by Marcus Sakey
“Yes, sir. For safety.”
Cooper stared at him, said, “C-6-8.”
The guard started up, and Cooper followed, one hand tracing the rail, smelling old beer and counting. Seven to a row, twenty rows to a section, twenty sections, just shy of three thousand of them. Three thousand cages.
Cages for people like you.
When they reached Vincent’s, the guard swiped his ID card, then readied his rifle and said, “C-6-8! Coming in.” He reached for the handle. Cooper stopped him. “I’ve got it.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” He waited for the guard to walk away, then opened the door.
The prefab was maybe eight feet by four, the size of a walk-in closet or a sheet of plywood. A windowless box with just enough room for a bunk and a chemical toilet, the reek of which filled the air. The man lying down had the fine features of actors in scotch ads, although the black eye and broken nose diminished the impact of his good looks. Without shifting his gaze from the fluorescent, Vincent Luce said, “You’re not a guard.”
“My name is Nick Cooper. We need to talk.”
“About?”
Cooper gestured at the door. “Want to get some air?”
The quietest space they’d been able to find was the old press box, where tri-d cameras would once have recorded Knicks games. Vincent leaned against the exterior wall, his eyes staring out at the arena-turned-prison, battered face reflected in the glass. “Is this where you do the waterboarding? I should tell you, I don’t know any secret abnorm plans.”
“I want to talk about Dr. Abraham Couzen.”
“Are you kidding me?” The abnorm spun, fire in his eyes. “Unbelievable.”
Cooper had been about to explain, but stopped himself. That’s not defensiveness.
“First he outs me to my fascist asshole neighbors, who . . .” He caught himself, bit off the sentence. “And when I make the scared, stupid decision to come here, he wants to save the day? Screw Abe. I’d rather stay than have him be the one who gets me out.”
“I thought . . .” Cooper paused. There was something he was missing here, something obvious.
“What, is this his idea of a romantic gesture?”
Oh. Cooper glanced sideways at Ethan, who gave a hey, news to me shrug. “So you and Abe are a couple?”
“We broke up a year ago. If you could call us a couple anyway. To be together you have to respect each other. He never saw me as a person. More like a fetish.”
“What do you mean?” Cooper pulled out a rolling chair and sat down.
“He likes twists,” Vincent said. “It was never me that turned him on, it was my gift. Look at his work. He could’ve cured cancer, and he spends all his energy figuring out how to make normal people brilliant.”
“Wait,” Ethan interjected. “He told you about our research?”
Vincent cocked his head. His fingers, long and slender, tapped out a rhythm on the glass. “You’re Ethan Park.”
“Umm. Yeah.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you. So much that I almost used to be jealous.”
“I . . . me too. You.”
Vincent smiled coldly. “I doubt that. Abe didn’t talk about things he didn’t care about. But you were his bright boy. He said your work on telomere sequences was crucial. Part of the reason he now knew what God felt like. Asshole.”
“When was this?”
“The day before yesterday, when he was showing me around his lab.”
“What?” Cooper said at the same time Ethan said, “His lab?”
“Huh.” Vincent looked back and forth between them. “I just figured it out. Abe didn’t send you. You’re chasing him.”
Cooper thought about lying, decided against it. “Can you tell me about his lab?”
“That’s why you’re after him? Because of his work?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to hurt him?”
“No.”
“If I tell you,” the man said, slowly, “will you get me out of here?”
“You got my word.”
Vincent turned to Ethan. “Can I trust him?”
“Yes,” the scientist said without hesitation, and despite everything, Cooper had to admit that made him feel good.
A buzzer sounded, dull through the glass. The people wandering the arena floor reacted as if they’d been kicked, hurriedly forming lines, their eyes down and hands at their sides as they filed back to their cages. Staring out the glass, Vincent said, “My music is too advanced for most listeners, but Abe loved to watch me play. He’d always ask me to dual-solo. Play a separate solo with each hand, at the same time.” The man shook his head. “I thought he liked the sound. But that wasn’t it. He just wanted to watch my gift.”
