At last, he said, “You need to see this.”
I swung my legs off the table and sat up. A wave of dizziness—dealer’s choice between exhaustion or a side effect of the battering I’d taken—washed over me. I waited a few seconds for it to pass, then slid off the table. Terra firma didn’t feel quite so firma, but I tried to shake it off. “Right,” I said. I looked at Tia, who had one of those small, secretive, distinctly female smiles on her face. “You coming?”
Her smile broadened. “Yes, Detective. Let’s go see what your revolution has brewing.”
* * * *
We found La Sorte and Al’awwal at the familiar screen-covered table that La Sorte had started jokingly calling the “command booth.” The screens were covered with files—text, pictures, even some videos playing with the sound muted. I slid into the empty booth seat, and Tia slid in next to me, pressing her body against mine. Was that in an effort to make room for Silas as he lowered his bulk onto the bench? Or something else? Damn, but did I really want these kinds of complications right now?
Was there ever a good time?
“What have we got?” I asked.
“Problems,” La Sorte replied. Then he grinned. “But don’t we always?”
I nodded at that as Silas continued. “We have a trove of information here, Detective. A large percentage of the actual data is the personal diary of Dr. Kaphiri, covering nearly two decades of work on the research, development, and implementation of the synthetic programs.” He paused, a thoughtful frown pulling at his lips. “Dr. Kaphiri is, in a very real sense, our creator. And, from what we have discovered so far, he had every intention of being a benevolent creator, had Walton not sunk their hooks quite so firmly into him. His personal diaries are full of his thoughts on the inherent differences—or rather lack thereof—between humans and synthetics. Ordinarily, this would not carry much weight. After all, it is, as they say, one man’s opinion. In this case, however, the man is the expert on the subject. Which is also the problem.”
“Come again?” I said, and I felt Tia tightening in confusion as well.
“The rest of the package is harder data. Scientific breakdowns of gene sequences. Some internal memos on limiting the availability of medical breakthroughs. Recordings of experiments, early successes and failures. But the hard data without the context of Dr. Kaphiri’s diaries is…problematic. Inconclusive. It is the explanations, the intentions, the clarifications that the doctor provides that create the context for the rest of the information. It is what makes it consumable for those without advanced degrees in genetics or biochemistry. It is what might win us the hearts and minds of the people.”
“Still not seeing the problem. I mean, we have the diaries, right?”
“The problem,” Al’awwal said, anger burning in his voice, “is that Silas does not think people will believe my father.”
The albino raised his hands in a gesture half calming, half supplication. “No, Al’awwal. Not that they will not believe your father. That they will not believe us.” He waved his hand in an expansive spread that included those of us at the table, but also all of the other synthetics gathered in the safe house. “While it will be difficult for anyone to insist that the actual transcripts and experimentation data are fabricated, the editorializing of Dr. Kaphiri…” He trailed off under Al’s glare.
“He’s right, Al,” I sighed. “There’s no great way to authenticate that these writings actually came from your father. I mean, sure, we all know that’s the case, but the people in charge of this shit-show of a world have every incentive to discredit this information any way they can.”
“Which means we did not achieve our goal,” Silas said. I heard the note of defeat in his voice, and it shocked the hell out of me. Of all of us, I never thought Silas—Silas!—would give in to despair, even for a moment. This was his cause, his crusade, and he had been the backbone of the operation. Not just logistically, but, I realized as I saw La Sorte’s face fall in response to Silas’s tone, emotionally and spiritually as well.
“Well,” Silas continued, obviously trying to shake the dark mood. “We may not have the perfect weapon, but it’s not as if we have anything less than we did yesterday, either.”
They were brave words, but it was clear from the faces around us that no one really believed that. And as I watched, I could see that sense of failure spread, carried on whispers and glances, from our command booth out to the rest of the restaurant. Slowly, inexorably, the mood in the safe house darkened. After only a moment or two, you could practically taste the fear. Smell the hopelessness.
The bitch of it was, there was a way to lend some legitimacy to the information.
And all it would require was me giving up…everything.
I thought about Hernandez, who had put not only her career but her life, her freedom, and maybe her daughter’s well-being on the line for me. I thought about Tommy Thompson, who was almost certainly in a hospital bed somewhere for trying to do his job. I thought about Tia, taking risks every bit as substantial as Hernandez. Tia, pressed up against me, vibrant with the energy of possibilities and futures I had never imagined for myself, not since Annabelle.
I thought of the synthetics, those gathered here in the safe house, and those all over the world who every day suffered in ways I could scarcely comprehend.
I thought of Annabelle and the life she might have had if someone had been willing to act a little sooner.
Against all that, did my freedom, my life, matter all that much?
“We can make them believe it,” I said, my words falling like boulders into the silence.
“What?” Al’awwal asked at the same time Silas said, “How?”
“I turn myself in.”
