuhope room across the way. How I’d bled my heart out for him and that startle-eyed girl. Down, down, down, I drowned my anger.
There were other things to think about now, like Ginseng Childe, head of Nuhope’s entire news operation, sitting way down at the other end of the table. She was a transsexual, although it was nearly impossible to tell that. And she had one heck of a storm-cloud expression going on. It didn’t change when I gave her a sunny greeting.
There was a certain delicate, lonely quality about Ginseng’s pockmarked face. Her shock of luxuriant black hair seemed to whisper of an American Indian ancestor or two, way back in time. I’d researched her very carefully over the last few days. There was much more to her than that.
She’s the one. Get her on your side, I told myself.
A door on the south wall disintegrated into sparkles. Zinder strode through with Rico, accompanied by a cluster of six-armed bot guards that immediately fanned out across the room like they were anticipating a military invasion. Why the overkill?
“What a glorious day we got going,” Zinder boomed.
Yeah, right. “Hello!” I chimed with Ginseng and Dove.
Zin Zin looked at each of us carefully during a short exchange of pleasantries. Finally, he said: “I want to remind all of you that what is said around this table should be kept in the strictest confidence.” We all murmured our assent. “Rico, why don’t you give us your report.”
“You betcha,” Rico said. “We’ve got news that’s gonna blow some minds. Andrew Massot was killed two hours ago.”
Everyone froze until I finally asked the obvious: “How did that happen?”
“He was campaigning in one of the Mars space stations when his airship came under attack. Rebel forces from the Asian Commonwealth.”
“Please. We’re really supposed to believe that?” I asked, in a display of how utterly tactless I can sometimes be.
Zinder looked at me darkly. “Why wouldn’t you?”
Oh, balls. “It just seems a tad convenient for him to be wiped off the face of the universe when he’s gaining in popularity—and to cast America’s favorite whipping boy as the culprit.”
Zinder raised an eyebrow. “Whipping boy?”
Dove jumped in. “With all due respect, Mr. Vice President, you gotta admit that ‘Asian rebels’ sounds like a code name for Korea.”
Was he trying to earn brownie points, coming to my defense with that observation?
“Korea is run by a bunch of thugs. It’s not a whipping boy,” Zinder said.
I mustered a kind tone. “May I speak bluntly, Mr. Vice President?”
“Yes.”
“Everyone knows that you are among those who are convinced that Korea was to blame for the semen crises. And they also know that military retaliation has been contemplated. What if it’s discovered that someone within the U.A. carried out Massot’s murder and that sources within your administration are pretending it was undertaken by the Koreans? It will seem like you’re picking a fight, tipping us over into war.”
“There was no clandestine U.A. activity against Massot!”
“I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t play out all the scenarios. I hope you understand that.”
A glimmer of respect came into Zinder’s eyes. “Of course. That’s why I appointed you. But you’re flat-out wrong.”
“My apologies.” It was disturbing. There was no doubt in my mind that United America had killed Massot. Maybe it wasn’t done by Zinder’s own security team. There were others within his circle of power who might be relied upon for something like that.
Ginseng Childe was reading my thoughts. I could feel it. “The CIA is putting out word that it doesn’t know who’s to blame,” she said.
“That’s classified. Who told you that?” Zinder asked.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t say.”
“Can’t say? CAN’T SAY? I’m your boss!”
“I take a classic approach to journalism. I protect my anonymous sources.”
Zinder snorted. “Classic journalism was dead and buried a long time ago. Asian rebels were behind that murder. I have it on solid authority, and I expect Nuhope’s news department to report that.”
“Yes sir,” Ginseng said, stony as a soldier. What he was demanding held more significant implications. Nuhope was the official government mouthpiece. And all other major news organizations, like Victory, would pretty much replicate Nuhope’s report on Massot’s death.
“We all know what happens next,” Zinder grumbled. “Massot will be treated as a martyr on the OuterNet. Whoever replaces him as a candidate will use the sympathy for all its worth.”
Rico cleared his throat. “With that in mind, I think it’s important for the Vice President to appear on Dove’s show.”
Zinder turned to Dove. “Could you make that happen?” As if Dove could possibly say no.
Dove didn’t bat an eyelash. “Come on down. I’ll give you the ole Brown bump.”
