A Better World (The Brilliance Trilogy Book 2)

by Marcus Sakey

  “Right now, our people are planting explosive charges. In the classrooms, the dormitories . . . the administrative residences.” She smiled. “In five minutes, this facility will be a smoking hole in the ground.”

  “My God. You can’t!”

  “It’s done. But here’s the good news. You have a chance to survive.”

  He gulped air, strained against the handcuff, feeling weak and old. “You can’t do this,” he repeated.

  “Chuck,” she said. “You’re not paying attention. You have one chance to live, one. All you have to do is answer a question.”

  He tried to gather wits scattered like frightened rabbits. “What?”

  “You have a student here named Alice Chen.” She leaned forward, her face inches from his. “How old is she?”

  Norridge stared. His legs wet, his eyes crusted with sleep, his hand cuffed to the metal post of the bed he’d slept in for two decades. “I . . .” He fought to think, to conjure the records of his students. This woman was wrong. He knew his students, knew them all. He could look at a child and remember their transponder number, repeat every detail of their file, all their secrets. He just . . .

  Didn’t know their names.

  As though she could read his mind, the woman shrugged. “Too bad.” She stood up, and the two of them walked to the door.

  “Wait!” His voice was as fearful and querulous as a child’s. “You can’t do this.”

  Kathy Baskoff stopped at the door. “In five minutes, you’re going to die. And there’s nothing you can do about it.” She smiled. “Live with that.”

  The bedroom door shut with a click.

  CHAPTER 21

  Soren smiled.

  Books he loved. Movies and tri-d and stage plays and dance and comedy and sports and music were all torture. No matter the intelligence of a screenplay, no matter the elegance of a joke, at his timescale they were endless. Each note of a Bach concerto was drawn out until all meaning and emotion were lost.

  But a book. He’d learned long ago how to widen his eyes to take in the whole page, focusing on individual words with his mind rather than his pupils. A good book was close to personal nothingness, a place the self could be lost. He often read five or six books between rising and sleeping.

  John Smith had been thoughtful in furnishing the apartment in New Canaan. It was quiet, tastefully lit, and walled floor to ceiling with bookshelves. Soren found it a touching gesture, this reminder that his friend knew him in a way no one else did.

  John said, “Iwillneedyousoon.”

  “To?”

  “Kill. Willyoukillforme?”

  “Yes.”

  “Myplansarelaid. Butthingsarefluid.”

  Things are fluid. Yes, that was certainly true. “And?”

  “You’retherook. Overlookedonthebackrow.”

  A reference to their childhood at Hawkesdown Academy, playing chess in the cafeteria. Soren always lost, but it hadn’t mattered. The games had been periods of simple pleasure and engagement spent in the company of a friend. Maybe the first time in his life when time had passed too quickly.

  His role was plain to him now. Smith would have spent years preparing for this moment, but strategies always changed in execution, always. So Soren would be the asset his friend’s enemies didn’t know about. The solution to problems yet undiscovered.

  “I understand.”

  “Ihaveasurprise.”

  Soren followed his friend through the apartment to a closed door. John gestured to it, smiled, and left.

  Soren opened the door and saw her waiting for him.

  The only woman in the world. Tiny and blond and perfect. The one who understood what he needed. Not just understood it. Became it. That was her nature, her gift and her curse; she could transform herself into what others needed. Could sense and embody the desires people didn’t dare speak.

  Samantha was naked, pink tulips and fresh cream, and her arms were open. “My love,” she said. “I’ve missed you.”

  Bliss. Not an instant’s worth, the way normal people experienced love, but complete and lasting. Bliss like warm water he swam languidly.

  His curse could be a gift, too. With her.

  In Hawkesdown they had found each other, perfect Samantha. When they were fourteen, she had come to him and touched his cheek and begun without a word spoken, and every touch lasted minutes. The caress of her tongue, the softness of her hair trailing down his body, the grip of their clenched fingers, all threatened to overflow him with fullness. When it finally came, the orgasm was a long, slow freefall down the curve of heaven.