If I had thought the silence was profound before, I had been mistaken. Not only did all conversation stop at my words, but I was fairly sure everyone’s breathing stopped.
“No!” Tia was the first to speak. “Why would you even suggest that? Don’t be stupid. What difference would that make?”
“I am not sure I understand how that would be helpful,” Silas added.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Al’awwal said.
“Enough!” The sharp word cut through their arguments as I slammed my hand on the table. “Look, you, all of you, know a lot more about all of this genetic bullshit than I ever will. But I was a cop for a long time, and you don’t last without learning two things: how the legal system works and how the population thinks. I know people, and I know the law. If I turn myself in, carrying copies of all of this,” I waved at the information scattered across the screens, “it’s going to be entered into the public record. The arrest report. It can all be part of the disclosure and deposition process. I think I still have enough pull, maybe even enough friends within the courts, left to make sure nothing gets swept under the rug.” I paused, looking each of them in the eye for a moment. “With the right lawyer, all of this, every last bit of it, will be in front of the people—legally and without any question of its provenance—before they’re done booking me.
“But that’s not even the important part. Like I said, I know people. And people are going to be a hell of a lot more inclined to believe all of this once they find out that the most wanted man in the city—maybe the world—was willing to turn himself in just to get it on the record. You want to win the hearts and minds of the people? This information is our best shot. And turning myself in is the best way to make people believe that we’re not just making it all up. Instead of coming from us—from a bunch of inhuman hackers on the net, the information will be piped to them from the news sources and people that they trust. We have to take this chance.”
“They’ll kill you,” Tia whispered. She clutched my hand under the table, squeezing with a sudden desperation. “I’ve worked with the medical examiner for a while. Do you know how many inmates who die in prison come across the autopsy
table? Walton Biogenics. The government. Hell, even angry inmates who know you’re a cop. You won’t stand a chance. You’re martyring yourself, Jason.”
There was more than a little truth to what Tia was saying, but I’d known it before I opened my mouth. Still, no sense in scaring her more than she already was. I squeezed her hand back and said, “Come on now, Tia. I’m a shitty martyr. And I take a whole lot of killing. I’ll be fine.” The words rang a little hollow in my own ears, but I forced a confident grin on my face.
She said nothing, just clung to me.
“Are you sure about this, Jason?” Silas asked. “You make strong points, but… My people have already asked much of you. You have given much. Are you certain?”
I fell silent a long moment, trying to put my feelings into words. “This country used to be called the ‘Great Experiment,’ you know? Back when the rhetoric was all about freedom and equality. Of course, the rhetoric came long before any semblance of either. And it didn’t come without a price. It was paid for in blood.” Tia’s nails dug into my hand, but I ignored the pain. “I’m not planning on just giving up and walking to my own execution, but what we’re doing—what you’ve started, Silas—is for the good of not just this country, but the entire world. I sat by and ignored it long enough. At some point, it’s time to step up and risk everything to do what’s right.”
I reached under the table and gave Tia’s knee a reassuring squeeze. “For me, that time has come.”
Epilogue
Dr. Delores Larkin ate her lunch at her desk.
There was still a tear in the carpet where that no-good felon Jason Campbell had stolen company property—even if she didn’t know what it was or why it was in her office, it was still the property of Walton Biogenics.
It still made her shake to think about, being trussed up in her chair like a Christmas roast. The shaking was, she admitted, just a tiny bit of fear, but most of it was the almighty indignity of the situation.
She’d been offered a different office while hers was repaired, but damn if she’d let a crackpot with a gun drive her out of her space. No sir. So she’d hunkered back down and got back to work. And she did her best to put the crackpot, and the faint shadows of doubt that he’d cultivated in her mind, to rest.
As she took a forkful of chicken-pecan salad, her screen buzzed. It did that a lot—she was a busy person, after all, and she’d coded the different individuals and search routines with their own specific notification sounds. This one was the swoosh-and-chimes of her “breaking news” alert. Her news filter was draconian, and anything triggering the alert had to be major news. So she pulled the screen from her pocket and flicked open her news app.
Her heart immediately started to race, and she felt a panicked sweat break out beneath her arms.
The footage was live, and it showed a tired and battered-looking man wearing a rumpled brown suit with his hands secured behind his back. Thick bandages covered his nose, obscuring the details of his face, and the cameras lingered lovingly on the cuts, bruises, and blood. Bandage or no, Dr. Larkin recognized him. You didn’t forget the face of someone who held you at gunpoint. Her initial panic reaction at seeing that face faded as she took in the details.
“They caught you, you bastard!” she said in an exultant whisper, forkful of arugula forgotten halfway between her plate and her mouth.
He was escorted by a female officer of Latin descent. She wore a much nicer suit in black, tailored not so much to accentuate her figure but to properly conceal body armor and weaponry.
