Maker Messiah

by Ed Miracle

  Parker muted her. For good measure, he stepped between the screen and his guest.

  “I believe I will,” Mrs. Petzold said. Which puzzled him until she added, “Send her the treatments.”

  “She can probably afford her own, don’t you think?”

  “Then she can share the surplus with somebody else.”

  Parker nodded. “About dinner . . . I’m so sorry. I forgot.”

  “Right,” she said. “It’s Eggplant Parmesan. You’re still coming, aren’t you?”

  “Well . . . . What wine goes with that?”

  “Chianti?” She guessed. “Pinot Grigio? You choose. It’s going to be a lovely dinner. No politics.”

  “I’m looking forward to it, Mrs. P.” He grinned. “Can you give me ten minutes?”

  “Oh, dear.” She leaned around him. “I hope they don’t hurt that poor man.”

  On screen, a passport photo of Orin Machen, Philip’s uncle, hovered at the shoulder of a trench-coated reporter on some rain-slick, big-city street. Shanghai, said the crawl. Then in bold letters: Convicted.

  “He was here, you know.”

  “Excuse me?” Parker stared at the retired school teacher as if she had said penis.

  “Him. Not the young one. Orin Machen spoke at the dedication when they opened Prospect Shores. His foundation built this place.” She nudged Parker with a wink and an elbow. “But you knew that. You’re investigating him, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “I have a picture of him and me. I’ll dig it out for you.”

  “Yes, I’d like to see that,” he said, not quite believing her.

  “You’re such a nice man, Mr. Parker, trading dinners with an old lady.” She patted his hand with gloved fingers and moved to the door.

  “Well, I cheat,” he said, provoking an eyebrow. “When my turn comes—that salmon and dill sauce last month? Catered.”

  Her giggle buoyed him.

  “I love a man who can’t lie,” she said. “See you in ten.”

  “I’m glad,” he said, as she clutched her drugs, “that you’ll be getting better.”

  He escorted her out, then rushed to the utility closet at the end of his hallway. Each Prospect Shores apartment had its own Powerpod, tucked out of sight. His was still there, beneath the shelf on which three dusty cartons had perched since he and his wife had moved in, three years ago. He pulled down one box and split its seals. Cone segments, black and shiny, came to hand. He left them there, returned to his Cambiar, and linked it to the wall screen.

  A quick search brought up the Leonard Machen Foundation, chaired by Philip’s uncle, Orin. Worldwide, their foundation had built or converted 937 residential complexes, 889 within the United States alone. Most were smaller than Prospect Shores, but every single residence had its own Powerpod. They’d planned it from the beginning, sequestering Pods and cones inside gated, ready-made enclaves.

  The ale in his glass had gone warm. So far, the Maker crisis had spared him no shopping time. He should ask Mrs. P to copy a few cans for him, along with her medicine, to tide him over. Or he could attach the cones and do it himself. So simple, so easy.

  And this, too, was intended—by Philip and his uncle. Could their machines ever be stopped? If Congress banned Powerpods, as President Washburn demanded, would Parker be searching his own building to root out the lawbreakers? Would he be arresting Mrs. P?

  He switched off the wall screen and sank into his chair. Every cop’s nightmare was enforcing the law upon a friend or a family member. Only the hope of due process would allow him to do that. Just thinking about it depressed him.

  But if Orin Machen was the first degree of separation and Mrs. P the second, that put him just two degrees away from his quarry. He reached for his phone. He was thinking Derek Majers should send him to China to beg the authorities to let him interview a convicted American spy.

  SEVENTEEN

  Prince George’s County, Maryland. Saturday, April 25

  Day Eight

  In Nick Brayley’s dream, a grapefruit buzzed like a hornet. The buzzing grew insistent, and he woke with a start, his Cambiar rattling on the nightstand. He brought it to his ear and said, “What?”

  A female voice jabbered about alert and duty, while beside him Yvonne rolled away, taking the covers with her.

  “What?”

