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“MR. PRESIDENT, THEY are ready for you.”
“Thank you, Marcus.”
Jackson entered the Oval Office. The eight men and women waiting for him, senior members of the Congressional Black Caucus, stood at his entrance.
“Good morning, everyone.”
“Good morning, Mr. President.”
When Jackson had taken his seat and his visitors had done likewise, he nodded to the most senior member of the group. “Congressman, this is your show. What can I do for you today?”
“Thank you, sir, and thank you for seeing us. Of course, the entire nation is waiting with interest for your vice-presidential selection.”
Jackson inclined his head, signaling the man to continue.
“As our caucus members discussed this issue, we all agreed that the Vice President’s unfortunate passing presented us with an unprecedented opportunity.”
“Us?”
“Why, yes, sir. You and us as African Americans. It would be a truly historic turn of events for a sitting black President to choose another African American to serve as Vice President. An even greater statement of social equality and progress would be for that Vice President to be an African American woman.”
Jackson kept his face impassive. “Have you such a candidate to put forward?”
“Delia Whitney-Butler, Mr. President. She has an impeccable reputation, having served fifteen years at Treasury, four of those as Deputy Secretary of the Treasury. We’ve polled, and found she has broad support on both the East and West Coasts.”
At least she isn’t that mad hatter from Florida, Jackson thought.
“I do not know Ms. Whitney-Butler personally, but she has, as you said, an impeccable reputation.” He left it there and waited for his visitors to move the ball forward.
The congressman glanced at his companions and then the President. “Can we take it then that you are amenable to our suggestion?”
Jackson folded his hands. “Yes, of course, and I thank you for bringing your recommendation to me. It would be a proud day, indeed, for America to have its first woman VP as well as its first African American VP.”
“But?”
“But I’m discovering that selecting a vice president who can be confirmed by both houses of Congress is more difficult than choosing a running mate for a general election. I wonder . . . have your polls looked at how your fellow lawmakers would vote for an African American VP given the country already has a black President?”
“You would have the vote of every member of our Caucus, Mr. President.” This came from one of two women in the room, an outspoken black representative from California. “Perhaps it is the optimal time in history to put our candidate forward and dare the whites in Congress to decline her nomination.”
She ended her delivery on a strident ring that caused a few members of her caucus to shift with discomfort.
“We could undoubtedly do that. However, you must remember, Congresswoman, that I govern an entire nation—not just the fourteen percent who are African American—and I must work with the whole Congress if I hope to enact any of my agenda while in office.”
He hesitated, knowing the reaction he was about to elicit. “If we were to strong-arm Congress on this one issue, would we not risk leaving a bitter taste in the mouths of the other eighty-six percent of Americans, including the seventeen percent Hispanic population? Hispanics and Latinos, as you are no doubt aware, make up a significant voting bloc in your own state. I would hate to kiss my reelection chances goodbye based on this one choice.”
The woman stared at Jackson with unveiled disdain. “I told the caucus that’s what you would say.”
Jackson stared back. “I am the President of the United States, Congresswoman, the President of all Americans, not just African Americans. I am working to unite us as fellow citizens and sojourners on the journey toward a more just and equal society. I still prefer to think of America as a melting pot—where character, accomplishment, contribution, and cooperation lift all of us up—rather than a nation divided by race or ethnicity.”
“So you say,” she sneered.
Jackson ignored her and turned his attention to the group’s spokesperson. “Thank you for coming to visit me today. I like Delia Whitney-Butler’s record and, if I win a second term, will consider appointing her to a cabinet position. We need more capable women in top roles in our government.”
The Congressman dipped his head. “Thank you for seeing us, Mr. President.”
Jackson cleared the discord of his meeting with the Black Caucus from his head and summoned his Chief of Staff. “Have you read Congresswoman White Grass’ file?”
“Yes, sir. I have two aides vetting her now. They are adding to Congresswoman Ballard’s report as we speak. In a nutshell, White Grass spent three terms in the Montana House before she ran for federal office. She’s a loyal party member but has bucked the leadership on issues her constituency are clearly against.”
“Any negatives? What about her personal life?”
“We’re digging into that now, Mr. President. By the way, sir, Senator Delancey has asked for some time this afternoon.”
“Really? A sane and reasonable visitor? Bring him on.”
