“Thirty seconds to curtain,” the director said from just behind Tyson’s shoulder as he attached a remote mic epaulet to his jacket lapel.
“Test mic three.” He clapped his hands three times. “Okay, you’re green, Mr. Abington. It will go live to the PA system as soon as you step through the curtains.”
“Thank you.”
“Ten seconds. Five, four, three…” The director moved to a silent countdown with his fingers. When he reached “one,” he pointed to the stage. Ignoring the flutters in his stomach, Tyson strode toward it with purpose and confidence as the crushed red velvet parted at his approach like he was being reborn into a new and different world.
To his left, the band’s lead singer leaned into his old-school corded mic stand and threw a hand in Tyson’s direction even as their mobile stage retreated to the side and out of sight with the rest of the band and all their equipment.
“And now for tonight’s real rock star, the man we’ve all been waiting to hear, CEO of Ageless Corporation, Governor of Lazarus, our host, and number one in our hearts, Mister Tysoooooon Abiiiingtooooon!”
The crowd surged to their feet in applause that was two-thirds genuine, and maybe a third sucking up to the boss as if he could pick out individuals to show favor through the blinding stage lights.
Tyson let the wave of adulation crash over him and echo through the shell for maybe a beat longer than was strictly necessary. Fuck it, he didn’t get these moments very often and he’d had a rough couple days. He would forgive himself for a few seconds of self-indulgence.
Before the spectacle became obscene, Tyson raised his arms and fluttered his hands toward the floor, asking for everyone to bring it down to a dull roar. The crowd obeyed.
“Thank you, associates, stockholders, citizens, and our friends in the media for coming tonight. Let’s have a round of applause for our opening band, The Lemon Potemkins! Make them feel good, they earned their time on this stage tonight.” The crowd obliged. “Excellent, excellent. This is what Methuselah is all about, building each other up, providing opportunities. That’s what brought us here to this little ochre dirtball. Well, not us, we’re all too young.” The crowd laughed appropriately. “But our ancestors, yours and mine. Because they shared a vision of an oasis in the desert, and to make it bloom.”
Tyson was in his groove now. It was a familiar story, one he’d told in one form or another at most of these gatherings for going on seven years now. Everybody loved origin stories.
He was so busy going through the familiar beats that it took him a few stanzas to notice the change spread through the crowd. It was subtle at first, isolated people reaching to check their tablets or wrist displays, or getting the thousand-meter stare of someone watching something in their AR environment. He mistook it for the sort of casual, inattentive rudeness one saw in almost any public gathering these days. But soon, the isolated people were elbowing the attendees next to them and pointing at their screens. Groups appeared and grew until they merged like water droplets running down a window, gaining size and momentum. With shocking speed, it seemed no one was paying attention to him.
“Get out of there,” Paris said into his internal com.
“I’m in the middle of a speech, Paris.”
“Trust me, you just finished. Pretend your mic stopped working. Just. Get. Off. The. Stage.”
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
“When you’re in the pod getting the hell out of here.”
“Dr. Spaulding—”
“Is already moving. Go.”
Shaken, Tyson’s gaze returned to the crowd, which had stopped staring silently and had started shouting and waving their tablets or wrist displays. He couldn’t make out the individual barbs, but he didn’t need to. Their tone and body language told the story.
He apologetically pointed at his radio mic and made a “giving up” gesture with his hands, then turned and walked back off the stage to a rising chorus of boos. The stage director jumped out from behind the curtain holding a replacement mic.
“I’m so sorry. I checked the charge on it myself.”
Tyson held up a hand. “The address has been canceled.”
“It has?”
“Yes.” He kept moving forward without an explanation. “Jesus, Paris. What is going on?”
“Somebody leaked the Grendel news. Everyone in there just read about NeoSun pulling out of the partnership. And the Xre incursion!”
“What?!” Tyson shouted into his head and out loud. “That’s not possible. I was the only person in the room.”
“There are probably at least four people in the chain of custody for that file to get it here from New Vladivostok,” Paris said.
As he started to jog down the hallway, he knew she was right. He wasn’t the only one with a spy problem. Valeria had a mole. Just ahead, Tyson saw Paris’s holo standing in the hallway next to Elsa ready to make the handoff.
“What’s going on?” Elsa asked, but Tyson didn’t have time and grabbed her under the arm a little harder than he intended to.
“Talk and move.”
“Let go of me!” She wrenched her arm away from him and almost looked like she was setting it up for a return trip to his face, but stared instead.
Tyson stopped and took a breath. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. But something really bad just happened and the address has been canceled. We have to get out of here quickly before things turn uglier.”
“Fine, just tell me that. I’m not your kid to drag around.”
“You’re right. Will you please follow me?”
They made a quick retreat to the rear service exit. Ji-eun Park stood dead-center of the sliding doors as they parted.
“Tyson!” she shouted over the din of paparazzi as her camera drone dropped lower. “Would you care to comment on tonight’s revelations?”
“I have no knowledge of any revelations.”
“Come on, Tyson. You just canceled