  “Sir,” the woman enunciated, “this is a national security alert. I am DOJ Duty Officer Natale Rosales. President Washburn has ordered DEFCON-2. You are required to report, sir.”

  Defense Condition Two. One level short of going to war, all military assets on full alert.

  “What’s happened?”

  “Your car is on its way, sir. You are required to report to the Situation Room.”

  “I know what’s required. I need to know who is threatening us.”

  “Sir, I only know—”

  “DEFCON-2. Yes. Thank you, Natale. You’ve done your job.”

  He hung up and reached for his encrypted STU-5, the ugly black one. He punched in the Pentagon number for the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Clint Holmes would know the score.

  “General Holmes’s office. How may I assist you?”

  “Tell Clint that Nick Brayley wants to know what’s going on.”

  “Yes sir, one moment.” The bastard put him on hold. A different voice came back.

  “Sir, this is Colonel Silva. The People’s Republic of China is shooting down satellites. And they executed an American citizen.”

  “Whose satellites?”

  “Commercial Commsats. Cambiar birds. We’re not sure why. Five so far, but it looks like they’re not done shooting.”

  “Who did they kill?”

  “Orin Machen, Philip’s uncle. People’s Daily claims he was running a CIA operation to destabilize the country, so they stood him up for a ten-minute trial and hanged him an hour later.”

  “I don’t suppose he told them where his nephew might be.”

  “No word on that, sir, but the PRC has mobilized their military and sealed the borders. Our State Department says they are burning up the diplomatic wires too.”

  “Burning?”

  “Figure of speech, sir. Telling us they’re upset. They threatened to break diplomatic relations and expel our ambassador.”

  “Thank you, Colonel. I’m on my way. Tell Clint to return my call when he has a minute, will you?”

  “Yes, sir. Good night, sir.”

  Nick hung up and rolled out of bed. Good night, my ass. If the Chinese hanged Orin Machen, how are we going to find out what he was doing over there?

  He dressed in the dark and did not kiss Yvonne goodbye. Despite her earplugs, she was disturbed already.

  When the car arrived, he slouched into the back seat. What if Philip Machen’s team was trying to provoke hostilities? He phoned the FBI office in Oakland, California. That dipstick, Parker, took the call.

  “You got anything new on public enemy number one?”

  “Sir, we believe he’s still in California, and—”

  “So, same as yesterday.”

  “Sir, we have six—”

  “Shut up, Parker. Listen to me. China is shooting down Cambiar satellites. Now, what do you suppose those satellites have been doing over China that got those nice folks so riled? Don’t answer that. Just find Machen. I don’t care how you do it. Tell Majers to blow his people out of bed and don’t let ‘em go back until they catch that son-of-a-bitch.”

  He hung up. Incompetence was not worth listening to.

  The White House Situation Room was in full crisis mode when he arrived. Video projections extended three of the walls into cyberspace. A trio of suits presided at a central table, their backs to the door. President Washburn hunched in one leather chair between his chief of staff and a pudgy, red-haired man whom Nick had not seen for six months—Alec Drexler, the National Security Advisor. Secretaries of Defense and State, plus Central Intelligence and Homeland Security, gazed from wall panels to the left. To the r
ight, military readiness symbols dotted a Mercator projection of the Earth. And dead ahead, a map of Asia glowed green with yellow markers denoting military sites of the People’s Republic of China. Three Xs blinked red, two within the PRC and one over the Western Pacific, possibly the intercept points of the downed satellites.

  A staffer briefed him. “Six hours ago, all Cambiar satellites simultaneously triggered their ground units—which is to say, every hand-held Cambiar—to activate continuous encryption. Since then, all Cambiar net traffic has gone encrypted. Only the senders and recipients know what’s exchanged between them. With digital tunneling, peer-to-peer algorithms, and satellite routing there are no choke points to restrict the flow. We can break the encryption, but it takes hours.” Someone called the staffer away, and Nick took a seat in the corner.

  No wonder the Chinese are pissed. Makers have flooded them with counterfeit money and free goods, and now this. They’ve lost control of peer-to-peer communications, including the internet. And so have we.