***
“MR. PRESIDENT, THANK you for squeezing me into your always-busy schedule.”
The President nodded to Axel Kennedy, who stepped out of the Oval Office and closed the door behind him.
“Not at all, Senator Delancey. I’ve been looking forward to your visit. Coffee?”
“No caffeine for me this late in the day, I’m afraid. I would take a glass of water though.”
The aging senator from Alabama hobbled to a sofa and eased himself down. Jackson handed the senator a glass of water and took the seat opposite him so that they were facing each other—on the same sofas President Jackson and Vice President Harmon had occupied the morning Harmon tried to poison the President. Harmon, himself, had died instead.
President Jackson glanced at the coffee table, recalling the moment when Harmon had pitched forward, his shoulder striking the corner of the table before he rolled onto the floor and expired, a pink-tinged froth on his lips. Jackson shuddered at the memory.
“Mr. President?”
Robert Jackson returned to himself. “I apologize, Senator. It is hard to sit here without remembering the Vice President’s death.”
The old man’s expression softened in sympathy. “A horrid business. Horrid. Even though . . .” and the Senator turned a candid eye on Jackson, “even though I was no fan of Harmon’s, his death was a shock nonetheless.”
“It was. And finding his replacement is proving to be a devilish challenge.”
“No doubt. No doubt. However, I can’t imagine you relish that dolt Speaker of the House—even if he is from my party—being next in the line of Presidential succession any longer than necessary. You must be quite keen to fill the VP slot.”
Jackson observed the venerable politician. Although near the end of his career, the man was known as a shrewd but fair dealmaker and an arbiter of peace on both sides of the aisle. Had he requested this meeting to offer up a candidate?
“Keen? That I am. However, given the nation’s contentious political scene, selecting a suitable man or woman whom our divided Congress will confirm is well-nigh impossible.”
Delancey cradled the tumbler of water against his vest. He chose his next words with care. “Mr. President, I intend to retire at the end of my term. That tidbit, of course, is still a closely held secret. Let the cat out of the bag too early and there’ll be such a pileup at my door for endorsement that I’ll never get anything done in my last two years.
“Ah! Two years and then I’ll devote what’s left of the rest of my life to my sweetheart. Winnie eschews the limelight, you know; she has always preferred to live a private life. When I retire, we will quietly immerse ourselves in the work of our foundation”
Jackson nodded. The Delancey Family Foundation was world-renowned, a charitable organization dedicated to educating third-world children.
Delancey sipped on his glass before adding, “Mr. President, I’ve seen just about everything in this city in my forty-plus years in office. I would hate to leave public service without the assurance that our executive branch is in good, stable condition. Is there anything I can do to help you with your VP selection process?”
“Can you magically change Section 2 of the Twenty-Fifth Amendment?” The President spread his hands. “I’m open to suggestions, Senator, if you have someone in mind who could fill the bill and pass confirmation hearings and a majority vote in both houses.”
Jackson’s Chief of Staff, Marcus Park, stepped into the Oval Office. “Mr. President? I apologize, but your 3:45 is here.”
“Who is it again?”
Park’s eyes flicked toward Delancey. “Speaker of the House, Mr. President.”
Jackson’s mouth thinned. “Tell him I’m running ten minutes behind.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Speak of the devil,” Jackson murmured. “For months this office has seen a steady stream of lawmakers, career politicians, military and intelligence advisors driven by special interest groups, all with their own perfect VP candidate, every one of them with strings and wires leading to a hidden control bar.”
He sighed. “Don’t get me wrong, Senator; I’m open to suggestions, but most of the proffered candidates are either more interested in their own political futures or are the sponsored shill of some big-money corporation. I am, however, as I said before we were interrupted, interested in your recommendations.”
“That is very generous of you, Mr. President, and I confess that I did come to throw a few names into the hat. Have you considered Governor Mendoza of Utah? The Hispanic voters like her.”
“I do, too, but your party leaders find her too conservative.”
“I suppose I should have known that. What about Representative Peters?”
“Defined by his outspoken immigration stance. He wouldn’t even make it through committee.”
“You’ve probably vetted Senator Choi, too?”
“Doesn’t want the job, I’m afraid—not that I blame him.”
