by Ramez Naam
And this new woman. This woman touched by hundreds of thousands of minds. Blessed by them. By the gift they’ve given her. When they could have given her hate instead.
She pulls back her tendrils from all those minds, as gently as she can.
Peace floods in.
Light.
Something wondrous.
How did I ever think I was at the apex? she wonders. There is so much more. So much more to do. To learn.
There always will be.
She activates the external speakers.
“I’m so sorry,” she says aloud. She reaches out to the boy’s mind, to wipe away what pain she can, to regulate his autonomic systems, preserve his life.
If possible.
Sam fired, her face hot, her stomach heaving.
Kade was still thrashing, still screaming, still seizing.
She fired a second time, another round into his chest.
He screamed louder, thrashed harder. Feng screamed next to them.
Her sight dimmed, blurred by tears.
“Damn you!” she yelled. She pulled the trigger a third time.
The round punched into Kade’s chest. He screamed the loudest yet. His whole body spasmed.
Feng screamed.
She prepared to fire a fourth time.
Then suddenly Kade’s body went slack. The screams stopped.
“I’m so sorry,” Su-Yong Shu’s voice said over the speakers.
Sam whirled.
“Oh no,” Su-Yong Shu’s voice said.
She reaches up, reaches out to the soldiers and others who she’s made slaves.
So many dead. She’s killed so many already.
But many still live. She reaches into their minds, to free them, to end their slavery.
And then she finds what’s coming.
Kade swam through light.
Pain… existed. Somewhere.
Not here.
The light… The beauty. The concordance of minds. Everywhere, reforming, now that Su-Yong had ceased her attack.
The concordance was growing. Hundreds of thousands of minds. Maybe a million minds. The dream he’d had. There were tears in his eyes. The dream he’d had in Heaven. A million dancers, swirling, twirling, moving in time, making music together.
He could feel them. So many of them. He could feel Ananda. He could feel Feng next to him. Sarai. Mali. Little Aroon.
He could even feel the Nexus Jockey from Heaven – he could feel Lotus. He smiled at that.
Where was Rangan?
He coughed, weekly. Distantly he was aware that blood came up.
I’m dying, he thought.
He didn’t care.
Then he heard Su-Yong’s voice through her speakers.
“Nuclear weapons. Shanghai is about to be vaporized.”
127
Highwire
Monday 2041.01.20
“ICBMs being fueled and readied for launch from Jingxian!” DRO yelled out.
Pryce caught her breath.
“Set DEFCON 1,” Secretary Stevens said. “Prepare for war. What’s our best kill option on those missiles?”
“Retarget two JAVELIN birds,” Admiral McWilliams said. “Jingxian is close to two current targets. Three minutes max.”
“Retarget and fire,” the Secretary of Defense said. “Ready targets for the rest of their offensive nukes.”
“DRO,” Pryce said, barely able to breath. “How many silos at the Jingxian facility?”
“Twelve, sir!” DRO desk said.
She turned towards Stevens. “Don’t do this, Mr. Secretary.”
“They’re fueling their missiles!” Stevens said.
“Only two.” Pryce said. Her free hand clenched at her side.
“That’s enough!” Stevens shot back. “LA and Seattle! DC and New York!”
Pryce closed her eyes, opened them again, tried to get through to the man. “If they were launching an offensive strike, they’d be hitting us with everything they’ve got, not just two missiles.” She held up her personal phone. “My source inside the PLF…”
“I’ve heard enough about that source!” Stevens said. “Lieutenant! Take that phone away from her!”
Pryce recoiled in surprise, as a stern-faced junior officer turned towards her, hand extended.
Pryce frowned angrily, turned, made eye-contact with one of her Secret Service detail, Larcom, and tossed the phone across the Situation Room in his direction.
The throw was lousy, way off target. Pryce watched in horror as her phone headed towards an analyst’s head.
Larcom took one long step, reached his long arm lightning fast above the analyst’s desk, and plucked the phone out of the air, completely unruffled. He disappeared it inside his suit, then stepped back to his spot by the wall.
Admiral McWilliams spoke behind her. “Secretary Stevens, the National Security Advisor is right. Offensive strategic nuclear doctrine is always for an overwhelming first strike that disables your opponent’s ability to retaliate. That’s not what this looks like.”
“Do you want to bet twenty million American lives on it?” Stevens asked. “Move those damn satellites! Take out those missiles! And prepare to strike to destroy nuclear launch sites.”
In the skies above the western extent of the Pacific Ocean, where it took on new names, where it became the East China Sea, the South China Sea, aircraft received orders, servos engaged, control surfaces moved.
Fighters and bombers launched over the previous hour from the Abraham Lincoln and the James Madison took on offensive missions. In squadrons, both human operated and robotic, they turned, engaged chameleonware, and vectored for their targets.
Targets on the mainland of China.
Nuclear weapon sites.
Sites to be destroyed before the weapons could be launched.
Kilometers below them, a hundred meters below the waves, robotic submarines rose towards their launch depths, and began slowly, silently flooding their vertical launch tubes.