He turned to face them. “His lab’s in the South Bronx, on Bay Avenue. He made a big deal out of what a secret it was, how he’d funneled money to build it, how even Ethan didn’t know about it. I don’t remember the address, but it’s a one-story brick building, no windows, across from a salvage yard.”
Cooper took his d-pad from his pocket, uncrumpled it with a flick, then called up a map. The street was near the river, and only half a mile long. He felt that old flush of certainty, the sense that he was right behind a target.
“What are you going to do to him?”
Still looking at the map, Cooper said, “You’ve seen how bad things are getting. We’re headed toward a war or worse. Abe’s work could prevent that.”
“How?”
“By leveling the playing field.”
“You’re not concerned about the side effects?”
Cooper looked at Ethan, then back again. “Side effects?”
“Senator, respectfully, it’s not a matter of grounding airplanes and taking missiles offline. The system that brings fresh water into your house is controlled by computer. Same with the system that manages sewage. The electrical grid is dependent on computers. Local, regional, national, and global communications. Oil wells. Televisions. Traffic lights. Vending machines. Food transportation and refrigeration. Automatic locks. Medical care. The limousine you arrived in. The watch you’re glancing at now. There isn’t a facet of modern life that doesn’t rely on computer control at some level.
“So when you ask what is required to guarantee our safety from another December 1st, the only answer I can give is this: buy a rifle and move to a cave.”
—FBI “CYBER CZAR” GISELA BRACQ, TO THE UNITED STATES SENATE
CHAPTER 6
Normally she liked the train. It was something about the dissonance between the seeming stillness of the ride and the dizzy blur of the outside world. The juxtaposition was comforting—symbolic, perhaps, of the way she chose to live. But today all of Shannon’s focus was on one of her oldest friends, and whether she would be able to kill him.
She’d been back in the Holdfast for more than a week, watering her fake plant and staring out the windows of her unlived-in apartment, when Erik had asked her to come see him. Her studio was in Newton and he lived in Tesla, but when the world’s richest man called, one hopped, and so she’d gotten on a glider and met him that afternoon.
His idea had been intriguing.
No, sweetie. Learning a favorite author has a new book is intriguing. A restaurant you’ve never tried is intriguing. Nick’s smile when you shot the guard who had the drop on him was intriguing.
This is something else.
“Statistically poor,” Epstein had said. “83.7 percent chance of failure to capture John Smith alive. 77.3 percent chance of failure to kill him. 65.1 percent chance of situation reversal, possibly resulting in your death.”
“You know, you and John are a lot alike,” Shannon had said.
“Negative. We comprise dramatically different personality matrices—”
“Maybe,” Shannon said. “But one thing you have in common. You both really suck at pitching me jobs.” It was only the second time she’d met Erik, the real Erik, not his brother Jakob, who was the public fa
ce of the man. The first time had been nine days ago, when she delivered a drugged and broken Soren Johansen to him. Cooper had asked her to, believing that Soren might give them leverage or information against Smith; at the time, Shannon wasn’t so sure of that, but now she wondered.
Regardless, Erik didn’t react to her jab, just slouched there, his face lit in flickers from the holographs that hung in the air around them: a topographical chart of the price of pork bellies plotted against incidents of terrorism, images of a rainstorm in the South China Sea, vector maps of bullets fired from various weapons, a time-lapse of moss creeping up a tree, news footage of a limo burning—the new president’s, Ramirez, and wasn’t it just the way that the first female prez in history nearly gets blown up two weeks after swearing the oath? This inner sanctum was a subterranean space more akin to a planetarium than an office, and while she had tried to play cool, it was hard not to be overwhelmed by the sheer lunatic volume of information. “Why would I agree to do something that is almost certainly going to get me killed?”
