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  Paul grimaces. “These can’t be hacked. Completely analog. At the end of the night you flip a switch and it shows the total on each line and the poll watchers take them down. In the end, the vote will be the vote.”

  “So,” Jaylon-ra says. “What you’re saying is, now this is an election.”

  JAYLON-RA FIGHTS TO maintain his smile as the man in the gray suit hocks a wad of spit into his proffered hand.

  He’s always prided himself as being one of the rare Mahk-Ra who’s actually fond of humans. The campaign trail is severely degrading his outlook.

  He shakes his head at his security detail, two broad-shouldered Mahk-Ra in black suits who are ready to pounce. It would be bad optics to have them beating on a human three days before the election. Especially considering the number of people clicking on their camera phones.

  Jaylon-ra takes a handkerchief out of his coat to wipe his hand, and calls after the man, “I wish only to have a reasoned discussion. I know you have strong emotions about this…”

  The man doesn’t even turn to acknowledge him, just trudges on down the street.

  The sun has a finger hold on the horizon as the rush-hour crowd streams around Jaylon-ra and his team of volunteers at the top of the R train steps. All of them human, low-level staffers at City Hall, looking for a leg up in the administration. He had hoped the presence of human volunteers would make him seem approachable, but all it’s done is won them withering looks and rude comments.

  The Financial District should be a friendly neighborhood, too, considering the pile of tax breaks the Mahk-Ra have given to investors, but his reception here has been the same as it is in the rest of the city: A running scale of ambivalence to anger, with the occasional person willing to talk.

  Very occasional.

  And even then, Jaylon-ra doesn’t expect he won any votes today.

  Jaylon-ra takes one of his palm cards and skims over it, wondering if they could have done something differently. In his headshot, he looks rigid and stern, unsmiling. Maybe he should have draped his suit jacket over his shoulder, rolled up his sleeves, looked more relaxed. Mahk-Ra can look threatening when they try to smile. Maybe he should have tried it anyway.

  The colors are nice, at least. Blue with yellow text. He’d seem Mancuso’s, which are blue with white text. He’d been worried about the similarity, but Paul said most politicians use blue. Even the Republicans, who operated under a red banner before regressive policies and inter-party squabbling destroyed the line twenty years ago, used blue on their palm cards.

  Blue is supposed to be calming.

  A woman in a heavy navy overcoat comes up the steps. Jaylon-ra positions himself in front of her path, slightly off to the side so as not to block her way and appear threatening. “Miss, I’m the mayor, and I was just wondering, can you tell me how I am doing?”

  The woman laughs. “It’s ‘how’m I doin.’ Don’t steal a line from Ed Koch unless you’re going to deliver it right.” She pushes past him and walks down the street.

  Paul comes up behind Jaylon-ra, sucking on a stub of a cigarette. He takes out a fresh one, chains off that, and places the new one between his lips, letting the old one fall to the sidewalk. His suit, normally pressed to a razor’s edge, is wrinkled, and there’s a heavy white stain on the front.

  An old man shuffling by looks at Paul and mumbles, “Fucking traitor.”

  Paul ignores that and looks at Jaylon-ra. “Confab?”

  Jaylon-ra hands his pile of palm cards to a volunteer and says, “Let’s say fifteen more minutes and we’ll move on to Brooklyn.”

  The volunteer nods and rushes to confront a new crowd of commuters coming up the steps.

  When they’re alone, away from prying ears, Paul says, “Things are coming along. We’re sending broken machines to high-turnout senior housing. Since they vote in higher numbers, if we move more of them to paper we can dump or replace votes. We’re also ensuring there will be service disruptions on public transit. Whatever we can do to keep people from getting home from work on time. Finally, there are two neighborhoods with nearly no Mahk-Ra and high voter turnout, one in Queens and one on Staten Island. We’re projected to lose those by ninety-eight percent or more, so we’re going to have people posting signs saying you can’t vote without a valid, up-to-date ID.”

  “You don’t need an ID to vote.”

  “The DMV is one of the agencies that’s taken a big hit from supply demands,” Paul says. “Most people, their IDs are expired. This is just an idea we had to maybe turn some people away.”