Tubes filled with their own nuclear-tipped missiles.
CHEMICAL WEAPON ATTACK ON INAUGURATION. PRESIDENT EVACUATED.
Breece watched the headlines intently, a smile on his face. Next to him the Nigerian was smiling too. Any minute now the hacker would…
THUMP
He looked up reflexively, towards the sound on the ceiling, saw the Nigerian do the same.
Then he dove for cover, for the gun in his go-bag.
He got his hand on it, and the ceiling exploded in a shower of splinters and debris.
He rolled, firing. Dark shapes came in, falling through the hole. He saw one recoil as the armor-piercing slugs in his pistol punched into it.
Then he felt a sting in his thigh, looked down, saw a dart there.
Tranq.
He ignored it, rolled again, slammed a fresh clip home, came up shooting again, emptied his second of three clips, killing one more, taking another two pointless tranq darts in the process, then diving for cover into the next room.
He heard them figure it out. Heard them make the switch. Heard it in the sound of the Nigerian dying in the main room.
Breece jammed his last clip home.
“Come on fuckers,” he said.
He’d always known his death would be a violent one.
He was right.
The headset next to Pryce lit up. Sound came out of it.
She grabbed it, pulled it over her head.
“Pryce here!”
Stevens scowled at her. He was going to toss her out.
“Dr Pryce. Your tip was solid.”
“Did you get them?” Pryce asked, urgently.
“Dead,” the National Terror Response Center operator said. “Refused to be taken alive. Preliminary evidence onsite corroborates they were PLF.”
Pryce looked around the Situation Room. Then she looked down, looked for the button to put this on overhead speakers. She found it.
“Does any evidence link the terrorists you just took dow
n to the Inauguration attack?” she asked.
“We’re assessing,” the NTRC operator said. “Preliminary judgment? It’s a strong possible.”
“Thank you,” Pryce said. “Keep us in the loop.” She hung up.
Then NSA spoke.
“Bandwidth incursion is gone! The electronic attack from China is over!”
Pryce found Stevens. “Mr Secretary,” her eyes searched his. “Everything says we’re not under attack by China. That something else is going on. Please do not escalate this.”
McWilliams spoke again. “I support Dr Pryce on this, Mr Secretary. If we provoke the Chinese into really launching, there’s no going back.”
Stevens blew out a breath.
“Five more minutes,” the SecDef said. He looked at McWilliams. “Call them, ship to ship. Tell their fleet to pass it on. They’ve got to close those silos!”
Rangan took a deep breath. The tunnel was crammed with people as far as he could see. And his mind was bombarded with chaos, with fear, with anxiety.
These people were tripping hard, against their will – for the first time, many of them. It was not going well. And on top of that they thought they’d been chemically attacked. They were hallucinating symptoms, making it even worse, spreading their fears from mind to mind.
“Holy shit,” Stan Kim said. Then he started walking forward, touching people he knew, talking to them. Rangan saw people flinch back, scream, felt waves of terror and pain buffet his mind again.
The whole tunnel wobbled and dimmed in his vision. It was a nightmare funhouse through the eyeholes of the mask he wore. Monsters lurked in the shadows, placed there by the bad trip thoughts all around him. The air was poison, suffocating him, about to kill him.
Rangan shook his head, forced himself to breathe deep, fought to clear his mind.
Rules of responsible drug use, he thought.
Know your substance before you start.
Know your dose.
Safe, comfortable setting.
He shook his head. They’d struck out on all three of those.
Rule four: if it’s your first time, have a more experienced friend with you as a guide.
Rangan grunted.
I guess I’m it, he thought.
He pushed up to his feet.
“Hey, everybody!” he yelled, waving his arms.
They barely blinked.
Of course.
He shook his head again, and stepped forward, carefully over one prone tripping legislator after another, pausing as the room spun, catching himself against the wall when the air thickened into deadly toxic gas – when the shadows reached out to swallow him – then moving again, step by step, his stomach heaving, his eyes burning in sympathy for their eyes, his face covered in sweat, until he reached an intersection, where he was as central as he could be, where he could see people stretched out in all four directions.
Rangan leaned against a wall and closed his eyes.
He reached Inside, found the controls for the high-gain antenna Cheyenne had designed, that he still wore. He switched it out of directional configuration, detuned it to get maximum 360 degree coverage.
Then he did the most natural thing he could think of to affect the mood of a whole crowd of people.
He started to play for them.
He started to DJ.
He fired up NTracks, loading a party chill out set he’d mixed late one night at the Bunker and set it to slowly fade in, broadcasting through his thoughts, through Cheyenne’s high-gain antenna, to every mind around him.
White Sands rose up, the first track on this set, a party chill-out tune, distant surf, wind ruffling palms, a full moon on a warm night. The track started playing in his mind and he had a memory of a house party in Oakland where he’d played that track at 5am while exhausted partygoers draped themselves over couches and one gorgeous Latina couple danced slow and sexy and the music was washing out of him into the minds around him and so was the surf and so was the warm tropical air and so were the dancers.
