A SHOULDER TO CRY ON

June 2059

The sun had completed its westward journey beyond the horizon, and the pink and grey light it left behind was fading rapidly as Jordan arrived by bicycle outside the Noam Chomsky building. Though the cross-town roads had been busy with people returning from their Sunday outings, the ride had only taken him ten minutes, which reminded him that it was such a pleasant way to travel now that summer was here. Maybe all those bicycle lanes had been worth building after all.

He hadn’t been in this part of town before. The area was known for its high concentration of career bureaucrats, lobbyists, and lawmakers, who were not part of Jordan’s usual social circle. The fact that Alexa had decided to move here recently was perhaps not surprising, given her rising status. But she had explained it in terms of security needs, and now, as he approached the front entrance and tried to decide what to do with his bicycle, he could see that the Noam Chomsky was indeed intent on protecting its elite residents.

A small crowd of protesters with placards was gathered on the sidewalk outside the entrance, which was guarded by two uniformed state security wardens. But were they really protesters? They looked more like a fan club. He pushed his bicycle through the throng and reached the guards before he noticed what the placards said: Speak Freely Kindly. Alexa for President. The Wave is Now.

Good God!

He told the guards who he was visiting, and they phoned up to Alexa and asked him to wait while she sent an entrance code simultaneously to them and to his Konektor. He left his bicycle with the concierge and rode the elevator to the thirty-eighth-floor penthouse. Oh yes, he thought, Alexa has gone up in the world, alright. He’d been so busy himself that he hadn’t realized just how much her life had changed.

“Well,” he announced when she opened the door, “from the sound of your voice, I figured it would be a good idea to bring a bottle of your favorite chocolate mescaline.”

To his surprise, she flung her arms around his neck like he’d saved her life. Without speaking, she led him by the hand out onto her terrace, sat him down next to her on a settee, and then did the most unexpected thing: she cried.

The tears running down her cheeks were surprising enough (Alexa being the most composed person he’d ever met), but the sobs that shuddered through her body were quite alarming. Jordan realized he wasn’t equipped to handle this, but in the moment, there wasn’t time for him to work out why this was the case. He reached out and put his arms around her. The shuddering increased. He started to pull away, and she pulled him back to her. The tears soaked into his shirt. He waited.

Once the sobbing stopped, it was as if it had never happened. She got up and went in search of two glasses, and to blow her nose. On the way, she must have turned on her entertainment system; water started gushing from an ornamental fountain, and ambient guitar music began to play. Jordan walked to the parapet and looked out at the June night, wondering what to do with the strange emotions he was feeling, and hoping that she wouldn’t regret having shared her moment of distress with him, whatever its cause.

“Chocolate mescaline,” she said with a laugh on her return. “You’re the only person in the world that would even know such a thing exists.”

“You don’t like it?”

“I love it.” She poured two hefty shots, and they toasted to each other. Then, having restored her calm, she told him about Whitman.

“So, I know he’s never going to tell me what happened to my father,” she admitted candidly. “I’ve probably always known. I feel used and dirty for allowing myself to be strung along, but the only way I can free myself from his influence is to show I no longer care. The reason I’m upset is not just because I exposed my weakness, but because I feel like I’m abandoning Daddy. I’ve clung to the belief for so many years that one day I’d find him.”

“Well, answer me this,” Jordan urged. “Do you believe Whitman knows, or not?”

“If he doesn’t, I’m convinced he could find out.”

“Then we’re going to make him tell you.”

“How?”

“I’ll think of a way,” he replied vaguely.

Truth was, he’d already thought of a way, back when Alexa first told him that the tribunal chair was sold on the idea of recruiting Artie Sharp to support their agenda, and Whitman then bribed Alexa with the prospect of learning her father’s whereabouts. But Jordan hadn’t told her, for what he thought were good reasons at the time, and he was loath to tell her now.

Why was that? Was he afraid she wouldn’t have the nerve—that she would try to stop him? Was he afraid that it might not work, and he’d make her situation even worse? Or was it a reversion to type—the archetypal male whose instinct was to help women, which decades of social censoring had tried to eradicate? Was he a living example of patriarchy at its worst?

Since they’d met at Manaia’s naming celebration three years earlier, the strict maintenance of the safe bubble within which they conducted their relationship had served him well. He, the professor; she, the student: fondness, friendship, and loyalty. To break out of that bubble would be disastrous, precisely because it would be so easy. He was certain she had trusted him not to do that while letting her tears fall on his shoulder, unloading her doubts and fears, and sharing her triumphs and disasters. How shameful it would be if he broke that trust now.

“Look, just give me some time to think about it overnight,” he said, putting the problem on hold until he could better handle it, while still encouraging her to hope. But in this moment, what he felt most strongly was that he couldn’t allow himself to spend any more time on this terrace—night falling, music playing, a bottle of liqueur on the table, the smell and touch of her hair on his cheek…

“Meanwhile,” he added cheerfully, “what you need is some company to take your mind off this bastard. So why don’t you come home with me, and we’ll all have dinner together: you, me, Lexie, and Manaia. We’ll knock off a bottle of wine and share a few laughs. I’d like you to meet them at last… And if you bring a toothbrush, maybe you can stay the night.”