Free Lock In by John Scalzi Page A

college I had a professor tell me that single image did more to advance the acceptance of Hadens as people, not victims, than a thousand congressional testimonials or scientific discoveries could have. I told him what I remembered about the pope was that he had wicked bad breath. I went to Georgetown. My professor was a priest. I don’t think he was very happy with me.
    My dad had taken the photo. It was dead center north wall. On the left side of it is his certificate for being a Pulitzer finalist for the Feature Photography category, which even he, to his credit, admits is kind of ridiculous. On the right side is his Presidential Medal of Freedom, given to him a couple of years back for his work with Haden’s. Underneath that is the picture of him having the medal placed around his neck by President Gilchrist, and bending down, laughing, so the famously short Gilchrist could manage it.
    Three months later Willard Hill was elected president. President Hill signed Abrams-Kettering into law. President Hill was not thought well of in the Shane household.
    I’ve lived with the trophy room all my life so I never thought there was anything particularly special about it. It was just another room in the house and a boring one at that, since I wasn’t allowed to play in it. And I know Dad is pretty blasé about awards at this point. Short of a Nobel Peace Prize, he’s pretty much run the table. Outside of humoring visitors or hosting events, I’ve never seen him step foot into the trophy room. He doesn’t even put things in there—he leaves that to Mom.
    But then, the trophy room isn’t for us. It’s for everyone else. My father deals with millionaires and billionaires on a daily basis, the sort of people who have egos just this side (and sometimes way over the edge) of sociopathy. The sort of person who thinks he’s the apex predator wading through a universe of sheep. Dad takes them into the trophy room and their eyes get to the size of dinner plates and they realize that whatever shit they’ve got going on is tiddlywinks compared to Dad. There are maybe three people in the world more interesting than Marcus Shane. They’re not one of them.
    Which is why Mom, when she’s being indiscreet, refers to the trophy room as the “vet’s office.” Because that’s where Dad brings people to take their balls.
    Into the vet’s office I walked, newly numb in the jaw, to see who tonight’s set of financial and testicular donors were. I saw Dad instantly, of course. He’s six foot eight. He’s hard to miss.
    I was not prepared for the other person I saw, standing with Dad, looking up at him, smiling, drink in hand.
    It was Nicholas Bell.

 
    Chapter Seven
    “C HRIS!” DAD SAID, and then suddenly he was looming over me, as he does, to grab me in a hug. “How you doing, kiddo.”
    “Being crushed by you, Dad,” I said, and he laughed. This was a standard call-and-response for us.
    “Thanks for coming in to meet people,” he said.
    “We have to have a talk about that,” I said. “Sometime really soon.”
    “I know, I know,” he said, but then waved Bell over anyway. Bell walked over, drink in hand, still smiling. “This is Lucas Hubbard, CEO and chairman of Accelerant Investments.”
    “Hello, Chris,” Hubbard/Bell said, extending his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
    I shook it. “And you,” I said. “I’m sorry, I’m having a bit of déjà vu at the moment.”
    Hubbard/Bell smiled. “I get that a lot,” he said. He sipped from the glass: scotch on the rocks.
    “Sorry,” I said. “I was just surprised.”
    “So you know who Lucas is,” Dad said, watching our somewhat cryptic exchange.
    “No, it’s not that,” I said. “I mean, yes. I know who Lucas Hubbard is, of course. But I also know…” I trailed off. It was considered rude to acknowledge that an integrated Haden was using someone else’s body.
    “You know the Integrator I’m using,” Hubbard said, sparing me the faux pas.
    “Yes,