  Then she had vanished from the academy, stolen away by her mentor, and he had never seen her again.

  Soren had tried with others, but failed miserably. Women wanted to banter and share and be charmed, to know and feel known. He understood that, but the rituals of the mating dance were unbearable to him. Jokes drained of all flavor, small talk lasted days.

  There had been a prostitute, one time. An expensive call girl he paid in advance. He had given explicit instructions in an e-mail: she wasn’t to speak, wasn’t to delay. All he wanted was her perfumed warmth writhing above him.

  She had done as he asked. But there was a moment as she moved on him when the expression on her face flickered, the mask slipping. Just an instant for her, but he had been forced to stare for long seconds at her boredom and hatred and contempt even as he was inside of her. Unable to turn away, to shut his eyes. He still burned with shame to think of the moment.

  He and his love slid together, parted, and rejoined. She was his need. And he knew that for her he was the safest, purest thing she would ever know. She was an addict to her own self, and he let her be that with purest gratitude.

  When at last they were done, she curled into the hollow of his arm and laid her head on his chest, and he basked in the afterglow of their bodies’ desire with perfect peace.

  Thank you, John. A surprise indeed.

  And another debt.

  Will I kill for you?

  God himself.

  CHAPTER 22

  “Wake up.”

  Ethan’s eyes snapped open.

  A shotgun was pointed at his head.

  His brain was still swimming up from sleep, and his first thought was, Jesus, not again with a gun pointing at me.

  He moved without thinking, starting to sit up.

  Jeremy racked the shotgun.

  It was a horrifying sound, one he’d never heard in real life, and it made his fingers tingle and his belly go cold. Beside him, Amy gasped.

  “Quiet.” Jeremy swiveled the shotgun to her. His face was tight, lips squeezed white.

  “What is this? What are you doing?”

  “Get up.”

  “Jeremy,” Amy said, “what’s going on?”

  “I said get up. I don’t want to shoot you, but I will.”

  Slowly, Ethan slid a hand down to his waist, touched the butt of the pistol. It was warm from contact with his skin. He thought, Ease it out, aim upward through the sleeping bag, and . . .

  What? Blast away like a gangster? He’d never fired a gun in his life. The inaugural occasion was going to be at a human being, one who seemed quite comfortable behind the shotgun pointing at Amy?

  What if you miss?

  He let go of the gun. Nodded. “Okay. Easy.” Ethan stood slowly, making sure the hem of his shirt draped to cover the gun. He reached down and helped Amy to her feet.

  Violet made a snorting sound in her sleep, and they all jumped.

  If he so much as glances in her direction, pull out the pistol and fire.

  “Now what?”

  “Get your girl and go.”

  He had a moment of pure relief. “Okay. Give us one minute to pack our gear, and we’ll be out of your life forever.”

  “No.”

  “What?”

  “Leave everything. Just walk out of here.”

  “You’re . . . this is a robbery?”

  “Told you, these are the
last days. World’s falling down around us. Money, sleeping bags, a tent, whatever else you have, it might save my family’s life.”

  “You’re not serious,” Amy said. “Where’s Margaret?”

  “In the morning I’ll tell her I found you looting our cabinets, ran you out.”

  “What will you tell her if you shoot us?”

  The man’s expression hardened. He turned and spat the toothpick. “Same thing.”

  “You’re a piece of shit, Jeremy.” Amy’s eyes blazed. “A coward. You’re what’s wrong.”

  “I’m a man looking out for his family, that’s all.”

  “No,” Amy said. “My husband is a man. You’re a—”

  “Honey,” Ethan said gently. “Let’s go.”

  She looked at him, fury shining in her. Ethan flicked his eyes downward to where Violet slept. Amy caught the gesture and swallowed whatever she’d been about to say.

  “Can we put our shoes on?”

  “Coulda. Before you mouthed off. Now you just get your little one and get out.”

  Amy shook her head, then bent down and picked up their daughter. She squirmed and started crying. Ethan’s right hand tingled, the gun seeming to pull at it.

