III. Round Table

“Is everyone here?” asks Calliope Cambria. She wears a lavender blouse embroidered with flowers. She looks from left to right across the round table. Her eyes cross three parties before landing on the man at her side.

“Yes, Miss Cambria.” His name is Edmondo D’Anzi. He wears a pinstripe suit and a purple tie. He stands out among the subordinates of those gathered. The other advisors know their place. He preens. His deferential words do not match the way he carries himself. Watch him.

Cambria turns back to the table. “Shall we begin, then?”

Firm nods around the table. She does not speak. She waits. She does not know.

Yun Beom-seok gestures with an upright palm. “You speak first,” he says, “It is customary.”

“Yes. Your team won, didn’t they?” Quemby Rutile leans forward. He wears a gray suit coat and an orange bowtie. His tone is challenging.

“You’re right,” says Cambria, “I’ll start by saying I am delighted to meet you all, though I cannot say I am fully aware of the circumstances.”

“Quemby called the meeting.” Sofia Petronelle wears an Ospuze-branded wide brim fedora. Lightning bolts hang from her ears. Renata, her assistant, takes notes for the meeting. “He has a grievance he’d like us all to hear. Don’t you, Quemby?”

Rutile fiddles with his bowtie. “I do. Miss Cambria, you don’t play fair.”

“Excuse me?” Cambria raises an eyebrow. Her companion imitates her expression. It rings false.

“Don’t play dumb. The game has been played. The chips are down.”

“This is about my Bank It! team? If you have a grievance with the game, take it to MBRC.”

“You’re not serious—”

Petronelle raises a hand and Rutile stops talking.

“Ranzio is newly ascended. I would not expect Calliope to know our ways.” Petronelle turns to Cambria then. “Calliope, we prefer to settle disputes without needless escalation. Here we can talk. Clear up misunderstandings. If we can find a solution without involving Marcel, so much the better.”

Cambria breathes deeply. “I understand. Mister Rutile, what is your problem, exactly?”

“I believe the Tough Shells’ victory was manufactured.”

Cambria looks to Beom-seok. “Do you believe this too?”

“Of course he doesn’t,” Rutile speaks first, “He’s in on it too. I know collusion when I see it. You needed two teams to set the odds against my Adjusters. My croupier here has all the data.” He gestures to the vest-clad man at his side.

Petronelle crosses her arms. “Good. Beom-seok, would you like to respond?”

“A response is not merited.”

“And you, Calliope?”

“Let us see this supposed ‘data’ first, yes?”

“Let us,” Petronelle agrees, “Quemby?”

At a motion from Rutile, his croupier produces a transparent three-dimensional overlay of Century Stadium. Dots move across the map, leaving color-coded lines in their wake. Iseul-T blue, Ospuze yellow, Ranzio purple, Holtow orange.

Rutile points to the map. “This is the semi-finals. See how they move? The Tough Shells and the Vogues never intersect until the end. They don’t even bother to swap targets. See how the Tough Shells hamper my team repeatedly?”

Cambria folds her hands. “Are you upset that my team outperformed yours? Would you have preferred they waste their time fighting the Vogues while your team runs away with the score? Or did you want them to instead focus their energies on a more capable team than your own, such as the Overdogs?”

“You did avoid us,” says Petronelle, “but that only means your team has a functioning sense of fear. Where is this going, Quemby?”

D’anzi appears upset. He purses his lips and shakes his head. His superior does not notice. The other leaders do not notice. His attire is not enough. He is not one of them, so he is not seen.

Rutile frowns as well. He straightens in his chair. “You raise a good point, Miss Petronelle. A sensible team would rather play for second place than take their chances against your Overdogs. Now that we’re agreed on this point, will the esteemed Mister Yun explain his team’s strategy?”

All heads turn to Beom-seok. He does not flinch.

“I am no contestant,” he says.

“If you’re suggesting we ask your players,” Rutile crows, “I’m sure you know they’ve already recited their explanations to the media. Your captain blabbers about glory and honor. Says bumping the champs off the pedestal was reward enough.”

