Apex: Nexus Arc Book 3 (16 page)

F
riday 2040.11.09

“I hate Beijing,” Zhi Li said, watching the neon of the city slide by outside the windows of the limousine. “It’s so old.”

“Relax,” her lover, Lu Song, said. He reached over and took her small hand in his massive one. “We’ll see the opera, get photographed with the Premier, and get back to Shanghai.”

“I hate the opera,” Zhi Li said, still looking out the window. “And I hate Bo Jintao.”

“Zhi!” Lu Song said, a note of distress in his voice.

She turned and looked at him, his massive frame, that hard, muscular body, wrapped up so elegantly in a formal tuxedo. His broad face with its wide lips and strong jaw. The long luscious black hair she loved to run her fingers through, tied back in a single black braid today.

His eyes were gesturing towards the front, towards her drivers.

“Oh please, Lu,” she said. “Qi and Dai have heard and seen a lot worse than that from me. From both of us.” She pitched her voice louder. “Haven’t you, boys?”

Laughter came from the front. “Yes, ma’am.”

Not that they were really drivers, of course. No one needed drivers. They were there to show off. And because they were useful. And deadly.

Lu Song shrugged, then squeezed her hand again. “Just cheer up, Zhi. You’re the most famous actress in all of China. You’re a billionaire. Half the people on the planet have seen one of your films. Hundreds of millions talk to you every day.”

Zhi shook her head. “They talk to a bot with my face, that uses my voice to lie to them, to feed them false honey instead of bitter truth. Millions more talk to a bot that uses
your
face to lie to them.” She turned to look at her lover. “Why do we allow it?”

Lu was so patient when she got like this. “The fans love you, either way,” he said. “And as for tonight, it’s a great honor to sit in the Premier’s booth at the opera.” Then a smile came to his face. “They say the new Premier is a great fan of my films, actually.”

Zhi Li laughed. “Oh, does that flatter you, lover?” She reached over and poked him gently in the side with her free hand.

Lu grabbed her small hand, lightning fast, in his massive grip. A flash of desire shot through her. “I prefer the
female
fans, myself,” he said, staring down into her eyes.

Zhi bit her lip.

Then she shook her head, her hands still trapped by her lover’s. “Lu,” she started. How could she say this? The male ego was so fragile. Even that of a superstar like Lu Song, the action hero of the moment.

“Yes, my love?”

“We’re not here because he’s fans of ours, lover,” she said, wrestling her hands back, smoothing the folds of her too-long emerald gown. “We’re here because he’s seized power in a coup. There are rules of succession, rules of how things happen – rules he’s broken. And now he’s going to use celebrities like us to sell it to the people. He’s going to use us to legitimize it. We’re the new opiate of the masses.”

“We’re here,” Qi announced from the front.

Lu stared at her, then shook his head.

Then the doors to the limo were opening, and they were stepping out onto the red carpet, Zhi’s hands momentarily working to keep her gown from tangling in her feet; then, hand in hand, huge smiles on their faces, free hands upraised, the most popular couple in all of China, were greeted by a throng of thousands of fans, just because they were here.

B
o Jintao held back
the curtain of this private room in the Beijing Opera House, looked out onto the street beyond, the hubbub of activity. These people were his charges. It was his job to protect them, to continue the nation’s rise in strength and prosperity, while avoiding all the pitfalls and exponential risks that threatened all they’d achieved.

Yet here he was, at the opera.

“The media personalities are about to arrive, Premier,” Gao Yang said, from behind him.

Bo Jintao grunted at his aide’s voice, then spoke. “We’ve become too dependent on them, Gao.”

“As the Premier says,” Gao replied.

Bo Jintao chuckled at his aide’s deference. Respect was one thing. But becoming Premier didn’t change his need for frank input. “You disagree?” he asked, turning.

Gao lowered his head briefly, then looked back up.

“They’ve been useful tools, Premier. Effective in shaping public sentiment.”

Bo Jintao nodded. “Yes, they have. But tools can become crutches,” he told his aide. He was grooming the boy. Teaching him. The family connections were lacking, but the mind was sharp. There was potential here. Potential to serve the nation. “Never become too dependent on just one.”

Gao nodded again.

