Brilliance

by Marcus Sakey

  In the days and weeks to come, there will be endless discussion of responsibility. As you read this, our intelligence communities are drawing up a list of likely suspects. One name is certain to top it: John Smith, the activist-turned-terrorist who has long embraced violence as a means to achieve his ends.

  But if yesterday’s attack showed us anything, it was that the problem is bigger and more dangerous than we imagine. The problem lies in the fact that we are two nations.

  The gifted and the rest of us. And a house divided cannot stand.

  The gifted are human beings—our children and friends. And most are as horrified, as hurt, by this shameful attack as the rest of us. But the fact remains that their existence is a threat to peace, to sovereignty, to our very lives…

  March 15, 2013

  WALKER CALLS FOR INVESTIGATIVE COMMISSION

  WASHINGTON, DC – Speaking before Congress today, President Walker called for the formation of a bipartisan commission to investigate the March 12 explosion at the Leon Walras Exchange.

  “The American people have the right to a full and complete account of the events of that day,” said Walker. “How did this tragedy occur? Did our security agencies fail? Have they been compromised?”

  The proposed commission would have a broad mandate, investigating not only the cause of the explosion, but also the actions of the intelligence community leading up to the attack, as well as police and federal response afterward.

  The March 12 explosion, which left more than a thousand dead, is widely believed to have been the result of a terrorist bombing. To date, no group has claimed credit for the attack…

  March 22, 2013

  FOR MANY, MOURNING TURNS TO ANGER

  DALLAS, TX – Ten days after the bombing of the Leon Walras Exchange, the shock many Americans felt is becoming rage and a desire for vengeance.

  “We all know who did this,” said Daryl Jenkins, 63, a truck driver and former Navy chief petty officer. “We’ve been nothing but generous to them, and the abnorms have repaid that with blood. I say it’s time we showed them what it means to bleed.”

  Mr. Jenkins is not alone in his feelings. In this time of national anguish, many Americans are eager to act. From donating blood to joining the army, the attack has roused the country to action in a way not seen since Pearl Harbor…

  April 22, 2013

  BILL TO MICROCHIP ABNORMS INTRODUCED

  WASHINGTON, DC – Senator Richard Lathrup (R-Ark.) today formally introduced a bill (S.2038) to implant a microchip tracking device in every gifted American citizen.

  “The Monitoring Oversight Initiative is a simple, commonsense solution to a complex problem,” Lathrup said. “With one stroke, we can dramatically reduce the risk of another March 12th.”

  The proposed tracking devices would be implanted in the neck, against the carotid artery. Powered bioelectrically, they would allow government agencies to track the exact location of implanted individuals.

  The bill has numerous opponents, among them Senator Blake Crouch (D-Colo.), who last year became the first gifted member of the US Senate. “I mourn the tragedy of March 12th as much as the rest of America. But we cannot allow ourselves to follow this path. How different are microchips today from the gold stars Jews were forced to wear before the Holocaust?”

  The allegation is one dismissed by supporters of the bill. “Yes, this sounds dramatic,” Lathrup said, “but all we want is information to protect ourselves. These devices pose no threat to the gifted. Can they say the same to us?”

  July 5, 2013

  DEMONSTRATIONS TURN VIOLENT; 1 DEAD, 14 INJURED

  ANN ARBOR, MI – It was supposed to be a peaceful protest. A march by politically conscious college kids on the Fourth of July.

  It turned into a bloodbath.

  Organized by All Together Now, a University of Michigan student group supporting equal rights for abnorms, the afternoon march drew several hundred students to protest the Monitoring Oversight Initiative. Most wore gold stars, a reference to the designation Jews were forced to wear in Nazi Germany.

  “Everything started fine,” said Jenny Weaver, one of the march organizers. “Then we turned down Main, and they came out of nowhere.”

  According to witnesses, several dozen people wearing ski masks and wielding baseball bats attacked the protesters and proceeded to beat them brutally.

  Weaver claims she and her co-organizer, Ronald Moore, were specific targets. She says that even after she dropped to the ground, they continued hitting her.