  You’re not a criminal. All the man wants is stuff. If you can walk out of here without violence, do it.

  Jeremy followed them up the stairs, the shotgun leveled.

  At the front door, Amy turned to him. “You said grace last night.”

  “So?”

  “So God damn you.” She turned and strode out the door. Ethan wasn’t sure if he’d ever been more in love with her than he was at that moment. It made him want to yank out the gun and blaze away, to shoot until he was out of ammo and then stand over Jeremy’s body and keep pulling the trigger.

  Instead, he followed her into the night. Thinking, It’s not about you. It’s not about feeling like a man. It’s about being one.

  That means doing whatever it takes to protect them. Whatever it takes.

  CHAPTER 23

  It was no Air Force One, but Cooper had to admit the diplomatic flight was a pretty nice ride.

  It had been a fun morning, lit with a simple sweetness. Apple pancakes in the skillet, the Stones on the stereo, his children spazzing, high on sugar and excitement. They’d gone to bed expecting the dawn to bring a day like any other, and instead, hours later, here they were playing tag in the sky. The jet had leather seats, integrated tri-d, a fighter escort, and a steward happy to bring them all the Coke their parents allowed.

  “Hey, Todd,” Cooper called. “C’mere.”

  His son dashed down the aisle, sweating and smiling. Cooper tapped the window. “Check it out.”

  Obligingly, Todd pressed his face against the glass. They’d started their descent, and from this height, Wyoming looked like cake left too long in the oven. Near the horizon, almost out of view of the window, something glowed silver and white. “What is it?”

  “That’s Tesla. The capitol of New Canaan. It’s not the only city, but it’s the biggest. It’s where Erik Epstein lives.”

  “Is he really that rich?”

  “Yup.”

  “Everything looks like it’s made of mirrors.”

  “That’s solar glass. It captures energy and keep the insides cool.”

  “Oh.” Todd looked up at him with a grin. “Too bad. A city of mirrors would be cool.”

  It was one of those weird moments of discordance, a sense of greater meaning. Cooper found himself staring at his son, a thought rising unbidden. A city of mirrors. He’s not far from right.

  If ever there were a place that reverses everything, this is it.

  Their reception in Tesla was certainly a different experience than the last time he’d arrived, three months ago. That time he and Shannon had snuck in with false papers, worried every moment they’d be caught.

  This time there was a motorcade waiting, guarded by a security team. Instead of the heavy limousines favored everywhere else in the world, the motorcade was made up of tear-dropped electric vehicles and sleek ATVs. Gasoline was one of the many things the Holdfast had to import, and it was correspondingly expensive.

  As for the security team, they were young even by military standards, ranging from sixteen to maybe twenty-two. Their lightweight desert fatigues were made of active camouflage, the fabric patterns shifting and morphing as they moved. Despite their youth, he could tell they were good; they moved as a single unit, covering every angle without needing to speak to one another. He didn’t recognize the assault rifles they carried, some sort of NCH newtech with rounded curves and plastic stocks. When did you start manufacturing weapons, Erik?

  “Ambassador Cooper.” The woman who met them had the willowy beauty of a runway model but not so much as a whiff of sexuality. “I’m Patricia Ariel, Mr. Epstein’s communications director. On behalf of Epstein Industries, welcome to the New Canaan Holdfast.”

  Ambassador. That’ll take some getting used to. “Thank you,” he said. “This is Natalie, and our children, Todd and Kate.”

  “Welcome. If you’ll follow me, I’ll see you to your residence in the city.”

  Cooper said, “Epstein couldn’t make it?”

  “He thought you’d want to get settled first. Shall we?”

  Hmm. Cooper hadn’t expected the real Erik Epstein—he probably never left his cave—but his brother Jakob should have been here. It was a snub, and a bad sign.

  The car wasn’t as heavy as President Clay’s ride, but it was comfortable, with leather seats and broad windows. A privacy shield separated them from the driver. The motorcade started rolling immediately, engines humming softly.