“I think we can all agree that we need to nip Theseus’s popularity in the bud,” Rico said. “It’s insinuating itself into the hearts and minds of too many people—Elite, Middle, and Chav alike. Another speech from Jarat Ellington and God knows where his numbers will be.”
“Another speech from Ellington? Is he rising from the dead?” I asked. Somehow, I’d never really believed the rebel was killed.
Rico and Zin Zin exchanged a look. “Let’s move on to the second part of our little chit-chat here,” Zinder said.
“Take a look at this.” Rico pulled up footage of Jarat Ellington’s getaway car. The old Ford had been rebuilt into a powerful machine. The recording showed how hard it had been for the Homeland and Nuhope security aircraft to take it down.
I groaned inwardly. The video was playing incessantly on all the news outlets. Did we really need to see it again? Rico gave me a sharp look. “No one’s viewed what I’m about to show you, except top security personnel and the Vice President.”
He zoomed the view of the car to a close-up. A timestamp in one corner showed we were watching what happened just before the vehicle exploded. Luko Alvarez—another Theseus member—could be seen at the controls. Nothing new about that view.
“Keep watching,” Zinder said. Alvarez looked like he was arguing with someone, presumably Ellington, although he was nowhere in sight.
Then Alvarez vanished. One second he was there, and the next completely gone.
“What?” Ginseng said.
Rico hit pause. “We have reason to believe that Ellington has a technology that allows him to become invisible. When he made physical contact with Alvarez, it made Alvarez invisible, too, along with their parachute equipment. At least, that’s our best guess.”
“Well I’ll be,” Dove said.
“Now watch this.” Rico put the recording back in play mode. The view tilted downward, below the fiery car. Alvarez suddenly rematerialized. Flames and black smoke were eating his face and torso. Rico froze the image. “No one’s seen that part of the footage.”
“What happened to Ellington?” I asked.
“We don’t know.” Rico’s voice was tight with disappointment. “We found a parachute in the Central Park Reservoir weighted down with rocks. Security forces think they might have hit him, but they don’t know what the outcome was. So maybe he is dead. But I’m betting against that if that parachute is his. We’re still searching it for evidence.”
“Where did he get this—this invisible capability?” Ginseng asked.
“We believe it came from someone named Thomas Tseng,” Rico replied.
Instantly, Ginseng pulled research on her air screen. “The heir to the Tseng dynasty, although he’s passed away. Bit of a wunderkind, it seems.”
“That’s the one,” Rico said. “He vanished from Mt. Sinai Hospital, literally, about a year ago. It was quite extraordinary. Surveillance footage captured how he suddenly just popped out of view. And a short time later, he was killed in an explosion on an island in the South China Sea.”
I vaguely remembered the news report about Tseng’s death; it had been so fleeting, in among a barrage of stories about other world events. “What’s the connection to Ellington?” I asked.
“They met at MIT. It’s believed that they saw each other shortly before Tseng died. Although there’s no security footage to confirm it,” Rico said.
Dove was watching him so oddly, as if there was some strange mark on his face, and Rico was pointedly not returning the gaze. Now wasn’t that intriguing.
Best stay on topic. “So now we know how Ellington was able to get inside Nuhope and sabotage the wallscape network,” I said. “And he could be here, in this meeting,” I nearly added. Everyone around the table looked like they were thinking the same thing. Suddenly all those bot guards, studying every single movement in the room, made sense. “I don’t suppose anyone’s figured out a way to detect this invisible intruder, or how to block him.”
“There are theories, but that’s it,” Rico said.
“But we will,” Zinder said. “Believe me, Ellington and the rest of the scum-ball Theseus band will regret the day they ever came after me—and Nuhope.”
“Every person in the security department is working on this, Mr. Vice President,” Rico said.
“If my news teams come up with anything on Ellington, you’ll be the first to know,” added Childe.
Zinder looked sharply at her stiff, dutiful face. “You are not to report about the invisible tech. Just give a 40,000-foot view of the facts: the bastard escaped, and his accomplice was killed. He’s been colluding with the Asians.”
Another Asian fabrication, no doubt. Not that I was going to call Zinder on it. Ginseng managed a neutral expression. “Of course.”
Zin Zin paced the floor, his imagination gaining momentum. “Ellington was a sex fiend masquerading as a masseur. Screwed so many wives behind their husbands’ backs that he got in trouble. I’ll have my PR team work up a briefing paper on that.”