“The media’s convinced,” says Cambria, “The 24-hour-cycle following the game has cast Mister Yun’s team as unlikely heroes. I should be the one complaining. They’re talking more about the Vogues than the actual victors, my Tough Shells.”

“Yes.” Petronelle shows her teeth. “The bluejackets come off as rebels, taking their chance to end the status quo without a thought to their own rank. Such an image is desirable.”

Rutile shuffles in place. His composure is wearing. “They targeted your team, Miss Petronelle. Will you really buy into this story?”

“The world already has. As for my team, Quemby, you ought to place your worries elsewhere. Beom-seok’s bluejackets managed to end a three-year winning streak. Impressive, true. And good for us all. My Overdogs need to take a hit every now and then to maintain excitement. Change keeps the World Tourney fresh, keeps the culture alive.”

Silence. Petronelle’s assistant makes eye contact with Rutile’s croupier. Rutile whispers in his man’s ear. A showy gesture. The others likely sidebar with their associates in private text channels. The croupier nods. The lines drawn across Century Stadium reset.

“Here,” says Rutile, “I can see Mister Yun and Miss Cambria wish to continue their bluff. Observe this, then. Their quarter-finals game.” Colored lines fill the map again. This time, the blue and purple are joined by Engimo green and Dissun red. “Watch here: the Vogues alter their path completely when they discover the Tough Shells in the library.” The lines accelerate, then halt. “And here: the Tough Shells finish off an isolated box-running zephyr from the Speed Demons. The same zephyr the Vogues have had their eyes on. But they don’t contest, despite having the high ground and the initiative. No, they veer off the other way.”

Petronelle yawns. “You’re boring us, Quemby.”

Rutile makes a fist. The playback disappears. “Fine, you want something more exciting? Let’s discuss vendettas. Miss Cambria’s goals are transparent enough. She’s had her first taste, and now she wants to keep her team in the spotlight by any means possible.” D’Anzi bristles again. Cambria becomes very still. Rutile goes on. “Which brings me to Mister Yun. As I understand, the Vogues do not mark his first foray into the world of Bank It!. In fact, he was involved as far back as the game’s inception.”

“Speak mindfully,” says Beom-seok. A smile from Rutile.

“Yes, he made little outfits for a team called the Polydins in the first World Tourney. As I recall, they fell to the Ospuze Underdogs. Now, an ordinary man might not hold a thirty-year grudge, but our Mr. Yun has always been extraordinary. Could be he took that for granted. Could be he didn’t know how to bear drawing the short end of the stick.”

Beom-seok places a hand on the table. It makes a sound. “Mister Rutile—”

“You wouldn’t be the only one,” Rutile chuckles, “I hear the Polydins’ owner didn’t take it well either.”

Beom-seok rises to meet Rutile’s grin at eye level. His attendant can only watch. She cannot beg him down. Not without damaging his standing in the eyes of those who think themselves his peers.

“Devil,” he breathes.

“This meeting is over,” says Petronelle, “I’m not entertaining any more of your show, Rutile.”

Rutile’s head snaps to her. His eyes widen behind his oversized glasses.

“I have laid it all out in front of you! It doesn’t take a gambling man to see the tells. I am no sore loser. The game is the game. This is not a defense of my Adjusters’ performance.” He laughs. It does not sound natural. “Not at all. As far as I’m concerned, a new roster is in order. This is about the integrity of our circus. Either we can come to a resolution here and now, or I can go speak with Marcel myself. I will not be dismissed. Everyone in the consortium knows the rules. There is a way things are done. You used to know that, Sofia—” He stops.

“What?” Petronelle’s eyes narrow.

“Sorry.” His shoulders slump. Rutile keeps his eyes on the table. “I will go. Marcel will hear about this. I’m sorry, but there are rules.”

He vanishes with his croupier. The released breaths around the table are audible. Beom-seok returns to his seat.

“Marcel will hear nothing,” says Petronelle, “I will make sure Quemby sees reason. Even so, tread carefully. As of now, speculations regarding a truce are safely contained to a scattering of skeptic niches. Do nothing to fan the flames.”