Someone, probably an actual reporter since the feed was live, was saying, “In an amazing turn of events, former New Lyons Police Detective Jason Campbell has been apprehended. The manhunt that has paralyzed the city for weeks has officially ended.”
On the bottom of her screen, all but illegible from the size, was a scroll of text, outlining some of the details and reactions: New Lyons Detective Jason Campbell surrenders to NLPD. Revolution Averted? Protests still underway.
Larkin watched as Campbell was walked up the stairs of the police headquarters, where he was turned over—reluctantly, it seemed to her—into the hands of a greasy, pudgy man in a cheap suit.
“There you have it,” the reporter said. “Just like that, Campbell, wanted on a wide array of criminal charges including domestic terrorism, is now in the hands of the NLPD. We don’t know the details of his surrender, but our sources are suggesting that it was conditional upon a large cache of documents being entered into the record as evidence. We don’t yet know the content of these documents, or if they even exist.”
Documents? That thought brought a sour twist to Larkin’s stomach. Her finger twitched, almost of its own accord, as she thought about calling Legal. No doubt that the documents in question were whatever Campbell and his friend had retrieved from her office. And no doubt, Legal needed to know about it.
But she didn’t make the call. The doubts that Campbell had planted were still there, and now, against her will, they seemed to be growing. Why would he turn himself in? What could he possibly have found here to make him do that? She was a doctor, with multiple PhDs, and prided herself on calm and rational thought processes.
There were only three reasons she could think of for Campbell to turn himself in.
One. The documents were immaterial or a smoke screen and he had just had enough of hiding from the law. But she’d met the man, and while he was definitely a crackpot, that was more about his beliefs, not his personal actions. He didn’t seem like a man on the edge.
Two. He believed—erroneously—that the documents supported his cause and were important enough to risk everything to get entered into the official record. That possibility had merit, and comforted Dr. Larkin a little as she contemplated it. Delusional people could convince themselves of almost anything, after all.
But he really hadn’t seemed all that delusional. And she had been doing a lot of thinking and soul-searching over the past couple of days.
Which brought her to option three. That was pretty much the same as option two, excepting that the documents in question really did support everything Campbell had been saying, and, by default, meant that she had been actively supporting a company that…
She let that thought drift away as her stomach turned over, threatening to rebel against her lunch. The commentary had begun—endless back and forth speculation about the hows and whys and all-important what nexts. Pundits battled each other for primacy, painting Detective Campbell as a hero, a villain, a pawn, and everything in between. Speculation as to why the man would turn himself in ran as rampant, ranging from the pressures of the ever-tightening net (a narrative strongly pushed by members of the New Lyons Police Department) to a secret plot to get inside police headquarters as part of a terrorist attack, to the whole looming revolution being an inside job.
But Larkin had a different thought. What if Campbell’s capture wasn’t the end to the budding revolution? What if, in reality, it was the first shot in the war soon to follow?
Dr. Larkin pushed her food away, but she couldn’t push away the doubt.
She had access to research and records. She had authority to get information from those lower in the corporate hierarchy. She had the ability to find the truth.
But she had to decide.
Was Campbell’s capture the beginning of the end?
Or was it the end of the beginning?
Acknowledgments
This series would never have been possible without the help of numerous people who took a rough and dusty idea and helped me clean it up and turn it into something worth writing. There is an army of people at work behind the scenes creating covers and back copy text and fixing all the little mistakes and a thousand other things besides. Many thanks to all of those individuals.
More specifically, I would like to thank Elizabeth May, my editor, and Laurie McLean, my agent for taking a risk on a w
annabe author and lending their expertise to make the book stronger with every edit (no matter how painful some of those edits may have been!).
I’d also like to thank my martial arts instructors, Dai-Sifu Emin Boztepe, Sifu John Hicks, Sihing Trevor Jones, and Guro Ron Ignacio, along with my many training partners along the way. Anything I got right is because of these folks. Anything I got wrong is a reflection of my own imperfect understanding.
Finally, and most importantly, I’d like to thank my wife, Julie Kagawa. Writing partner, gaming partner, training partner, and partner in all things.
About the Author
J.T. Nicholas was born in Lexington, Virginia, though within six months he moved (or was moved, rather) to Stuttgart, Germany. Thus began the long journey of the military brat, hopping from state to state and country to country until, at present, he has accumulated nearly thirty relocations. This experience taught him that, regardless of where one found oneself, people were largely the same. When not writing, Nick spends his time practicing a variety of martial arts, playing games (video, tabletop, and otherwise), and reading everything he can get his hands on. Nick currently resides in Louisville, Kentucky, with his wife, a pair of indifferent cats, a neurotic Papillion, and an Australian Shepherd who (rightly) believes he is in charge of the day-to-day affairs. For more info please visit www.jtnicholas.com, or find him on Facebook and Twitter @JamesTNicholas.
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