“I’ll make sure to read it,” Childe said. “Thanks.”
Zinder positively gleamed as he turned to Dove. “Can you fit me in tomorrow night?”
“Sure we can!”
“Hair and makeup at 5?”
“You got it.”
“I want Keesha to work on me.”
“Yessir.”
Zinder looked at the rest of us. “Let’s get to work.”
Everyone rose quickly, as if they couldn’t leave fast enough. The Veep motioned for me to stay a moment longer. He stretched out a hand for me to shake. His skin felt so dry. What an odd sensation to feel anyone physically in such a business setting, but especially him.
“So sorry your first days here have been such a trial,” he said. “And all the arguing.”
“But I love arguing with men. It’s my favorite thing.” Which was true.
His eyes were crinkled with laughter. “You may not believe me, but I really do appreciate your opinions, even if I do override them from time to time.”
“To be expected.”
“Petra, I think we both realize that information is the big prize, the weapon above all weapons. That’s why U.A. Vice Presidents oversee Nuhope. And I am going to lay a nuclear bomb of shit information on Ellington and the rest of those cowardly Theseus bastards. Ha! I will turn them into nuclear waste.” His sneer took in the room, just in case Ellington was there.
“I have no doubt that you will.” I did hate dishing out platitudes, but sometimes they slipped out.
“You may not like the way I spin things right now. But just watch me. Wait to judge me.”
“Okay.” There. He had my sincerity.
I left him to continue smoldering at Ellington’s presence—real or imagined. The trophies and framed moments of triumph on his ego walls looked so distant in time, so relaxed and carefree.
Happiness could be so fleeting.
# # #
I GLIDED INTO GINSENG Childe’s office half an hour later and put a mug of coffee on her desk. “Two lumps of sweetener and just a titch of cream.”
The news chief smirked. “So, you’ve been talking to my robo assistant.”
“A Mercedes 3890. I like that model.”
“Been with me for years.”
“An oldie but goodie. My father says they never break down. Bad for his repair business, but he’s always admired that model.” I settled into a chair that must have been 20 years old. The whole room looked a bit stoic and grim, to say the least. Must get her an upgrade. I used my air screen to deactivate the official Nuhope monitoring cams. Earlier in the day, I’d sent along some bots to scrub her room of rogue surveillance devices in advance of our convo, just in case any had crept in.
She savored a sip of coffee. “Nabbed some nasty mini drones. Thank you very much.”
I didn’t expect that the scrubbing would get rid of an invisible man if he happened to be around. Nothing could be done about that right now. “So how much of all that did you know?” I glanced at the ceiling, in the direction of Zinder’s office.
“Some. Not everything. The invisible tech was certainly news to me.”
“When did you learn about Massot’s death?”
“About an hour ago.” Of course, Childe had held her correspondents back from reporting the Senator’s murder until there was government clearance. She wasn’t a fool.
“Who killed him?”
“My guess is the CIA. By the way, that story about Ellington being a sex fiend is bullshit. I will not report it. Leave it to other news orgs. If they want that crap on a news show, it’s theirs.” She glanced at me shrewdly as she took a sip of coffee. “There’s something you should know.”
“What’s that?”
“Whenever someone scours the OuterNet for information about me, there are certain alarms that are sent my way. And when people ask my contacts a lot of questions about me, I hear about it.”
I shrugged. “To be expected. I wasn’t engaging in espionage. Just getting to know one of my new direct reports.” It was only natural that I’d be curious about her. Before joining Nuhope, she was never too afraid or intimated to ask anything of anyone. She’d exposed more half-baked truths and risked jail sentences by posting stories that made people in positions of power very uncomfortable.
There was a Pulitzer on her C.V. for a story published by an independent news portal. Ginseng and a fellow journo named Magz Malloy had exposed a geo-engineering company called SunShade. It claimed to be fighting climate change by spraying a cocktail of chemicals into the air on a massive scale. The particles shaded the sun and dropped the planet’s temperature. SunShade was lauded for helping to refreeze the Arctic and decrease the number of extreme hurricanes around the world. But Childe and Malloy discovered the spraying was used discriminately so that the weather patterns for United America and select allies became much milder. But a brutal heat wave ravaged parts of Asia. Which might be why Korea launched that fucking sperm attack, if they actually did it.