“We have no truce, to be abundantly clear. In truth, I’m not sure what kind of truce would involve one party being eliminated from the game by such a significant margin.” Cambria gestures as she talks. “No offense meant, Mister Yun.”

Petronelle rolls her head. Her neck stretches with the motion. “I don’t care. Our game is built on backroom deals. Do what you want. The important thing is to be artful. Quemby is not entirely wrong. We must maintain the image of our circus. Anyway, I have other business. Always a pleasure, Beom-seok. Calliope, I look forward to seeing more of you.”

The meeting space folds in. Ga Harin removes her headset. To her left, Beom-seok removes his. They are alone together. There is no one else in the tower.

“I took note of everything,” she says.

“I know you did,” he says. He orders two meal capsules from the tower. Metal appendages in the walls make the delivery. Harin drinks the nutrient-rich fortified misu. Her eyes stay on Beom-seok. She does not mind if he notices.

“Updates came in on the new collection.”

Beom-seok cocks his head. “Oh, yes? Making progress?”

“Some, yes.” She hesitates. “The committee takes time to reach consensus answers. They debate each design. Then they must ensure the designs make a cohesive whole.”

“A collection’s unity is integral,” Beom-seok agrees, “Do you anticipate delays?”

“I am unsure. It depends on whether the debates continue at their current pace. Dissent has been a significant obstacle.”

“Do they understand deadlines? We’re putting together a limited-time run, after all. Timing is crucial.”

“Many seem to believe it would better to cancel the line entirely than release a flawed product.”

“My committees have no shortage of contrarian firebrands,” Beom-seok sighs.

“They are too comfortable. It has been too long since the last wave of layoffs.”

Beom-seok scowls. “They fear enough. Their stubborness is borne of passion, not complacency.”

Harin nods. She does not like the tone of his voice. She has made him upset with her. Now she is upset with herself. It’s OK, she thinks. She will make it up to him soon. She finishes the rest of her grain smoothie. Beom-seok is not nearly done with his. He sips lightly.

“How is your father?” he asks.

“He is well.” She stops there. She does not need to say “thanks to you” or anything of the sort. She has said those words enough. Beom-seok knows she is grateful.

“I am glad,” says Beom-seok.

Harin holds her breath for the next part, the directive that comes after small talk. She does not relish pointless conversation. In this way, she is like Beom-seok. He is more direct with her than most. The brief exchange about her father is no more than vestigial formality.

“I want you to speak with the committee in person,” he says. She smiles. She expected this. “Tell them you carry my vote. If they cannot agree, you will cast my weight on one side to force a decision.”

“It will be done.”

“Take a commercial flight. The trip to Kyoto is under two hours. You can be there this evening.”

---

Harin watches Japan grow from her window seat. She reviews her briefs on key personnel. Anonymized, of course. Nothing sensitive on the plane. Too many eyes, cameras, and eyes with cameras. Should something go wrong, all the files are set to wipe on a thirty minute timer reset only by her thumbprint. She can risk no leak, anonymized or not. Beom-seok has instilled her with a healthy paranoia.

He is a paranoid man. Harin has known that from the start. He does not trust easily. He trusts her and her only. He trusts her because she can be trusted. She is wholly loyal. He appreciates this. She appreciates his appreciation. It is a good arrangement. The more devout Harin becomes, the more he cares for her.

The plane descends. Kyoto looks much like Seoul. It is towers of metal and glass. She expects navigation will be similar as well. Beom-seok instructed her to travel on elevators and trams. Never by rented car or other private means. She is to avoid attracting attention until she meets her contact.

Disembarking is rapid, efficient. Harin is soon on her way.

Kyoto and Seoul are not so similar. The differences emerge on the ground. Harin has trouble understanding the transit maps. They are labyrinthine in comparison to Seoul’s intuitive grid. She takes her time. She reviews her upcoming transfers at each junction. She reaches the designated convenience store by 20:00 local time. One would not know the time by sight. Natural light does not reach these lower levels.