He felt flickers of attention reach him now. New stimulus had touched the minds of these trippers. Something had broken the unbroken cycle of their bad trip. He wished he could dim the harsh light of this tunnel but the music would have to do. Minds were opening to him. They were still fucking freaked out, but at least they were aware of him. They’d noticed the music. They’d noticed something new, and they were reaching out. They were crying without words for help, and they were tripping so hard, each of their trips unique, each of their calibration phases a totally separate psychedelic story, all tinged with the chaos and confusion of a first timer going through this overwhelming experience without expecting it, while thinking they were about to die.
He took the opening, sent soothing thoughts out to all those around him.
Shhh… It’s going to be fine. Everything’s going to be just fine. Deep breaths. Relax…
More minds turned towards him then. He was getting their attention. They were still tripping so goddamn hard. He could feel it hitting him even harder, as more of them focused on him, reached out to him, projected their thoughts on him.
You’re healthy. You’re OK. You’re just a little bit high. He sent them smiles, gentle laughter, soothing, comforting thoughts. That’s why this is so strange. But it’s all fine. Just breathe into it. It’ll all be juuuust fine…
He took another breath himself, deep into his lungs, then exhaled it again, in and out, letting them feel the breath as it went in and out of him, beckoning them to follow.
He could do this. He’d talked people down from bad trips. Plenty of people.
Well, maybe not three hundred at once.
The music slowly changed, White Sands fading seamlessly, right into Silent Sun’s warm, beatless, ambient radiance; the most healing soothing music he could imagine, the kind of music that bathed you in goodness like the first sunny day in June that you could lie out and let your skin soak up the rays falling from the sky.
He felt it touch their minds, touch more minds, and almost the whole room was aware of him now, and a few of them were changing, were shifting, were calming just a tiny bit, the tenor of their calibrations changing, settling from frantic panicked nightmares to something else, something they could handle.
And then the rest were reaching out to him, dozens of them, reaching pleadingly, scores of them, begging him to clear the poison from their lungs, to clear the madness from their minds.
He took a breath to center himself and the chaos of their minds beat against him. The room wobbled and he stumbled back against the wall.
It’s going to be fine, he sent.
More minds reached out, all of them aware of him, now, a hundred minds, two hundred minds, more, focused on him, reaching out, pulling at him, opening to him, projecting at him. Nightmare visions flooded his mind. He tried to breathe and the air was poison sucking into his lungs. He coughed and fell to one knee. He was sweating, sweating. The room was spinning.
I can do this, he thought. I can do this.
Then all the rest of the minds reached out, feverishly, reaching towards the source of the new thoughts, the source of the music, the source of the peace. The room was a nightmare seen through two tiny holes in his mask.
He had to get on top of this.
Rangan pushed himself back up to his feet, and ripped the mask off his face.
“My wife!” John Stockton yelled, as the Secret Service agent tried to shove him into the Beast after his daughter. “Where’s Cindy!”
“Sir, they went out the other side,” the agent replied. “They’re in a car now. FLOTUS is safe, so is your son-in-law. We have to move!”
Then Stockton was inside the armored limo, with a terrified looking Julie and a screaming, crying Liam. The door slammed shut, and the agent behind the wheel took off at high speed, sirens and police flashers moving with them, drones rising up.
“We’ll be OK,” he told Julie, trying to soothe her, trying to soothe his grandson. “We’ll be
OK.”
Julie was bouncing Liam, hushing him, kissing his head as the one-year-old cried and screamed, rubbing at his eyes, inconsolable.
Stockton’s own eyes were burning. There was metal in his mouth. There was an itching in his lungs.
The world was melting.
Dissolving.
Transforming.
He closed his eyes, and everything changed.
Colors and sounds flashed through his mind. Tastes and smells. Memories and plans.
His first date with Cindy, in college: he, a popular quarterback; she, the daughter of a Senator, smarter than he was, more worldly than he was, full of stories of places she’d been that he’d only heard of, so much less impressed with him than any other girl he’d ever known, so different than the girls he was used to.
The final play of the Sugar Bowl, the blitz coming in, his offensive line collapsing around him, the animal sound of the clash of bodies as the Louisiana defenders charged in, the football leaving his outstretched fingers just an instant before three hundred pounds of lineman slammed into him. The breath leaving him with that tackle. The roar of the crowd as his pass connected with Tony Bates for the touchdown that won the game.
Julie being born. Cindy’s pain and utter exhaustion. The first mewling cries of his newborn daughter. Holding her in his arms. Watching her suckle at her mother’s breast.
The Lincoln Memorial. Staring up at that giant statue, Lincoln looming over him, the man looking out into the distance, wondering what he saw, wondering what he looked for, reading the words, ”with malice toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right”, and wondering if he was worthy.
I’m not just a man, John Stockton realized. I’m a man, but more than that.
He was part of a chain, a chain of being, a chain of office. He was a baton runner, a carrier of a flame, the forty-eighth carrier of that flame.