  Two Trojan horses in one week, both pushing the world toward chaos. Philip Machen gave the bad guys unlimited weapons and supplies with his Maker machines. Now his Cambiars are giving them secure communications. Space-X had launched 26 satellites for Orin Machen’s Cambiar Company, yet the Air Force was tracking 32 in orbit.

  Nick stood up and spoke loudly. “We should tell PRC to keep shooting. Take out all his birds.”

  Everyone looked to President Washburn, who frowned over his shoulder.

  “No missiles,” he said. “Not yet, anyway. We are not going to risk starting World War Three over a handful of commercial satellites.” He addressed Drexler, his National Security guy. “I want threat assessments on this encryption thing. Specifically, I want to know if we need to shut down the Cambiar satellites ourselves or go after the hand-held units, or both. But we are not going to launch until we are convinced it is the best course. I need intel, analysis, options.” He stood and spoke to the wall screens.

  “I want State to reassure the Chinese through regular, front-door channels. Tell them Philip Machen is trying to destabilize us too. I want Defense to reset DEFCON to normal. And I want those Cambiar threat assessments on my screen by noon today.”

  On his way to the door, the president flagged Nick and General Clinton Holmes.

  “Walk with me, gentlemen.” He set a pace down the hall that had the older men huffing.

  “Nick, I need more than you’ve given me on Philip Machen. If you can’t grab him, at least find out what he wants so we can block it. We are outlawing his machines, and we can kill his satellites, but we are playing catch-up. We need to get out ahead of this guy and stop him cold, whether or not we find him. Before the public starts believing the crap he’s telling them.

  “If people get used to trading free goods, their own selfishness might turn them against the rule of law. We have to avoid over-reacting, but I want you and Clint to find a way to trump this guy. Bring me a show-stopper, to be employed if moderate measures fail. One way or another, we have to stop Philip Machen before the elections, way before the elections. Do you understand?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Yessir.”

  The president nodded, then slipped through a door held wide by his chief of staff. Nick and General Holmes continued down a narrow hallway.

  “How’s your asshole, General?”

  Holmes chuckled.

  “Better shape than yours, Colonel.”

  Nick led the way and spoke over his shoulder. “Jack knows I’m the only cabinet member with feet-on-the-ground military experience. The rest are careerist weenies. That’s why he’s put you and me together on this. I was in Bosnia when the fly-boys took credit for stopping the ethnic cleansing. And you,” he indicated the ribbons on Holmes’s chest, “you’ve done it all, haven’t you?”

  Holmes calculated his response. “I report to SECDEF.”

  Meaning, “I don’t report to you.” They both knew Jack Washburn was going under-the-table with his request, and the general’s reminder was standard turf defense.

  “Clint, you and I don’t have to front this thing. We only have to push it up to daylight. Let SECDEF think it was his idea. Philip Machen is a greater threat to this nation than any man alive, and Jack is finally beginning to appreciate it. We both know the legislative approach is too little, too late. So let’s give Jack his trump card.” He slowed to eyeball the general. “Before the damned election.”

  “I don’t see a military solution here,” Holmes said. “You don’t need my people to take this guy down. But if you want help finding him, I’ll recommend it to my boss.”

  Nick stopped.

  “It took ten years to get Osama bin Laden,” he said. “What if nobody stops Philip Machen? What if half the country hides their Makers and keeps using them, no matter what the law says? How do we prevent that? That’s what Jack wants us to do. I don’t give a shit who gets the credit.”

  Holmes laughed.

  “You’re a piece of work, Nick.” He jerked his head toward the Oval Office. “Glad I’m not part of Jack’s tap dance. Right now, I need to make sure DEFCON gets wound down, so call me after lunch, all right? We’ll talk.”

  Nick shook the offered hand, but Holmes had not declared his intentions. So their agreement—if it was one—remained provisional. Maybe Clint had something in mind.

  Nick was about to leave the building when Alec Drexler bounded over to him, his rust-red hair flouncing. He was waving a blue Cambiar like a Bedouin with a Popsicle.