Several people filter in and out of the shop each minute. She has arrived sufficiently early to avoid suspicion. She buys a carbonated drink and sips it outside. Only a dog pays her any mind. The dog watches her drink with one ear perked and the other limp. When she watches the dog back, it whimpers. She waits.

Her contact comes. She makes him as he enters the store, well before they exchange any codes. He is close to her in age. Late twenties, maybe. He wears a faux-leather coat pinned with buttons for eleven different causes. He is obvious. She will have to bring this to Beom-seok’s attention. For now, she waits for the contact to approach her. After two minutes, he emerges with a bag that smells of peanut oil. He finds a seat on the curb beside her, pets the dog, and reaches a hand into the bag. The hand comes out with something in the shape of a fried chicken wing—imitation, certainly. His first bite scatters crispy shrapnel on the pavement for the dog to mop up.

“You have my ears,” he says. He tears a piece from his wing and tosses it out. The dog catches it midair. “Put a clever word in them.”

 “Must one not first hate oneself in order to love oneself?” Harin replies. She hopes he understands. His English is not good. She looks him in the eye and waits for confirmation.

“I am your labyrinth,” he says at last. Harin nods.

Another man approaches. He wears a gray hoodie. He is not part of the plan. She is considering her options when the man stops short of them. The dog runs to him, and they keep walking together. Harin raises a hand as her first contact opens his mouth. Too many eyes, too many ears.

He seems to get the idea. He walks away and she follows at a safe distance. They should not be seen together in such a public place. She closes the gap only when he steps into a tubecar. He holds the door.

“Hello. Good meeting you. How are you doing?” His English is even worse when it’s not a practiced phrase.

Harin switches to Japanese. “I am well. We are going to see the committee?”

“Not yet,” says the man. “I’m just here to clear you. Remi will take you the rest of the way. They are on the committee. I’m only a runner.”

“Runners are important too.” And much less bothersome than those on the committee, Harin thinks.

“Thank you.” His jaw moves around in his closed mouth. He wants to say more.

“What? Say it.”

“Is it true that you’re one of the benefactors?”

Harin scoffs. “You know the benefactors do not reveal themselves.”

“I know, I know, but things are changing. Some of us think, well. . .”

Harin does not enjoy this game. “What?”

“It is hard to believe in something we cannot see. Some doubt the benefactors. Some think they play their own game.”

“What is your name?”

“Yuto, ma’am.”

“And what do you think, Yuto?”

“Me? I don’t know. . .” He is saved by the doors. They’ve come to the city’s lowest levels. When the doors open, sound rushes in. It’s coming from the walls. It reminds Harin of the miniature waterfall in Beom-seok’s indoor garden.

“The pipes,” explains Yuto, “We are below water level.”

Harin surveys the dark metal walls and low ceilings. There is no outside. Technically, she thinks, they are outside. Entrances carved into the walls lead to tighter spaces. The road they walk along, if one could call it that, is lit by crooked street lamps that clearly originated elsewhere.

“You live in the sewer,” she says.

“I guess.”

Yuto takes her to a noodle bar. It is a rusted metal cart pushed under a canopy that is bolted to unfinished concrete. Harin guesses the individual standing over the steaming pot is in their fifties. They wear a simple cap and apron. A wearable adorns one wrist.

“That’s Remi,” Yuto points, “I’ll introduce you.”

“No,” says Harin, “You leave first. Then I will introduce myself.” There is no need to have the three of them in one place. Perhaps Yuto feels safe in his sewers. Still, it would be an unnecessary risk.

“OK, then. Maybe I’ll catch you later?”

“I don’t know.” Harin watches him go. Once he has turned a corner, she counts to ten and approaches the noodle vendor. They exchange phrases.

“Walk with me,” Remi says. They adjust a dial and the pot stops steaming, then they set about pushing the cart. The rear-left wheel wobbles. It does not appear to slow Remi much. Soon they come to a wider tunnel. The ceilings are vaulted. The walls continue in a straight line farther than the light reaches. There is no one else around. Harin decides it is safe.