“The situation is increasingly fluid,” Epstein had said in a voice whiny with frustration. “Patterns rely on data, but data is shifting too quickly. Impossible to sort it, parse it, specify it. But statistically, an attack upon the Holdfast is a near certainty.”
“And you think handing over John Smith to the government will prevent that?”
“Prevent, no. Delay.”
She’d sucked air through her teeth, looked at the schematics of the light rail train that hung in front of her. “John will know I’m not with him anymore. Why would he agree to meet?”
“Temptation. Significant stakes offered.”
“What stakes?”
“Joining. Me. You. All of us, together.”
That would be a temptation. John was his own revolution, and based on the shit state of the world, doing quite well. But how much more effective could he be with Epstein behind him?
“I’m not sure I’m willing. It’s one thing to cross him, another to try to kill him.”
“Preferably capture.”
“In order to turn him over to people who will kill him.”
“Previous subtleties of situation are now irrelevant. There are only two positions. For war, against war. Not choosing is choosing.”
It was a fact she hadn’t been able to dispute, which was how she’d ended up here, on the LRT that circled Tesla, a magnetic train without sound or vibration, the only evidence of motion the city blowing by outside. Shannon looked out the window and considered what it meant that John wanted a war. He was the greatest strategic mind alive, a man who thought not five steps but five years ahead, and if he wanted a war, it was because he believed he could win it.
That was a very sobering thought indeed. Brilliants were outnumbered 99 to 1. Any victory would involve oceans of blood.
Focus, Shan. You’re already outmatched. Don’t be distracted, too.
You don’t know if your ace in the hole is actually an ace—or even if it’s in the hole.
And John is supposed to board at the next stop.
Normally, being on a job made the colors of the day a little brighter and the taste of the air a little sweeter. But now all she felt was nervous.
The train glided into the Ashbury station without a sound. A handful of passengers got off, others climbed on. Midday, and the car was nearing capacity. Shannon had one boot propped up on the opposite seat, gave tiny headshakes to the people who eyed it. She scanned the people boarding, those navigating the rows. Two teens flirted. A young woman hummed softly to a newborn. An old lady dozed, her head rocked back at an awkward angle. A man in a cowboy hat moved down the aisle. The brim was pulled low to hide his face, but he had John’s physique. Shannon flexed her fingers, ready to slide into character, only the man walked right past her. Shit.
When she looked back at the opposite seat, someone was sitting in it. A boy, probably sixteen, staring right at her. Shannon’s boot was still on the seat, his legs on either side of it.
Well, aren’t you slick.
“Listen, I’m flattered, but I’m waiting for someone,” she said.
The boy said nothing. But now there was a d-pad in his hand that hadn’t been there a moment before. Without a word, he held it out to her.
Her heart fell. Of course. Well, it had been a long shot. She took the pad, which glowed to life.
“Hello, Shannon,” John Smith said on the screen. “I have to say, I’m disappointed.”
“You’re disappointed? At least I showed up. I’m here. Where are you?”
“I’m not in New Canaan right now,” he said. “Which is probably for the best, since I see you have some new friends. I count six of Epstein’s best tactical assets, including the fellow in the hat you thought was me. I suppose they’re just commuting?”
“They’re here for protection,” she said. “We didn’t know what to expect—”
“Stop,” he said. “This is me.”
She took a deep breath, let it out. “Okay.”
“We’re going to chat for a minute. But first you need to see something. Colin?”
The boy opposite moved in a blur, his hand flying into and out of his pocket. When he opened it, she saw a small cylinder topped with a button. Her stomach twisted.
“In the interest of time, let me dispense with your thoughts. No, you cannot move faster than Colin, nor can you shift without him noticing. He’s gifted and very, very good. And yes, LRT station scanners are attuned to conventional explosives, so no, Colin couldn’t have boarded with any. Which is why half an hour ago he injected himself with radio-triggered explosive nanites. Individually they’re not much, but when they self-organize into a lattice in a host body, they pack a punch. The blast will take out most of this car.”
