The Pieces of My Self

18 - A Meeting With William Nkumbra

LILLIAN

The Knightly Mansion, 7 June 2174, Tuesday

A fitful sleep. I roused my children for breakfast, got them off to summer school and pre-school, and hoped the emotional damage from the fishing trip was temporary. Then I took a Sammy to the Knightly mansion to meet with Debra and Bill Nkumbra.

It was still raining when I entered the tight space of the security trap. My palms felt clammy by the time the scans finished and Usher greeted me at the door.

Debra Knightly and Tony Brown were waiting in the main hall, just beyond the vestibule, arguing about protocol. They each acknowledged my presence with a quick glance while continuing their tête-à-tête.

"I'm your attorney," he said. "And I know Nkumbra. I should lead the discussion. We have to be careful what we say. Don't mention anything about the missing money. This man is a spook. He's skilled at putting pieces together."

Debra's face wrinkled in annoyance. "You also represent the administration. There's a conflict of interest. You invited yourself to this meeting. I think I can look after myself, thank you."

Tony turned to me. "Talk some sense into her, will you?"

"Sure." I gave him a fake smile, then turned to Debra. "The only person this man represents is himself. Beware."

Tony glared at me. "You just abrogated our—"

"You should be grateful, Tony," I continued, "that psychopathology skips generations. I think your daughter, Amara, is going to be okay."

A doorbell chimed, interrupting the discussion as an image flashed on a screen near the door. A sullen-faced Black man wearing a black trench coat and black fedora stood against the backdrop of steady rain—a shadow blending with the dark sky.

"Hush," Debra said. "It's him."

I watched as the man passed through the entry hall. The scan showed a gun in an underarm holster. The VR readout said it was loaded. I was about to object, but Debra held up her arm in a greeting.

"Hello Bill," she said as the door opened. "Good to see you again. After your last visit, I kept thinking about the good times when you were still working for Henri over at the Dome. And the floating arcology was in the design phase."

"Times have changed," he said. His voice was deep and gravelly—all whiskey and cigarettes.

"So true. Please give your wet things to Usher so he can hang them up to dry. You already know Mr. Brown—"

Tony nodded. "Hi, Bill."

"And this is Ms. Lillian Fray, a consultant in my employ. Please come to the study, where we can get some nice tea and cakes."

* * *

I watched Nkumbra as he ran an index finger along the spines of books stacked vertically, horizontally, and diagonally. He cocked his head this way and that, moving slowly along the shelves lining Knightly's personal study, as if probing by proxy the nooks and crannies of Henri Knightly's mind.

I felt like yelling, Enough drama! Get on with it, you stupid bureaucrat! But I held my tongue. Today was the day for playing brainless and nice, so I kept a smile cemented to my face, like I was mainstreaming dopamine.

The others in the room sat in leather chairs, quietly sipping tea, waiting for the man from LESA to explain the purpose of the meeting.

Nkumbra pulled an antique volume from a stack, opening to the front matter. "Hmm. A signed first edition. That must have cost a bunch." He put it back. "As I recall, one of Minsky's big ideas was that personalities are never static. They're always changing. They're made up of independent behavioral bits and pieces. The self is an illusion."