  “What if it gets traced back to us?”

  “It’s being taken care of by some people who aren’t affiliated with us and aren’t being paid directly by us. And that’s all I’ll say. The less you know…”

  “Fine, fine. What else?”

  “We’ve got a big report on Mancuso going up on the news feeds tomorrow. Organizations he’s given money to that have been accused of impropriety. A letter he wrote to a judge, asking for leniency on a friend who was convicted of insider trading. And there’s a rumor he used campaign funds to fix his house. Truthfully, the rumor was unfounded, but that doesn’t mean we can’t raise the question, plant the seed that maybe there’s something to it.”

  Jaylon-ra sighs. “That’s the best you can do? We’re going to hang him on things he didn’t even do?”

  “That’s all we could find. Mancuso is actually pretty clean.”

  “Are we even releasing this with enough time to influence the election?”

  “Better now, actually. That way it’s fresh in people’s minds.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “We have to do something to counter the latest flier,” Paul says.

  “What flier?”

  Fear blooms across Paul’s face. “I don’t have it with me… someone just told me about it. They’re being distributed by volunteers, on foot, all around the city. It says the Mahk-Ra conquered a planet called Rigel-8, and after they conquered the native inhabitants, the Mahk-Ra… ate their children.”

  “What?!” Jaylon-ra clenches his fist, considers throwing it into a wall. He stops himself just short of it. Explosions of anger are unbecoming. He takes a deep breath and says, “First, there is no Rigel-8. Second, the Mahk-Ra have never eaten children. Mancuso is making these claims? How can he do that? Surely we have some recourse here.”

  “It’s an anonymous flier,” Paul says. “Even if he personally signed off on it, we could never prove it.”

  “That son of a bitch. He was supposed to take the fall.”

  “He knows we’re using the old machines,” Paul says. “He’s must have put it together. I’m pulling out all the stops, but we have to be prepared…”

  “I know,” Jaylon-ra says, putting his hand on Paul’s shoulder. Paul recoils a bit, surprised at the touch. His eyes go wide and soften like he’s interpreting it as a sign of brotherhood, when really, Jaylon-ra just wanted to convey the gravity of the situation. “I’m sitting down with the High Command tonight to give them an update. I’m not looking forward to the conversation.”

  “How much are you going to tell them?”

  “I’m still figuring that out. Not too much. We have three days. Maybe we can still pull this out.”

  “Do you want me there?” Paul asks.

  “No,” Jaylon-ra says. “Go home and sleep.”

  THE HALL has taken on the quality of a deflated balloon. Limp and devoid of air.

  Streamers are strewn on the floor, paper plates from the buffet spilling out of the garbage cans. The blue-on-yellow ELECT MAYOR JAYLON-RA sign hangs over the stage like a taunt. There are small pools of people scattered about the room, but three quarters of the crowd has already left. Rats abandoning a sinking ship.

  Paul is slumped in a chair in the corner, an extinguished cigarette hanging from his mouth, his jacket crumbled on the floor at his feet. Jaylon-ra can’t tell if he’s breathing hard, snoring, or sobbing.

  A panel of analysts argue a
bout the election on NY1. Jaylon-ra can’t hear what they’re saying over the blaring strains of Don’t Stop Believin’. Who the hell picked this song?

  If the members of Journey were still alive he’d have them rounded up and hanged.

  The numbers displayed in a box underneath the analysts are white and glowing and rigid. He wants to believe they’re not true, that it’s a trick of the screen, but there they are.

  Councilman Mancuso: 72 percent.

  Mayor Jaylon-ra: 28 percent.

  Ninety-four percent of precincts reporting.

  Mahk-Ra alone were supposed to make up 40 percent of the vote. Aside from the occasional sympathizer or malcontent, a Mahk-Ra would never vote for a human. Which means his people didn’t even come out to vote for him. Maybe they thought the race was locked up.

  A strong presence at the polls might have driven humans away. Their ignorance cost him the election.