Delancey offered a weak smile of apology. “I’d like to be of help to you, Mr. President, but I admit you have quite the dilemma before you. If you consent, I could poll my counterparts on both sides and see if an acceptable dark horse emerges?”
“A most kind offer, Senator. Please feel free to do so. Discreetly.”
The rheumy eyes of the veteran politician twinkled. “Is there any other way?” He set his glass on the coffee table and struggled to his feet. “I know you prefer for guests to exit through a different door when another visitor is waiting. But if you have no objections, I would like the Speaker to see me. Might twist his tail a little if he imagined I was filling your ears with anything other than the party line.”
Jackson chuckled. “Please be my guest, Senator. Twist away.”
The Oval Office has four doors—one to the President’s private study, one to the West Wing’s main corridor, one to the President’s secretary that then leads to the West Wing’s hall, and one exiting to the Rose Garden. Jackson saw the Senator to the door to the main corridor. Marcus Park was waiting with Speaker of the House Friese, a youthful, somewhat hyperactive individual of forty-five years who had diligently worked his way up the party ladder by kowtowing to his party’s powerful leaders.
“Afternoon, Speaker Friese.” Delancey delivered his greeting in his most charming Southern manner. “I suppose you’ve come to offer up our party’s vice-presidential requirements?”
“Yes. I have the good of the party in mind.”
The inference was that Delancey did not.
Delancey waggled his eyebrows. “Ah. That’s the difference between us, I suppose. I prefer to work for the good of all Americans.”
Before Friese could react, Delancey smiled and clapped Friese on the back. “Good luck in there, junior. You’re gonna need it.”
Friese flushed with indignation, but Delancey had already turned his back and was ambling away.
“Mr. Speaker?” Jackson distracted Friese by welcoming him into the Oval Office. Then he resigned himself to thirty minutes of politely listening to the Speaker’s conditions for approving Jackson’s vice-presidential selection.
***
“WE’RE TAKING SURVEILLANCE detection out onto the streets tonight,” Mal announced.
I tried not to let my enthusiasm show. “Okay.”
Mal and McFly were the only instructors present. McFly drew our attention to an on-screen map. He held a laser pointer.
“We’re here. We’re going to drop you two in separate locations, approximately two miles from here. We have two tails prepositioned in both locations. Your task is simple: Identify and lose your tails and make it back here without being tagged.
“Mal and I will run overwatch from our van. You’ll have an hour to complete the drill.”
Mal took over. “We’re going to run two SDR drills tonight. Both times we’ll do an AAR—an after-action review—to critique your performance and capture the lessons to be learned.”
“Got it.”
Zander, AKA John-Boy, nodded.
We didn’t need to exchange covert glances, because we’d already decided that Gamble’s injunction against our use of “nano-hocus-pocus” should apply only when we were under direct observation. For Zander and me to benefit the most from our training, the SDR drills needed to be realistic—and the nanomites were our reality.
Tonight’s class fit the bill perfectly . . . and I was looking forward to a little fun and games.
Mal and McFly loaded us into their van. They had darkened the van windows so we couldn’t see out of them as they drove from their garage and away from their neighborhood. A quarter of an hour later, after driving a circuitous route—probably to disorient us but not the least bit effective—the van stopped.
“You’re up, Ripley.”
Since I was first out, I wouldn’t get to see where they dropped Zander. No matter. I jumped from the van door and scanned my surroundings. I started toward a coffee shop on the corner.
Jayda Cruz, you are approximately two miles northwest of your starting point.
“Thanks, Nano.”
I walked into the coffee shop, went straight to the back where I figured I’d find the restrooms and a back door. Just as I reached the rear exit, I paused, changed my mind, reversed course, and hit the women’s restroom.
I waited there for ten minutes, thinking. Mal’s team had probably designed an “easy” first exercise, with the coffee shop as the obvious place to lose a tail. That meant they would be watching for me at both the rear and the front. Well, they were in for a surprise.
When I left the restroom, I was invisible. I stood by the front door until a young couple got up and, hand in hand, opened the door and left. I breezed through with them and started south.
I spotted Dredd across the street, kitty-corner from the coffee shop. His eyes shifted every few seconds. I even saw him whispering into his sleeve.