“Go then,” Bo Jintao said. “Greet our guests. Bring them to me.”

Zhi Li smiled and waved at the throng gathered to meet them at the Opera House, Lu Song’s hand in hers, as he waved to the crowd on his side.

A lean young man in a dark suit stood on the red carpet itself, a few deferential steps away from their limo, a polite smile on his face.

He stepped forward now.

“Honored Zhi Li and Lu Song,” he said. “I am Gao Yang, an aide to Premier Bo Jintao. It’s my honor to meet you both, and to escort you to him now.”

Zhi smiled, lifted the hem of her gown slightly with one hand, and linked her other though Lu Song’s offered arm. Then they walked down the red carpet and to the new ruler of China’s private box.

T
he opera was a world premiere
, intended to be poignant, stirringly patriotic, a paean to a simpler age, a call to arms to slice through the nonsense of modern, convoluted, adrift society with the sharp blade of the wisdom passed down from prior ages.

Zhi Li found it insufferable, misogynistic, and insulting to the intelligence of its audience.

Her face showed rapt attention through it all, wide smiles and open-mouthed laughs at the pathetic attempts at humor, anxiety at the utterly untense moments of tension, thoughtful introspection at the weak tea it passed off as social commentary.

Next to her, Lu Song managed to stay awake through the whole thing.

Behind her, she was aware of her drivers Qi and Dai, on their feet perpetually on alert for threats against her safety. Along with Bo Jintao’s aide, Gao Yang, and another half a dozen bodyguards to protect China’s most powerful man.

At the end of the opera, the audience surged to its feet, clapping with gusto. Bo Jintao, two seats from her, on the other side of Lu Song, rose with them.

“Splendid,” the new Premier said, clapping deliberately.

Zhi Li smiled broadly as she stood and clapped. She turned and looked up to see Lu Song roll his eyes. She resisted the urge to kick her lover in the shins.

“
Z
hi Li
, how did you like the opera?” a reporter yelled out from the mass in front of her.

An array of microphones were pointed in their direction. Dozens of media drones hovered overhead. Scores of cameras focused on her, Lu Song, and Bo Jintao. Not that Bo Jintao would take any questions, of course. He was above that. But his presence here said enough: Zhi Li and Lu Song had the official nod of approval.

And Bo Jintao had their support – a message their hundreds of millions of fans would see and hear again and again.

Zhi Li ignored the bitter taste of that, kept the smile on her face, made eye contact with the cameras.

“Very nice!” she said, still smiling. “Very wholesome! Traditional, even. Something my
grandmother
would have loved.”

She heard laughter from the reporters. She knew many of them by name, many more by face. A few she thought of as friends. They all knew this game, and how it was played. They’d all understand that she had instructions to praise the opera, not so different from their own. And they’d all know what she really thought.

The tiny, futile show of disobedience soothed her, made this moment more bearable.

Behind the reporters, Zhi Li saw fans, honest to goodness fans. Girls and boys, men and women. But girls most of all. Her heart rose. She was a role model for these young women. Let them hear what she was saying. Zhi Li pitched her eyes and smile for the phones the girls held aloft.

You hear what I’m saying? she thought at them. You can choose. You can think for yourself.

“Lu Song,” a reporter yelled out. “Is it true that you’re in negotiations to play the male lead in
Swords of Revolution
, opposite Zhi Li? That you could be on screen again with your real-life partner?”

Zhi smiled at that, and looked over and up at her lover.

Lu leaned forward, a towering wall of muscle almost half a meter taller than her petite frame, and dropped into his
Iron Barbarian
character.

“I could tell you!” he roared, his voice dropping even lower than normal. “But then!” He mimed drawing a sword, slicing off a man’s head, sliding the sword back home, lightning fast, complete with sound effects. “Whish-snick-whish!”

Zhi giggled her trademarked giggle. The reporters burst into laughter. The fans behind them screamed.

“Excellent,” Bo Jintao commented drily on the other side of Lu Song. “Lu Song understands the need for information security.”

She did her best not to show her annoyance at his interruption of their moment.

“What about you, Zhi Li?” another voice yelled out. “What would you think of acting opposite Lu Song again?”