  Their ignorance. Paul’s. The weather. Jaylon-ra looks for something or someone to blame besides himself. Not that there’s much.

  He takes a long swig of the only thing left to drink at the bar. Well whiskey, no ice. It tastes like battery acid and it scorches his throat on the way down. He breathes deep. His phone buzzes. He pulls it out and steps onto the balcony, away from the music, where he can get a little quiet. The cold wind whistles and bites at him.

  He presses the red dot on the screen to answer and puts the phone to his ear.

  “I figured you might not know about this part of the process,” Mancuso says. “It’s called the concession call. You’re supposed to call the person who beat you and congratulate them. And you promise you won’t contest the election.”

  “There’s still time.”

  Mancuso laughs. “Look, you can win all the rest of the precincts and every paper ballot. The race is over. Seems there are still some things humans are pretty good at. Take the night. Tomorrow your weird little assistant can call my chief of staff, and we can set up a meeting. Talk about transition teams.”

  “What if you were to say you didn’t want the job? Like a sudden health problem, or you just truly thought I was a better leader…”

  Mancuso laughs again. “Now you’re stretching. Look, I’ll be honest, I never wanted to be mayor. Not before you mocks got here. Not my thing. Too much pressure, you understand? I was happy to do my job and go home. But now… now it’s just been handed to me, I’m supposed to say no? I’ll promise you this. I’ll give you a top position in my cabinet. Show the people that I want to work with you. Keep the Mahk-Ra leadership happy.” He clears his throat, and his voice takes on an edge. “As long you know who the fuck is in charge.”

  “If those machines weren’t broken,” Jaylon-ra says, “this would be a very different conversation.”

  “Well,” Mancuso says, the word trailing off. It’s quiet, and Jaylon-ra thinks they’ve been disconnected, but then Mancuso continues, “You know how it is with the elections. Once it gets going… things start overheating, you know what I mean?”

  “Wait, what?”

  “Go have another drink. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “No, what did you mean, about things overheating…”

  The line goes dead.

  Jaylon-ra sticks the phone in his pocket, looks out over the city. From his vantage point on the balcony of the Woolworth Building, he can see a large running stretch reaching to the north. He tries to imagine how it looked with all the buildings lit up. That’s how it used to be, in old photographs. Now, some buildings are power-rationed and circuits overload, so only half the skyline is lit at any given time.

  It was a good run. His frustration with the process and with the planet aside, it was nice to be in charge of something so big, and even now, with half of it turned off, and even for a human city, so grand and beautiful and alive.

  His phone buzzes again.

  Jaylon-ra holds his breath and puts it up to his ear.

  “So.” Gaige-ra says, “Tell me again how the game is played.”

  HE STOOD watching them. His lips lifted in the thin smile that frightened everyone who saw it. Which was stronger, he wondered, the stink of fear as he approached, or the flood of hatred when he’d gone?

  That was the catch. What if he didn’t go? What if he stopped to chat? That was where the hate dissolved, leaving only a black pool of fear. None of these people knew how deep or black that pool could get. Not until they had dived with him, to the smothering depths.

  Benton was human though those who had endured his close scrutiny would argue otherwise; those who had survived. He was the only human with the rank of Talon Officer among the Mahk-Ra. He was a terror worse than the invaders. He had executed his own brother with a shotgun blast to the head. Since then, he had stacked up enough bodies to become second in command of Talon, the dread secret police.

  His reputation was made at the Battle for Barnard’s Star. Through resourcefulness, force of will, and the wholesale expenditure of human troops he had turned a military disaster into a strategic and tactical triumph. When the command center had taken a direct hit, it had been he who had dominated the rattled Mahk-Ra junior officers, and rallied the Mahk-Re non-coms to his service. He had battered the enemy off those worthless balls of rock circling around that dismal little dwarf star and chased them out of this sector of the empire.

  The Mahk-Ra had been faced with a cultural dilemma. They admired courage. They admired leadership. Here stood a human. They could either accept the superiority of this member of a subject race or make him one of their own.

  The mirthless smile bent his features. So, he was adopted as a Mahk-Ra because their built-in assumptions could find no other recourse to an anomaly like him.