  “Mr. Ambassador, this isn’t your first visit to the Holdfast, correct?”

  Cooper shook his head. “But my family hasn’t been here before.”

  “Well, as you know, we’re corporate-held land, custom designed from the ground up . . .” Ariel continued talking, and he patterned her while his family enjoyed the tour. She was smooth and polished, but every so often a rounded consonant crept in, and he figured her to be from the Boston area. Probably a tier two, he suspected memetic based on her speech patterns, and definitely not academy-raised. He imagined her parents were loving and still married, proud of their daughter but not residents of the NCH. Sunday phone calls and e-mails about seeing her on the news, polite inquiries into her social life met with polite deflections.

  Once he had figured her out, he turned his attention to the view. The airport was small, two runways for jets and a handful of glider paths. Todd oohed as one took off, a hydraulic winch a mile away yanking the carbon-fiber plane into the sky. Cooper remembered riding in one with Shannon, felt his stomach lurch. He didn’t mind heights, but airplanes without engines were another matter.

  Outside the boundaries of the airport, they passed a huge solar array, tens of thousands of black panels stretching into the distance, all of them perfectly aligned and bathed in sunlight. Traffic was light, and though the motorcade moved without sirens, they rarely slowed down. One of the benefits of building a world from scratch, traffic patterns could be anticipated, roads built wide enough to avoid congestion. He wondered if Ariel ever thought of Boston, the antithesis of everything here: an old city by American standards, confusing and crowded, horse paths turned into streets, winding mazes instead of neat grids.

  “What’s that?” Todd pointed at a complex of domed structures on a ridgeline, the silver sides open to the wind.

  “Moisture condensers,” Ariel said. “We harvest water from the wind. This is the desert, after all, so water is always a concern. You may find showers a little strange . . .”

  He tuned back out, his mind returning to the Oval Office. Last night had been close. Cleveland on fire, and the president comatose while his secretary of defense practically staged a coup. If Clay hadn’t snapped out of it, this morning abnorms all over the country would be getting shipped to internment camps as troops descended on the Holdfast.

  Cooper�
��s last-second save had bought a little time, but only a little. Now he somehow had to convince Erik Epstein to abandon his deliberately neutral posture and throw his support fully behind the US government—a government that was at that moment drawing up plans for an attack.

  Maybe that’s your angle. Carrot and stick in one.

  He tapped at his teeth with his thumb, watched Tesla unfold around them. Low-rise buildings of stone and solar glass, fronted by broad sidewalks and charging stations for electric vehicles. Signs for restaurants and bars, holographic arcades and coffeehouses advertising brands of marijuana. The people on the street favored rugged, practical clothing, jeans and boots and cowboy hats. There was a genial air, people smiling at one another as they passed, stopping in small groups to talk.

  He imagined US Army Seraphim drones circling above, raining down finger missiles. Vehicles exploding, walls cracking and collapsing. Or worse, bomber-dropped incendiaries; in the dry climate, the heat would reach levels hot enough to shatter stone and boil solar glass.

  “Everyone is so young,” Natalie said.

  “Youth is strength,” Ariel said without hesitation. Definitely memetic. Professional communications had always been about the attempt to generate memes, to make a message viral; abnorms just took that to a higher level. Back when he’d been a DAR agent, Cooper had read a brief arguing memetics was the most dangerous gift. As politicians had long known, people preferred short, catchy answers to complex ones, even if the short answers were oversimplified to the point of ridiculousness. Phrases like “old-world thinking” could be as devastating as a bomb, and much farther ranging.

  After all, remember how many times you saw “I am John Smith” scrawled on a wall.

  And now he’s a hero, and that’s the title of his bestselling book.

  “Youth is being young,” Cooper said. “Strength is something else.”

  Ariel smiled politely, continued the tour. “The average age in the Holdfast is 26.41, although that’s misleading; the number of parents and grandparents who move here with gifted children skew the math. The median is closer to sixteen.”