Zhi turned at the question, and found a face she knew. Jin Lien at
Shanghai Tomorrow
, a fierce, courageous woman, ten years older than Zhi, who’d covered wars in Africa and methane explosions in the Arctic; a woman Zhi hoped to someday emulate; a woman Zhi knew well enough to suspect that she loathed Bo Jintao even more than Zhi herself did. She had asked the question.

A genuine smile spread across Zhi Li’s face then, and the words came out of her mouth, completely unbidden.

“If the studio could land Lu Song for the male lead,” she grinned even wider. “That would be a
coup
! A complete
coup
!”

Jin Lien’s eyes widened abruptly. The reporter’s mouth opened. Silence descended on all the rest – the silence of shock.

And Zhi realized what she’d said.

She could hear herself breathing. Could hear her heart beating. There was nothing else. The world was frozen. The array of faces before her were stunned, eyes wide, mouths slack.

Lu Song’s hand somehow slipped into hers. It was trembling. Or she was.

Then one voice cut through the silence, laughing, a deep, slow, unconcerned laugh.

Bo Jintao was laughing, laughing at her.

Zhi Li’s face grew red.

Then the reporters were laughing too. The laughter of nervous relief. And the fans were screaming again.

“
T
hat’s all
the questions we have time for tonight,” one of Bo Jintao’s aides announced.

Zhi Li’s heart was pounding in her chest. She gave the reporters and the fans a huge smile, waved at them all.

“This way, please,” a different aide said, escorting them all back inside the opera house. Bo Jintao walked in front of her. Bodyguards flanked them. Zhi Li stared at the back of the most powerful man in China, the man who ruled the police, the courts, the man who now ruled everything…

One hand reflexively tugged up the long gown, kept it from tangling in her feet. Her other hand was still in Lu Song’s.

Qi held the door open for her, his face a mask devoid of expression.

Zhi Li gave him the tiniest, numb shake of her head, still trying to catch her breath.

She stepped through the door, felt Qi let it close behind her.

Her heels clinked on the cold marble of the lobby.

Bo Jintao was ahead, his back to her, walking away, flanked by his aides and his guards. He was leaving. She had to rescue this moment.

She moved faster. Lu Song clutched at her hand, holding her back. She twisted free, surged ahead. She had to make her apology.

Premier Bo! She tried to say. It wouldn’t come.

Closer. She was closer.

She raised her hands, stretched them both out ahead of her to beseech, striding faster, cursing these heels, this dress.

“Premier Bo!” the words ripped free of her throat, and he turned, stopping.

His face was cold indifference.

Her striding foot caught the hem of her gown, the stupid gown, and then she was falling, her hands outstretched now ahead of her, to ward away the cold marble floor that was racing at her so fast.

Pain. Her wrist. Her knee. Her mouth. The world swam.

“Zhi Li!” she heard Lu Song say.

She was on the floor. What?

She’d fallen.

She looked up, saw a hand reach out to her, palm up. A man’s hand, a young man’s. The aide.

“Tssk.” Another hand appeared, older, lined. A slight wave of a finger, and the offered hand withdrew.

Bo Jintao.

“Zhi!” Lu Song cried her name from just behind her. Her lover, about to come to her aid.

The rest of Bo Jintao swam into view above her. He gestured again with one hand, as if waving away an insect. She sensed sudden motion, heard deep voices she didn’t know behind her. Then Lu Song’s voice made plaintive sounds. Her lover did not appear to help her up.

Fear constricted Zhi Li’s chest. There was a taste of blood on her tongue, sharp and metallic.

She opened her mouth, searching for the most sincere apology she could find.

Bo Jintao spoke first, “You have a very
clever
way with your words,” he said, his voice light, almost jovial.

“Minister Bo,” she started, her breath short. “Premier–”

He cut her off, his tone darker now. “You’re a prominent person. That gives you certain responsibilities.” His voice was low, dangerous. He loomed above her. She was panting, her heart pounding.

Somewhere behind her, Lu Song’s voice made more plaintive sounds, like an animal, barred from the one it loves.

“Do you think stirring up discord is a good idea?” Bo Jintao paused. “Do you think that’s a good use of your popularity? A
responsible
way to behave for someone who millions adore?”