  “Nick, you gotta see this. The pro-Machen bloggers invented a name for themselves, and the anti-Machen crowd is choking on it.”

  Nick regarded Drexler’s Cambiar as if it were a turd.

  “Don’t you have anything real to do, Alec?”

  “They’re calling themselves Freemakers.”

  Nick arched his lip.

  “If they are the hippy-dippy Freemakers, who are we, the Establishment?” He laughed at Drexler’s frown.

  “They’re calling us Tories.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Victorville, California. Still Saturday, April 25

  Day Eight

  The sun rose plump and yellow over a low rim of the Mojave, promising heat before noon. Beneath the giant purple tail of a retired Federal Express MD-11, Tanner Newe scanned a news report on his Cambiar.

  “They killed him,” he said.

  Philip’s wrench rattled off the scaffold and disappeared with a clank.

  “They hanged him,” Tanner said, “for spying and sedition.”

  Twenty feet above, Philip grasped a handrail, waited for the hangar walls to melt or his legs to fold. He swallowed hard and shuffled along a wooden plank to the ladder, which he descended one metal rung at a time. At the bottom, he staggered three paces before squatting in his coveralls. He crossed his arms over his head and rocked like a peasant.

  With every fiber of his body, he cried, “Spook!”

  His knees hit the floor and he fist-slammed the concrete. Once, twice, then harder still.

  “Not him. Not him too.”

  He’d done it again—killed another precious, irreplaceable family member. He rocked and rocked. Spook. Uncle Orin. The Bear with a booming voice. The wily, tough, generous second father whom he loved beyond words. Is dead.

  A gust rattled the hangar doors, spoons in a can.

  “I should have stopped him. I should have made him come home.”

  Tears welled as the fulminations in his chest bore him back to a hospital in Michigan, sixteen years ago, the day after the memorial for his family. Pillow-propped and drooling, he’d shut his eyes against the morning glare, willed himself back to the void. Yet three sharp knocks held him fast. A towering figure in a jet-black overcoat swept into the room. It wore a tweed cap and dragged a steel chair.

  “Go away,” Philip said, and a lizard of dread wriggled down his spine.

  The intruder placed his chair and sat, just breathing, letting his foreboding presenc
e blot out the light. In a voice as dark as his coat, the man said, “You have unfinished business.”

  Philip jerked his restraints. He called for the nurse.

  The stranger shook his great dismal head. “They’re not coming.”

  “Go to hell,” Philip said.

  The head inclined. “Popular place, now and then.”

  “Get out. Can’t you see I’m dead already? Soon as I quit breathing.”

  From beneath the cap, gunmetal eyes regarded him—until Philip recognized their Machen family squint.

  “Spook.”

  It popped from him like a bubble, this name his father used. When Dad was young, his older brother got shoes with crepe soles and made a reputation sneaking up, startling people. Now at Philip’s bedside, Spook declared loud enough for the nurses to hear him, “Leonard was a fool who failed to see his effect on people. So they called him an atheist and killed him.”

  Which was half-right.

  “Would have killed you too,” Spook said. “But that’s not why I came. You and I have business, and I mean to finish it.”

  From his coat he withdrew a paperback book, creased and broken, and tossed it on Philip’s lap: a grief recovery handbook.

  Philip shook his head. “No thanks.”

  Spook heaved to his feet, yanked the chair, and strode out the door.

  Next morning, when the big man returned, the nurses removed Philip’s restraints. Spook coaxed him upright and got some pancakes into him, which was how they began.

  For two days, he and Spook diagrammed their losses on paper. They sketched relationship graphs, drew their connections to Leonard, to Rebecca, and to young Sandra. They wrote declarations of amends and forgiveness, in which they conveyed their unsent messages, their unfinished feelings, for each of the dead. Silently they attended each other, as first one and then the other read his papers aloud, according to the book. Philip wept and beheld his uncle sobbing, but they continued. On the third day, they signed and read their goodbyes-to-the-dead. Saying goodbye out loud hurt worse than the funeral, worse even than the flames he could never forget. Yet it purged him.