Ginseng’s pal Magz was a bit of a loose cannon. She didn’t know when to keep her mouth shut when things weren’t going her way in a newsroom. Never could hold onto a job. In contrast, Ginseng had always sidestepped the newsroom controversies and managed to get some crucial stories out.
Now she was gazing at me from above the rim of her coffee cup. “So, did you find out what you wanted?”
“No, I didn’t. But I have some new theories about you.”
“Like what?”
“You remind me of a caged pit bull, working for a government mouthpiece like Nuhope—agreeing to do the Vice President’s bidding as you just did.” Ginseng’s face started to close down, but I pressed on. “You don’t have a choice. I get that. But why would you ever take this job—unless you’re using it to figure out the truth? You know there’s no other organization with as many resources to help you get at it.”
“Yes. I’m easily seduced by accurate information. Sometimes just knowing the truth has to be enough.”
“I don’t think so. Not for you. My guess is, you’re banking it up for the day you leave.”
She brightened with amusement. “Nuhope made me sign too many nondisclosure agreements for that.”
“I’m betting you’ve discovered ways to get around some of them. But let’s not dwell on that. My hope is that I can get you to stay here for quite some time.”
“Really. And what about you? Why did you come here? You were Whitman’s heir apparent at Victory Star.”
“I’m not so sure about that.” There had been rivals, after all, even before my downfall. It was only natural that Childe would quiz me a little, so I changed the subject quickly. “What I’m about to tell you is going to sound naïve.”
She cocked her head, instantly intense.
“I would like Nuhope News to take a more ‘classic approach to journalism,’ as you say—unearth stories and report them with an unbiased perspective as quickly as possible.”
“And I’d like my cat to make dinner for me.” Underneath her cynicism—way, way down—was a cushion of hope. I could sense it.
“There’s no doubt that we live in a post-truth era. I don’t need to tell you that every media corporation is out to create content and technology that will rocket their companies into such a state of popularity that they shatter the very stars in the sky. But I also believe that sometimes the best way for a company to shatter the stars doesn’t involve anything new. It simply involves honesty.”
Ginseng’s face softened. “That old thing?”
“Yes. People are starving to hear the truth from Nuhope. And a lot of sources are probably starving to tell the truth to journalists they can trust.”
She let out a short laugh. “What’s that going to matter if we just seed their dreamisodes with propaganda?”
“That may end.”
“How?”
“Watch me.”
“Oh, dear. Your nobility is showing.”
“Let’s get back to what your department might do: honest journalism.”
Ginseng shrugged. “I just don’t believe Nuhope has the balls to do let that happen—certainly not while people like Zinder are in power.”
“Strange things happen all over the world,” I said. “After Zin Zin gets kicked upstairs to the President’s office and a new Vice President comes to power, I can work on her, or him.”
Ginseng nearly coughed up a mouthful of coffee. “Zin Zin?”
“Blast me. That slipped out. He and I go back a ways.”
“My lips are sealed. Although I may steal it for private use.” The skin around her eyes wrinkled like an elephant’s as she laughed inside.
“Happy to share.”
“I seriously doubt that Zinder will choose a running mate that you can influence in any significant way.”
“Stick around, and we’ll see what happens.”
There it was, just what I wanted: respect on her face, and a glimmer of loyalty to build on. She’d received the information about my terribly ambitious plan for Nuhope as well as I could expect.
It was tempting to venture a little further with her. The memory of Dove’s face during the meeting—when it seemed he’d spotted some stray bit of food on Rico—kept coming back to me. It made me so curious. “There’s something else I want to ask you about,” I said.
“Which is?”
“What are your thoughts about the people in that meeting we just came out of? Strictly between you and me.”
“Well, Zinder is kind of ‘what you see is what you get.’ I don’t particularly like him, but he lays his cards on the table, lies and all. Dove Brown is a bit of a lightweight—outrageously attractive and famous as he may be. And you don’t trust him, just like you don’t trust Rico Reingold.”
My, my. Wasn’t she the keen observer! “I think Rico and Dove have a secret between them. I don’t know what it is, but I want to find it out.”
“There’s nothing I’d like more than to get behind them with a nice sharp pen.”
“A pen. How retro.”
“A classic approach to journalism.”
“Think you can do some digging without letting anyone know what you’re up to?”
Ginseng beamed like I’d just invited her to the most luxurious spa in the solar system.