  “One of them said, ‘My brother was in New York.’ Then his boot came down. That’s the last thing I remember.”

  Ronald Moore died of his injuries before an ambulance could arrive. Weaver was rushed to the hospital, where she underwent eleven hours of emergency surgery. She is expected to survive, although her injuries are…

  August 8, 2013

  MICROCHIP BILL PASSES

  WASHINGTON, DC – The Senate today passed the Monitoring Oversight Initiative 73–27. The bill will proceed to the House of Representatives, where a vote is expected to take place within a month.

  “Today is a great day for freedom,” said Senator Richard Lathrup (R-Ark.). “We have taken the first step toward protecting our way of life.”

  The controversial bill makes it mandatory for all gifted individuals to be implanted with a microscopic computer chip that acts as a tracking device, allowing governmental agencies to monitor their whereabouts.

  While the legality of the measure is still hotly debated, the bill has found significant support that crosses party lines…

  August 13, 2013

  CNN.com

  TERROR GROUP HACKS SITES, WARNS OF ATTACKS

  NEW YORK, NY – This morning, more than a dozen major online destinations were hacked, including social networks, online encyclopedias, major retailers, and this news agency.

  Hackers replaced existing code with what appears to be a message from abnorm terrorist groups:

  “All we want is equality. We want peace.

  But we will not sit idle as you build concentration camps.

  Call this a warning.

  Heed it.”

  Asked to comment on the possible source, a spokesman for the Department of Analysis and Response said…

  CHAPTER 16

  In early September, six months after the explosion at the Leon Walras Exchange that claimed 1,143 lives, a Jaguar XKR maneuvered through the abandoned streets of Chicago’s warehouse district.

  The pavement was cracked by the weight of eighteen-wheelers and the relentless cycle of Chicago winters. The sports car had a racing frame with tight suspension for maximum road-feel, and every chunk of broken asphalt vibrated through the driver’s teeth. He rode slowly, steering around the worst of the potholes. Unconvincing rain dribbled on the windshield, too much to leave the wipers off but not enough to keep them from catching with a squeak on every backswing.

  He passed a series of bland brick buildings screened behind rusting fences. A few blocks north the warehouses had been converted into massive party palaces, the douchey kind of clubs favored by the douchey kind of clubbers. Here, though, the buildings mostly retained their original function. Mostly.

  He rolled over a set of long-abandoned railroad tracks, ku-chunk ku-chunk, past a graffitied Dumpster, to a two-story building of faded orange brick with a water tower on top. The fence was topped with razor wire, and a security camera stared down. After a moment, the gate slid open. He pulled through and parked next to a polished Town Car with tinted windows.

  The gravel crunched under his shoes, and he could smell rain and garbage, and under it, faint, a hint of the river. He took a plain black briefcase from the trunk and left his pistol in its place.

  A tortured squeak of metal came from behind, a door opening. A guy in a track suit watched him without expression.

  Inside, the warehouse was a wide-open space, cold and unfinished. The light that seeped from the high windows only made the shadow
s darker. Stacks of unmarked crates took up about half the floor space. A cherry-red Corvette was parked near the roll doors. Someone’s legs stuck out from beneath it, one foot tapping to the beat of a radio playing classic rock.

  Track Suit said, “I need to check you.”

  “No,” he smiled, “you don’t.”

  Track Suit was one of Zane’s muscle guys, not important, but not used to being contradicted. “I know you’re the boss’s new pet, but—”

  “Listen carefully.” Still smiling. “You try to pat me down, I’m going to break your arm.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “You serious with that?”

  “Yep.”

  Track Suit took a step forward, favoring his left leg.

  “Joey.” The mechanic was out from under the car. A smudge of grease stained one cheek. “He’s okay. Besides, he’s not kidding about your arm.”

  “But—”

  “Take him to Zane.”

  Joey hesitated for a moment, then turned and said, “This way.”

  “This way” turned out to be to the back of the warehouse, where a metal staircase ran to a loft. Joey moved heavily, grunting as though each step was a task to cross off. A short hallway ran to a door, and Joey knocked. “Mr. Zane? He’s here.”