“Tell me about the vote,” she says, “You’re on the diversion now, correct?”

“Actually, we got that settled. We’re onto plans for the interval now. It won’t be long, but we’re hoping to make a lot of things happen in that window. The current vote has to do with the specifics of a server raid way over in Lagos, Nigeria.”

Harin nods. “Making progress?”

“Split three ways as usual. Neo-Atavists want to burn everything. The Liberationists and Humanist-Collectivists are agreed on taking a more stealthy approach, but they can’t agree on what comes next, so they’re stonewalling each other.”

“Why?”

“I mean, they’re all in it for the data, right? But they don’t trust each other to use it right.”

“I see. What do you think?”

Remi shrugs their shoulders. “I’m one of those big-tenters. I just want everyone to get along, you know?”

Harin knows. It does not matter that she leans toward the Humanist-Collectivist cause herself. People like Remi are necessary. They grease the wheels.

Remi leads her to an access hole. “No smart tech, right?”

“None.” Usually, Harin keeps a wearable around one ear. She has left it in an airport locker.

“Cool. Just making sure.”

“What of yours?” Harin points at the piece on Remi’s wrist.

“This? Old-style digital stopwatch. Somebody’s gotta keep the time down there, trust me.”

Remi descends the ladder first. Harin follows. Voices echo from below. They grow louder, louder, until Remi reaches the landing. Then they go still. As far as Harin knows, she is the first benefactor emissary to visit the committee in the flesh. It is an occasion for reverence.

The room she finds is cramped and warm with bodies. They crowd around an opening in the center. A corridor opens in the bodies. Harin walks through alone, now that the mass has absorbed Remi, and she finds that the opening is not a true opening. It is a round table. The factions are loosely collected in three segments. Harin identifies them by colored patches, special symbols, and clothing historically significant to their political traditions.

“Welcome, envoy,” says a Liberationist man. He knows better than to ask her name.

So the talks begin.

They do not all appreciate her. Many, particularly in the Neo-Atavist camp, seem wary of any direct involvement from the benefactors. They bandy the term “class traitor” somewhat ironically, as if they do not believe even a single member of MultiCo’s subsidiary nobility could betray their own interests. Perhaps Harin would not believe either, if she had never met Beom-seok.

Remi has made their way back to Harin’s side. They fill in background information as needed. Harin comes to understand the situation in a matter of hours. Fifty delegates fill the room. She counts twenty-one Neo-Atavists, which means they hold roughly forty-two percent of the votes. Twenty-six percent to the Humanist-Collectivists, eighteen percent to the Liberationists. That leaves fourteen percent unaffiliated or in micro-factions the big three have yet to absorb.

As Harin sees it, the vote’s standstill is due to failure on several fronts. First, the Neo-Atavists need to work on their rhetoric. The influence they wield has made them abrasive. They don’t seem to be very concerned with bringing those undecided into their fold. They only need another five people on their side to get a majority. It is unfortunate, then, that only one decides to join them. The rest seem to lie in wait for a strong counterpush they can latch onto.

When the Liberationists and the H-C vote together, they nearly always win. They could end this now. Instead, they argue about the shape of an imagined future. Their visions outpace material conditions.

Harin comes to a solution three hours in. Remi assures her she has the sway to make it work. In a previous session, they explain, it was determined that a benefactor’s vote is worth three delegates. Harin is Beom-seok’s right arm. She is, in every way that matters here, the benefactor herself.

Harin says she will vote with the Neo-Atavists, and Remi will vote with her. The servers will burn. She will change her mind only on the condition that the H-C and Liberationists reach an understanding within ten minutes. She asks Remi to start a timer. There is an uproar. People break off into semi-private circles.

They come back as a coalition. The timer on Remi’s wristband stops in the single digits. The vote passes in favor of a clean and quiet approach. The Neo-Atavists grumble. It does not matter. Harin knows she has gained their respect.

The continued discussions are less difficult. Harin forces them to move in a forward direction. She navigates each issue well. She has learned much from watching Beom-seok speak with his board at Iseul-T. She knows what to rebut, what to accept, what to ignore altogether. The day ends with much behind them. If past reports were truthful, this ten-hour stretch has led to more progress than the last four days combined.

