“That would technically be insider trading using privileged information, and quite illegal. The trade would be invalidated, you’d lose the money anyway, and you would be placed on an indentured contract for five to ten years.”
“C’mon, they don’t actually enforce those laws, do they?”
“Some transtellars don’t.” Tyson’s eyes narrowed. “But, mine does.”
Elsa put up her hands. “Okay, okay. I get it. So my best bet at a comfortable retirement is to lie convincingly for you.”
“I’ll never ask you to lie. I may be required, on occasion, to ask you to keep certain things confidential.”
“You asked me to lie to Beckham.”
“Yes, but that’s different. You want to lie to Beckham.”
Elsa pursed her lips in consideration. “Yeah, I really do.”
“Good, glad we could settle that. Ah, here we are.”
The pod slid to a stop at the service entrance of the Civil Auditorium, an enormous double-clamshell structure in the model of the Sydney Opera House on Earth, but with a Lazarus flair in size, and a small update in tech. While technically an open-air auditorium, the atmosphere within the volume made by the overhang was kept sequestered from the “outside” through a very clever system of ionic flow manipulators that allowed the building’s air conditioners to keep everyone cool, and only very occasionally interacted poorly with certain older models of artificial hearts. That had been an unpleasant surprise, but it had been more than a century ago and anyone with one of those old clunkers in their chest cavity had been dead for decades anyway. The docs printed clone replacements from scratch these days.
A small gaggle of media and their attending camera drones had snuck past the ropes and barriers to the receiving area, as they usually did. Tyson didn’t see any of the INN talking heads among them. These were from the gossip rags, little better than paparazzi.
“Tyson! Hey, Tyson. Who’s your lady friend?” one of them shouted.
“She’s a doctor, and we’re just colleagues,” Tyson answered, dismissively shooing away the drone that swooped inside their personal space.
“Who is she wearing?” demanded another.
“Clearance rack.” Elsa shot back. “My colleague pays his scientists like shit.”
This was met with approving laughter by the assembled vultures, and threw them off the scent long enough for the two of them to get inside the building.
“You know that line will be a meme in about ten seconds, right?” Tyson admonished.
“Sorry, it was the first thing that popped into my head.”
“No, no. It was good. Self-deprecating and passive-aggressive all at the same time. Plays into the out-of-touch CEO stereotype perfectly. They’ll focus on me being a stingy jerk instead of asking questions about you.”
“So … you’re not mad?”
“Why would I be? I’m paying you exactly what you asked for.”
“God dammit.”
Tyson smirked. “Keep that spark alive. You’ll need it shortly.”
Elsa looked back through the glass doors to the vultures waiting outside to swoop back in once they left. “Is it like this every day for you?”
“Not every day.” Tyson paused. “But enough days. C’mon, let’s get you to the green room. I’m going up in a few minutes, I’ll probably drone on for about twenty minutes giving the rah-rah dog and pony show, then I’ll introduce you. Paris?”
“I’m here.” Paris’s holographic avatar, her old one, coalesced in the hallway from a series of projectors hidden in the ceiling. Tyson briefly wondered why she hadn’t updated her avatar to reflect her new carapace, but filed the thought away.
“Can you escort Dr. Spaulding to the green room, please? I have to get into makeup.”
“Of course.”
“Makeup?” Elsa giggled. “Like you’re playing King Lear.”
“‘All the world’s a stage,’ my dear. Go with Paris, she’ll get you settled in.”
Tyson watched them go, then found his own way to the changing room and the stylists waiting to attend to him. He sat in the adjustable chair in front of a huge illuminated mirror.
“What do you think, Julia?” he asked the woman standing by with a foundation pad and eyeliner pen. “Jacket or no jacket tonight?”
“On a Tuesday night?” she asked as she went to work on Tyson’s cheeks and forehead. “The crowd is still in workweek mode. No jacket would come off too casual and unserious. Ditch the tie, though, and undo your top shirt button.”
Tyson looked down at the cerulean, fractal-patterned fabric hanging limply from his neck. “But it was a Christmas present from my niece.”
“It shows.” She snapped her fingers and an assistant yanked the tie free without Julia breaking eye contact with Tyson’s crow’s-feet. “We can just laser these off, you know.”
“I feel like I’ve earned them.”
She snorted. “A luxury men miraculously still have.” She caked on a bit more foundation around the corners of his eyes, then punched up the contrast of his face with highlighting tones on his cheekbones, nose, and forehead. A little subtle shadowing around his eyes and the effect was complete.
“All right, off you go,” the artist said as she shooed him out of her chair.
“Thank you, Julia. Lovely to see you as always.”
“Break a leg.”
Tyson found his way to backstage and made his presence known to the stage director, then settled in behind the curtains. Music penetrated even the heavy red velvet fabric of the curtains. A local revisionist rock group had won the right to warm up his crowd in a battle-of-the-bands competition two months earlier. From the sounds of it, they were approaching the zenith of the final song in their set.
As much as Tyson loathed his frequent meetings with his board, and as private as he usually kept himself, he had to admit, there was something energizing, even intoxicating about taking the stage in front of so many people gathered to hang on his every word. It was a strange thing for an introvert to have come to enjoy, even relish, but here he was. He’d prepared a speech, but like most