Laughing, I moved on. Three blocks up the street, I turned a corner, stepped into some shadows, and reappeared. Then I sauntered east until I reached a busy intersection. I hailed a cab and gave him directions.
“Nasty part of town,” he offered.
“Don’t you know it.”
He tipped his head and drove on.
A block from the intersection I’d given him, I said, “This is good; pull over here.”
“Suit yourself, lady.”
I paid the cabby in cash and jumped out. I was two blocks east of Mal’s clubhouse, near the alleyway that ran behind it. I slipped into the alley and made my way to the rear of the building. The only way into the clubhouse from the alley was through a high, barred window, latched and locked on the inside.
“Nano.”
They jetted from me and sprang the lock. The barred grill swung out. I backed off and took a run at the window, planting one foot several feet up the wall, using the impetus to reach the window ledge. I pulled myself up and tried the window itself. It wouldn’t budge. Years of paint and warping had sealed it shut.
I hung from the window ledge for a minute, thinking, scanning around. When I looked up, I saw the fire escape above my head.
“Okay. Plan B.”
I dropped to the ground, backed away again, and ran at the wall. This time I planted my foot higher and pushed harder, leaping for the bottom rung of the fire escape’s ladder.
The ladder was locked in place and didn’t move, but that was okay. I had started to climb up, hand over hand, when I remembered the window grill hanging open below me.
“Nano.”
The grill swung shut and locked.
My feet touched the bottom rung of the ladder, and I climbed up the fire escape, up and over the edge of the roofline. I’d already done my homework. I found the hatch right where, from the warehouse, I’d spotted it on Google Earth.
As hatches go, it was a little odd. It had looked simple enough from above, but it took the nanomites several minutes to worm their way through and release it. When I hauled on the hatch, I saw why it had taken them so long. The hatch was made of two-inch steel lugged down by four heavy-duty hydraulic cylinder latches.
Nobody was getting into the clubhouse from the roof—except me, of course.
I peered into the hatch and was surprised a second time. The hatch opened to a ladder and vertical, chimney-like space guarded by a second, identical hatch.
“Defense in layers. Guess they really don’t want anyone coming in from the roof. Going out, yes, but getting in? Nope.”
The nanomites were already working on the second hatch, so I looked around from my vantage point. It was more obvious from here that Malware, Inc.’s clubhouse truly was an island in a decaying urban setting.
When the second hatch gave, I dropped down a second ladder and found myself in the third floor proper. From there, I made my way down to the training center.
I heard Zander sneak in the side door ten minutes later.
“Hey, John-Boy.”
Zander’s grin was large. “Most fun I’ve had in months, Ripley. Almost as fun as the dojo.”
When the team reassembled in the clubhouse at the end of the hour allotted, we were finishing our fourth hand of rummy. We’d helped ourselves to their coffee and discovered a deck of cards at the same time. I had yet to teach Zander Samba. Maybe after our crazy life settled down.
“Hey, guys.” Zander shuffled the cards and had me cut them. “Want me to deal you in?”
All he received were narrowed eyes and muttered growls in response.
***
MAL AND HIS CREW MADE us run two more SDRs, not one. By the time the lengthy class ended, we’d beat the SDR drills 3-0. The AARs were short and a teensy bit tense. Zander and I high-fived, and the Malware, Inc. instructors seethed. They said nary a word as we left, but if looks could have killed . . .
“I think the guys are peeved with us.”
“Impressive deduction,” Zander drawled.
When we trudged into our apartment, I wanted exactly two things: sleep and a walk-in freezer. I settled for opening the refrigerator and standing as close as I could to its interior without actually climbing inside—’cause if I could have climbed inside, I would have.
“What’s going on, Jayda?”
“Hot, really hot. Comes in waves.”
“This isn’t the first time you’ve felt like this?”
I shook my head.
“Nano, what’s wrong with Jayda?”
Both nanoclouds were conspicuously silent, so he pressed them. “Nano, what’s going on with Jayda? We need to know. Is she sick?”
No, Zander Cruz.
They offered no further explanations. When more time had elapsed (and when Zander’s fuse was about to reach his powder keg) they answered, Jayda and Zander Cruz, if you will take a seat, we will explain.
Take a seat? Zander caught my eye and frowned. Neither of us liked the ominous intro.