  It had once been a foreman’s office, with windows that looked not out at the world but in and down to the warehouse floor. Since then it had been cleaned up and decorated. Twin sofas sat atop a lush Oriental rug. The lighting was tasteful and low. A tri-d ran CNN, the volume muted.

  Robert Zane had come from the street, and neither the Lucy Veronica cashmere sweater nor the $200 haircut could change that. He radiated an ineffable sense of dangerous slickness, and around his eyes and in his posture there always lingered a hint of the days when he’d been bad old Bobby Z. “Mr. Eliot.”

  “Mr. Zane.”

  “Drink?”

  “Sure.”

  Joey closed the door behind them as Zane walked to a sidebar. “Scotch okay?”

  “Fine.” The rug was thick beneath his shoes. He set the briefcase flat on the table, then sat down. The couch was too soft. He leaned back with his hands in his lap.

  “You know, I wasn’t sure you were serious. What you were offering? Nobody can get hold of that kind of newtech.” Zane took ice cubes from a mini-fridge and dropped them into the glasses, then poured two inches into each. His movements as he walked back were light and balanced, a fighter’s posture. He passed a glass and then sat on the couch opposite, legs crossed and arms outstretched, every bit the man of leisure. “But here you are. I guess I shouldn’t have doubted, huh?”

  “Doubt’s good. Makes you careful.”

  “Amen to that.” Zane lifted the glass in a toast. On the tri-d, a reporter stood in front of the White House. The ribbon at the bottom read, BILL TO MICROCHIP GIFTED PASSES HOUSE 301–135; PRESIDENT WALKER EXPECTED TO SIGN. The reporter’s breath steamed in the cold air, rippling toward them, artifacting a little where it reached the limits of the projection field. “So.”

  “So.”

  Zane nudged the briefcase with his toe. “You mind?”

  “It’s your case.”

  The other man smiled, leaned forward, and thumbed the locks. They gave satisfying pops as they opened. Zane lifted the lid. For a moment he just stared. Then he blew a breath and shook his head. “Goddamn. Ripping off a DAR lab. You don’t mind my saying, you are one crazy son of a bitch.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How did you pull it off?”

  Eliot shrugged.

  “Okay, sure, professional secret. Let me rephrase that. Any trouble?”

  —a finger of flame shattering the glass, shards raining sparkling down, the squealing of the alarms lost behind the roar of another explosion, the truck’s gas tank going—

  “Nothing that will come back on you.”

  “Goddamn,” Zane repeated. “I don’t know where you came from, but I’m sure glad you’re here. People can say what they like about your kind—you get the job done.” He closed the case slowly, almost gingerly. “I’ll have the money transferred, same as before. That okay?”

  “How’d you like to keep it?”

  Zane had been about to sip his scotch, but the words caught him off guard. He froze, the muscles in his shoulders going tense. Dealings in the criminal world were a dance as regimented as a waltz. Everybody knew the steps, and any improvisation was cause for alarm. Slowly, Zane lowered his glass and set it on the table with a faint click. “What does that mean?”

  “It means I’ll give you those,” gesturing at the case, “and you keep your money.”

  “And you get?”

  “A favor.” Tom Eliot leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, a confessional pose, man-to-man. “My name isn’t Tom Eliot. It’s Nick Cooper.”

  “Okay.”

  “What I’m about to tell you…” He paused, held it, sighed. “Trust isn’t a big part of our business, but I think I can trust you, and I need your help. You know I’m an abnorm.”

  “Of course.”

  “What you didn’t know is that I used to work for the DAR.”

  “So that’s how you were able to rob their lab.”

  “No, actually. I’d never been to one before. The labs are on the analysis side. I was response. Equitable Services.”

  Zane almost controlled his reaction.

  “Yeah. We don’t exist. Except, of course, we do. Or they do. I left under…well, being gifted at an agency that hunted my kind caused some friction. The specifics don’t matter. What does matter is that once I left, I became a bad guy in their eyes.”