She stared at Colin, took in his sunken cheeks, his fervent eyes, the sweat at his temples and throat. “Why?”
“I’d ask you the same question. We go back a long way.”
“It wasn’t easy. But I don’t want a war, and you do.”
“I don’t want a war, Shannon; I have one.”
“So why waste time talking to me?”
On the screen, John sighed. “On the off chance you were telling the truth about Epstein’s offer. I thought there was a chance that he’d come around and realized we’re on the same side. There are only two, after all, brilliants and straights. All the rest is window dressing, and sooner or later the whole world is going to come around to my point of view.”
“You mean you’re going to force it to.”
“No one knows for sure why the Neanderthals went extinct,” John said. “Some scientists say climate, some think it was direct conflict with Homo sapiens, others believe it was finite resources. Whatever the reason, the fact is that there was a species on the planet that was better able to survive. Simple as that. The gifted are the new order, Shannon. Conflict is inevitable. I’m just speeding things up a bit. And guaranteeing victory.”
“Nice history lesson,” she said. “But all you’ve done is turn the rest of the world against us. We’re going to get creamed, John.”
He laughed. “I don’t think so.”
She stared at her friend and longtime compatriot. A man she had fought and killed for, back when she believed all he wanted was equality. A man who had evaded capture for years, despite being the most wanted man in America, and who had built up a revolutionary army while he did it. A man who beat three chess grandmasters at the same time when he was fourteen.
She’d been nervous all along. Suddenly she was afraid. And not for herself.
“Anyway, I’m sorry it’s happening this way. I hate killing brilliants, and I consider you a friend. But you’re on the other side, and you’re dangerous.”
Shannon felt her pulse kick up, her hand start to shake. She looked at Colin. “Don’t do this. You’re just a boy, don’t—”
“He’s a holy warrior,” Smith said, “ready to sacrifice himself for the greater good.”
Colin didn’t quite smile, but the words filled him with light, a feverish glow that strained at his pores and spilled out his eyes and made his thumb quiver on the trigger. He wanted to do it, she saw. He believed he was following a prophet, believed it with teenage certainty.
“John, there are civilians,” she said, careful to keep her voice low. If anyone overheard and started to panic, Colin would undoubtedly press the button. “Innocents. Across the aisle there’s a woman with a baby.”
“I keep telling you. This is war. There will be blood. How can you not get that?”
He’s not bluffing.
Time to see if that ace is worth anything.
“I do, John. And I have something to show you.” Very slowly, hyperconscious of Colin’s twitching thumb, she took out her own d-pad and activated it. Turned it so that he could see the video.
A plain white room, surgical and too bright.
A tray lined with glittering instruments: scalpels, pliers, wires.
A table with a man strapped on it.
“Soren?” John said incredulously.
“Thought he was dead, huh? I’m told he has a T-naught of 11.2. A second of pain to us is more than eleven to him. Can you imagine?”
There was a long moment of silence. When John spoke again, his voice was thick. “I was wrong. I’m not disappointed. I’m disgusted. This is beneath you.”
“I agree. It’s not me doing this. It’s you.”
Shannon sat perfectly still. Every cell in her body screamed. She could smell her own sweat. The lives of everyone in the train car depended on two things: how much John really cared for his friends—and how valuable he believed killing her was.
“You’ll let him go?”
She laughed. “Not a chance. But you’ll notice that he hasn’t been touched, not a mark on him—apart from Nick kicking his ass, of course. But Epstein patched him up, and they’ve kept him humanely. So how about Colin puts away his remote, gets off the train, and we all go on with our lives?”
Smith’s face revealed nothing, but she could imagine the calculations behind it. Weighing costs and benefits. She had no doubt that he would sacrifice Soren to agony and burn everyone on this train if he believed it was worthwhile. Out the windows, the scenery began to slow. They were coming into the next station. If he triggers the bomb there, even more people will die.