“Come on, Jay.” Zander tugged me away from the fridge, and we sat down on the sofa together, me fanning myself.
Zander commanded, “All right, Nano. What gives?”
Jayda Cruz, do you remember when we spoke of your endocrine system? How our joining with your body sped up your metabolism, enabling you to become an optimal fighter?
“Yeah. I remember.” And I remembered that those changes had rendered me infertile.
With the depletion of your supply of ovum, your ovaries no longer produce sufficient quantities of estrogen and progesterone. The symptoms you are experiencing are known as hot flashes. They signal the onset of menopause.
Stunned, I could not think straight. Menopause? That was for older women.
“I-I . . . but I’m not even thirty!”
Your body is still producing hormones, but in irregular amounts, and we, insomuch as we are able, have been stimulating the production of the necessary hormones. Since we are unable to attenuate your discomfort, we recommend that you ingest a measure of hormones. A sufficient addition of hormones will alleviate these and other symptoms.
Zander got his head around the nanomites’ news before I could. “What other symptoms?”
Depression. Anxiety. Irritability. Muscle ache and headache. Fatigue. Night sweats. Sleep disorder—
“Okay, that’s enough, Nano. Where would we get the hormones?”
Typically, a physician would diagnose premature menopause and prescribe hormone replacement therapy in pill or cream form. However, we do not recommend that Jayda see a physician.
“Why not?”
It is likely that her blood workup would show . . . unusual readings prompting concern. The physician would call for further tests. Further tests would not lend themselves to keeping Jayda’s physical transformation—or us—a secret.
“You mean, they’d think I was a freak of nature and turn me into a lab rat.”
Obviously, not of nature, Jayda Cruz.
“So, a freak not of nature. That’s comforting,” I retorted.
“Hey, calm down, Jay. It’s going to be okay. We just need to get a prescription for hormones through a different avenue, right, Nano? Without a doctor’s exam. Then these, er, hot flashes will subside?”
Yes, Zander Cruz. Almost immediately.
“Okay, I’m sure you can figure out how to swing the meds, but why didn’t you tell Jayda what was going on sooner?”
Again, the nanomites did not answer right away.
“Nano?”
We were . . . concerned that Jayda would be angry.
I stared at my shoes and the carpet under them. I was angry, but I was going to have to get over it. Somehow. The nanomites had already asked my forgiveness for making irreversible changes to my body without my knowledge or permission, and I had given it. I had given my forgiveness to them because Jesus had given his forgiveness to me.
It was just that the ongoing repercussions of those changes meant I had to deal with the emotions that went along with those repercussions. Like the layers of an onion, these further ramifications of the nanomites’ actions also needed my forgiveness.
Yes, I needed to forgive, but I also needed to be real.
“You’re right, Nano. I can’t pretend that I’m not angry. I . . . I didn’t anticipate this outcome, but I guess it makes sense.”
We are sorry, Jayda Cruz.
“I know you are, Nano, and I realize you were . . . afraid to tell me.”
I expected them to say, We do not experience the human emotion of fear, Jayda Cruz, but they didn’t.
Maybe they didn’t experience the feeling of fear as we do, but the nanomites had an intense dislike, an aversion that bordered on paranoia, of being separated from each other, from fellow tribes and the collective.
“You were afraid I would withdraw from you, Nano. Shut you out.”
They didn’t answer, but Zander nodded. He knew, like I knew, how much our unions with the nanoclouds mattered to them.
“Nano, although I am angry at this moment, I am, nonetheless, in charge of my choices. I choose to forgive you. I will get over my anger. I will . . . I will adjust to these . . . circumstances. Somehow.”
I had a picture in my mind of the nanocloud as I’d first seen it—sparkling blue and silver. Bright and alive. At this moment, I could only visualize it as dull, gray, and dejected.
“Don’t worry, Nano. It will be all right. You’ll see.” I might not have sounded all that convincing, but I meant what I said.
Zander cleared his throat. “Uh, Nano? Could you help us out here with the medication Jayda needs?”
We will, Zander Cruz.
“All right, then. Jay, let’s try to get some sleep, shall we?”
We crawled into bed and, instinctively, Zander pulled me into his arms and held me close. I tried not to cry, but I couldn’t do it. I buried my face in the crook of his neck and wept like there was no tomorrow.
~~**~~