  Adopted, not accepted. Feared by humans because he was almost Mahk-Ra. Hated by the aliens because almost wasn’t good enough. Feared and hated by all, because he could take any of them into dark, windowless rooms, and do whatever he liked. Even high ranking Mahk-Ra were not immune to his attentions.

  He stepped from the shadows of the arch onto the sun-dappled walkway. As his Mahk-Re bodyguards fanned out to take flanking positions people recognized him, and the walkway emptied. The former occupants had scattered to stand on the lawn to either side.

  They seemed to yearn for invisibility. They stood, almost universally, with their arms to their sides; heads tilted; eyes down to avoid crossing his gaze. It was almost a bow, Benton thought. He accepted it as such.

  His booted feet shocked the silence as he moved forward. His long thin shadow was the gnomon indicating his progress. Each time his shadow licked one of the bowing forms they shivered. He took time to notice them. They stiffened as he neared, relaxed when he moved on.

  His pace slowed. A pretty young woman caught his eye. Even with her head down, face half-hidden, she was quite appealing. He let his gaze linger. His smile thinned to the point of no return. His eyes half closed as he regarded her.

  Sergeant Chobuc-re noticed the change and gave the silent order to cut the young woman from the herd.

  As his guard began to move in, Benton spotted a tiny hand coming around low on the woman’s skirt. A small upturned face followed. A pretty little girl of perhaps three regarded him, frankly and without fear. No human had dared look at him in such an open manner in years. Curious, he signaled Chobuc-re to stop.

  They appraised each other for a moment, the monster and the moppet, and then she actually stepped around her mother and onto the walkway.

  The woman grabbed for the child but dropped back when Benton’s guards surged forward with their weapons up. None of them assumed innocence. A very small girl could be a very large bomb. Benton was a prime target for terrorists.

  He waved his hand again and they stopped. This time the muzzles of their weapons did not drop, but remained steadily on the small figure as she looked up and said, “Hi! Are you a-scared?”

  Benton rocked slightly, surprised by the level of perception implied by the non-sequitur. Or, maybe, just a little girl vent
ing her own apprehensions?

  “What makes you think I have a reason to be afraid?” he asked.

  “Um ... dunno, um, you just looked kinda scaredy standing there, and you shouldn’t,” she said sincerely. She reached up and took his hand.

  Benton felt a kind of shock at the touch, and then, “Chobuc-re! Stand down!”

  “But, sir ... ” the sergeant began.

  Benton’s voice turned so quiet the menace of it bleached the walls of the courtyard. “Now, Sergeant.”

  “Sir!” The muzzles deflected; the guards stayed rip-cord taut.

  The little girl tugged on his hand, and to the shock of everyone present, including himself, he bent to one knee beside her. She whispered, “Arthur says that if you’re a-scared, all you have to do is pretend you’re not. Pretty soon you won’t be.”

  “Arthur?” Benton drew a breath, regarding her.

  “My Grandpa, Arthur.”

  Benton nodded, blinked, and nodded again, “Is he right?” His voice was almost wistful. “Is that the secret?”

  She leaned in with a conspiratorial look in ... her ... eye ... no. No, not three. Older. Seven? Eight?

  “Not always,” she said quietly, “but surprisingly often.”

  He pulled back, “Who are you?”

  She smiled up at him, “Um,” three years old again, “They call me Ranny. Who are you?”

  “Ranny? That’s an unusual name.”

  “Short for m’other name, m’big girl name,” she motioned for him to lean in, “m’secret name.”

  “Secret name? You have a secret name?”

  She nodded.

  “What is your secret name, Ranny?”

  She whispered in his ear, “Secret.”

  He paused, and then said, “Look, Ranny, my job is keeping secrets. I’m very good at it.” He tried to look friendly but achieved harrowing. “You can tell me.”

  She regarded him for a solemn moment, nodded, and then said, “Araneae.”

  He studied her.

  “Araneae Webb.” She smiled up at him.

  His lips quirked up enough to be scary. After a moment he said, “I’ll just call you Ranny.”