Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The thief is sprinting away before I realise they’ve taken my bag. I go after them.
“Thieving bastard!”
They swerve between parked cars. A silver coupe comes out of nowhere and knocks them flying.
It screeches to a stop, smoke or steam curling off it. What’s that smell?
Gull-wing doors open and two people emerge. Their clothes! The suits look like Pignatelli. The tailoring is superb.
One of them moves quickly to retrieve my bag, then runs round to present it with a little flourish.
“Your bag.”
“Th-thank you.”
His companion comes to stand next to him.
“Who’s the president?”
The first looks at his companion.
“Do we need to know?”
The companion nods.
“No time for assumption.”
The two of them stare at me and chorus.
“The current president?”
The companion is possibly a woman: too androgenous to be sure. Which is irrelevant, I’m just curious. Oh, come on, Zessi: answer their question.
“Blackshaw.”
The first one shakes his head.
“The number, please.”
That takes me a moment, but I’ve been trying to not browse for this sort of stuff. Dad says he needs me to be sharper than my peers.
“Fifty. His second term.”
The second one nods.
“A close call, Zessica. You should be more careful.”
I stare at them. How do they know my…? No, wait.
“Why?”
The first one points back the way I came.
“Your escort still hasn’t caught up. Your supposed mugger was leading you to your death.”
I look about, then up to see if there are any video drones or other supporting trickery. Can’t see anything.
“How could you know?”
The second one smiles.
“Zessica Connors, only child of Martin Connors, who was tipped to be fifty-first president of the United States until grief over the tragic death of his daughter caused a breakdown from which he never recovered.”
Past tense? He’s only just got it back together after mum died. We both have. I know he’s become determined to run, but-
“This is mad. Just who are you? Which agency are you with?”
“I’m Larry, this is Martine. We’re from USTIB.”
Never heard of it. Which is not unusual. There are more hidden agencies than public ones.
Martine glances past me.
“Escorts incoming.”
I turn. The street is empty.
“We really should show ID. Here, Zessica. Look close, the details are hard to make out.”
Turning back, I see Larry holding up a shining card. It’s difficult to read. Leaning in, there are patterns and whorls and the stars and I need to sit down and whattawhohapnow?
There’s a woman in a suit crouching next to me. She smells nice. Sort of roses and ozone. Exotic, but it works for her.
“You fought the mugger, Zessica, but he hit you on the head and you can’t remember what happened. At least you got your bag back.”
I bring the bag up. So glad I retrieved it. Who moved? No. Something left, very fast. Reminds me of a jet taking off. I turn. Want to see, but… Only trash blowing about. Nothing there.
“Miss Connors!”
Ah! The escort posse approaches. Nothing to worry about now. They’ll get me back to dad. Actually, my head really hurts. Back to dad via the emergency room, then.
After waving to the escorts, I pause. What about the new Pignatelli collection?