  “I know something about being a bad guy.” Zane smiled.

  “That’s why I think I can trust you. See, they’ve named me a target. They’re trying to kill me. And sooner or later, they’ll succeed.”

  “And you want me to…what? Take on the DAR?”

  “Of course not. I want you to help me become someone else.”

  Zane picked up his drink. Sipped at it. “Why not go to Wyoming?”

  “And live with the rest of the animals in the zoo?” He shook his head. “No thanks. I don’t like cages. And nobody is going to put a tracking device in my throat. Not ever. So I need a new name, a new face, and the documents to go with it.”

  “You’re asking a lot.”

  “Those semiconductors?” He gestured to the case. “That’s virgin newtech. No one, no one, outside of the DAR has seen that architecture. You play your cards right on those, you can make a fortune. And they won’t cost you a dime. You’re one of the biggest smugglers in the Midwest. You really going to tell me you don’t have a hacker and a surgeon in the family?”

  The tri-d switched to footage of the Exchange explosion, the same loop of footage he’d seen on the tri-d billboard back in March. They had played it endlessly for the first months, followed by clips from President Walker’s speech, especially “For them, there can be—will be—no mercy.” Then, as it had become clear that John Smith wasn’t going to be caught quickly, it had slipped out of rotation. But it still ran every time anyone wanted to say anything negative about abnorms. Which was pretty much once an hour.

  “Sure, I have the resources. But if I do this for you, then what?”

  “I told you. You get those for free.”

  “I could just kill you.”

  “You sure?” He smiled.

  Zane laughed. “You got balls, man. I like that.”

  “We have a deal?”

  “Let me think about it.”

  “You know how to reach me. Meanwhile, hold on to the money and the semiconductors. Call it a good-faith gesture.” Cooper brushed off his pant legs, then stood up. “Thanks for the drink.”

  CHAPTER 17

  The rain had let up, and by the patch of slightly brighter gray in the western sky, it looked as if the sun might even be trying to shine. Cooper retrieved his weapon from the trunk, then steered the Jaguar off the crumbling streets of the warehouse distr
ict and into traffic. The car was a beauty, though he missed the raw, muscular rumble of the Charger.

  It had been a risky play with Zane. Hopefully the man was the dirtbag Cooper believed.

  He swung south, downtown. The skyline was half lost in clouds. He passed a row of shops, a car dealership. The El banged by overhead, sparks showering down where it banked.

  Streeterville was a high-rent district, the kind of place that before he’d never have thought to stay. It was all boutiques and hair salons, shrill dogs and expensive women. He pulled down Delaware and stopped in front of the gleaming opulence of the Continental Hotel. A tall, pale guy in a dark jacket opened his door. “Welcome back, Mr. Eliot.”

  “Thanks, Mitch.” He left the car and strode into the hotel.

  The lobby was the definition of modern elegance, all clean lines and lush furniture. A huge paper chandelier glowed above. Cooper strolled to the elevator and swiped his keycard. It slid into motion without his touching a button. His ears popped as they rose.

  “Forty-sixth floor. Executive suites,” the recorded voice purred. He pictured her tall, with sleek blond hair and a skirt that showed a little thigh and a lot of shadow.

  Cooper keyed into his suite and slid out of his suit jacket. It was gray and Italian and cost more than his entire previous wardrobe. The staff had cleaned the room and drawn the curtains. Outside and far below, Lake Michigan churned silently against the shore. The sky was slowly turning to amber. He called down for smoked salmon and a bottle of gin.

  In the bathroom he splashed cold water on his face, then dried himself on a thick towel. Looked in the mirror. The same face looked back, as it always did; only the setting changed. He remembered the first apartment he and Natalie had shared, a dim, narrow space above a Chinese restaurant. That had been back in their early days, before time and his gift went to work on them. Todd had been conceived in that apartment, on a couch that smelled like egg rolls. They’d had their first Christmas together there, and Cooper could still remember Todd sitting wobbly amidst a pile of wrapping paper, a bow stuck to his head. Could remember—