Harin lies in a bunk surrounded by other bodies. Her father comes to mind. His ailments set her on this path. Yet she does not do this for him. He was blind, before Beom-seok intervened. That is not to say she acts out of obligation. She has done so much at Beom-seok’s bidding. Any debts are long repaid.

Her father was not the only one granted vision by their benefactor. These past few years, Harin has found a clarity she never knew before. She has chosen her path not for her father or for herself. What she does is not even strictly for Beom-seok. It is for all the others lost in the dark. Those who, at long last, will be able to see.

It takes three more days for the steering commitee of CNS to complete their formulations. The plan is good. Beom-seok will be satisfied. Harin will be glad to see Seoul again. She misses her city. She misses the boundary walls, the limestone. All this comes as a surprise to her. She does not think of herself as sentimental. She does, however, value certainty and routine.

Remi brings her near the surface. Harin does not see Yuto again. She had much to say about his reckless conduct. Perhaps the committee listened. Remi stops at a convenience store. It’s not the same one where Harin met Yuto. In fact, Harin does not recognize any of their surroundings. Good. They should not be too predictable. Remi reaches into a cooler and retrieves a can of Ospuze. They scan it through at a self-service checkout.

“You go alone from here.” They crack the can. “Take the green line six stops. You can find your way from there.”

“I appreciate your help. You have been a useful ally.” Harin means it. She is not one to heap needless praise.

The tubes are easier this time. It is like Remi said. After the green line, she needs only reverse her initial path from the airport. Her steps are light. She is going home with her objectives achieved. She is confident in the direction of CNS. At least, this CNS. Beom-seok tells her there are many. It is complicated.

Harin relaxes once she is through airport security. She finds a bench and stays there. Her flight is delayed. Perhaps she will nap for an hour or so. She needs the rest. The committee bunks were humid with bodies and loud. Harin looks forward to sleeping on her own mattress again.

As the flight time nears, more people trickle into the seating by her gate. She takes note of each. First there is an elderly woman. She wears a pink vest and cat’s eye glasses. Then comes a family in matching souvenir t-shirts, a teenager toting a bright orange backpack, and so on. The flight has begun boarding when the last passenger arrives. A man in a gray hoodie.

A cold sensation travels into Harin’s toes. She watches him until she is sure. It must be. There’s a dark stain on the right sleeve, same as the man with the dog. She has been followed. She has been made.

Harin collects herself. She pretends not to see the man as she boards her flight. When he enters the plane, he takes a seat several rows behind her. Harin wants to scream. She was so careful. Now none of it matters.

---

She lost sight of the man in Seoul’s airport. Four days have passed, and she has not see him again. It doesn’t matter. Beom-seok says there are no coincidences. When Harin returns to work at Iseul-T’s corporate headquarters, she looks over her shoulder constantly. When she goes home each night, she gets off the train two stops before her usual one and walks the rest of the way. She does not return to Beom-seok’s personal tower. She cannot compromise him.

She does tell him, of course. He does not need to tell her what it means.

A week from now, Harin will stand on a bridge and look down. She knows this moment is coming. Her mind made a perfect picture of it the moment she recognized the man in the airport. It surprised her then, how suddenly death can come, and how far in advance.

She will stand on the bridge at night and watch a rainbow arc through the space between herself and the depths below. She sees the rainbow every day on her commute. It is only light pollution mingling with smog and water vapor.

On that night, she will not think too deeply about these things. She will appreciate the dancing colors. She will hear the whine of traffic. And she will feel a breeze. It will penetrate the blue cloth of her uniform. It will hurt, at first, and then her skin will numb to the cold.

She will not hesitate. If she hesitates, she will think of reasons to live. She cannot think that way. She will have a short window. No one will notice if she does it during the interval. When her body washes up later, she will be of no use. They will burn her, perhaps, to erase what they can.

Harin will jump. She will not see the dark waters, because she will close her eyes as she crosses the rainbow.