by Naam, Ramez
Only kill when you have to, Nakamura had taught her. Spare the lives you can, even of your enemies. You never know when someone might do the same for you.
“Do you swim?” Sam asked Lo Prang.
The mob boss turned to look at her again, and snorted in amusement.
“And here I was looking forward to a vacation in Burma with you, Jade,” he replied.
“You’d just slow me down.” She smiled at him, sweetly, then tossed him the keys to his wrist and ankle cuffs.
Lo Prang snatched the keys from the air, snorted again, then killed the boat’s engine and uncuffed himself.
He stood, afterwards, the cuffs in his hand, weighing them. Weighing the option of attacking her, Sam suspected. She shook her head ever so slightly, and Lo Prang smiled, dropped the cuffs, and took off his shoes and shirt.
He stood at the edge of the boat, looked into those waters and towards the shore. Then he turned to her. “I’ll see you again, Jade.”
“Not if I see you first,” Sam replied, gesturing with the gun once more.
Lo Prang smiled. Then he dove into the blue waters, and started swimming for shore.
Sam watched until he was a dozen yards away, then she steered the boat further out to sea, towards the string of small uninhabited islands on the horizon. She’d need to find a place to hide until the sun went down. Perhaps to sleep. Then, when night came, she’d be on her way, and toward her target, Apyar Kyun, three hundred miles up this militarized coast.
53
PERSPECTIVE
Sunday October 28th
Kade received Shiva’s summons the next morning, after they’d brought him breakfast. A guard locked the Nexus jammer around Kade’s throat, escorted him to the rooftop where Shiva waited, reclining on a wooden chair. The older man gestured to the chair beside him, and Kade sat.
The view was glorious, straight out to the west over an uninterrupted expanse of sea. The nearest waters were jade green, turning to deeper and deeper shades of blue further to the west. In the other direction, to the east, Kade could see the wings of the mansion encircle the courtyard visible from his window. Beyond that was rolling land, then more water. An island.
“You haven’t viewed my memories yet,” Shiva said.
“I’ve been awfully busy,” Kade replied.
Shiva chuckled at that.
“I want you to see that I have no ill intentions. That I’d use your back door for good. We’d use it together. There’s a place for you here. A safe place, where you can do important work.”
He’d heard this all before. From Su-Yong Shu. From Holtzmann, even, before they’d sent him off to Bangkok.
“What do you hope to accomplish?” Kade asked Shiva.
Shiva looked out towards the sea. “There are more than a million people running Nexus 5 now, Kade. A year from now it will be many times that. Among those people are scientists, engineers, executives at powerful corporations, bankers, even politicians.”
Kade said nothing.
“The world has very serious problems, my friend,” Shiva went on. “Poor children still die by their millions. Westerners and the global rich – like me – live in post-scarcity society, while a billion people struggle to get enough to eat. And we’re pushing the planet towards a tipping point, where the corals die and the forests burn and life becomes much, much harder. We have the resources to solve those problems, even now, but politics and economics and nationalism all get in the way. If we could access all those minds, though…” Shiva paused, his eyes far away.
“We’ve done tests. Bright people linked together via Nexus become even brighter as whole. Interdisciplinary groups benefit especially. The children born with Nexus, well, they are even more impressive. They can serve as catalysts, boosting the collective intelligence of the group.
“With access to so many talented minds, we could harness scientists and engineers to invent the technologies we need to save the planet, to end poverty and starvation. We could nudge banks and mega-corporations to invest in the projects the world needs, marshaling trillions in assets. We could intervene politically, gaining inside information about world leaders, using it to steer them in the directions we need, to force them if necessary.”
Kade was speechless. “You’re talking about a massive scale…”
Shiva nodded. “Yes. I’ve been investing a large fraction of my own fortune to make it possible. Software to sift through and coordinate millions of minds at once. Data centers around the world to hold all that data, to provide all those CPU cycles. Private communication networks, microsatellites in low earth orbit, all of it.”
Kade struggled for words. “Shiva, this is horrific. This is mass manipulation.”
Shiva turned to look at Kade, visibly bristling. “Really? Is it worse than the manipulations of banks, twisting laws to their own purposes? Of mega-corporations twisting laws for their profits at the expense of the world’s citizens?” His voice was angry, passion-filled. “Is it worse than financiers and corrupt politicians dining on pâté and caviar, while poor children starve?”
Kade exhaled, then shook his head. “Look, the world has problems. I agree with you. But what you’re talking about... No one should have that kind of power.”
Shiva snorted. “No one but you.” He pointed an accusatory finger at Kade. “Isn’t that what you mean?”
Kade felt a flush rise to his cheeks, felt his face go hot.
He’s right, Ilya whispered in Kade’s ear. No one but you.
Kade took a breath. This was nuts. He had to get out of here.
He opened his hands towards Shiva, placatingly. “Look, if you want to convince me,” he told the older man, “why not just take this off?” His fingers rose to the metal disk at his throat.
Shiva laughed.
“And you would use that access to my mind to coerce me, to ‘escape’, out to a world where you’re in far more danger than here. I don’t think so, Kade.”
“I give you my word,” Kade said. “Let me just see what’s going on in your mind. Not just some carefully selected memories. All of it. I promise not to do anything other than look.”
Shiva smiled grimly. “You’re a terrible liar, Kade.”
54
BROTHERS IN ARMS
Sunday October 28th
Feng woke slowly. His head throbbed. Intense pain came from his left side, from his right knee, from his shoulder. And he was hungry, so hungry. His body’s emergency genes had kicked in, working to heal the damage, demanding protein, fats, calcium, all the raw materials required to rebuild him. Feng ignored the gnawing hunger, kept his eyes closed, tried to take stock of his situation.
He was seated. A hard metal chair by the feel of it. His hands were cuffed behind his shoulders to his ankles, pulling them up off the floor. Professional.
His internal GPS gave him his location. Hồ Chí Minh City, Vietnam. Saigon. South side of town. Eighteen meters above street level.
Two kilometers from his last location, on the fifth or sixth floor. Who had him? Bounty hunters? Police? The mystery men with the Indian boss?
He opened his senses, listened to the room. A soft sound of breathing, three meters in front of him. Slow. Rhythmic. Deep. A lone male. Fit.
Feng tensed his muscles ever so slightly, aiming for the smallest motion, the minimum of sound. How strong were these cuffs? How strong was this chair?
“Ni hao,” a voice greeted him in perfectly accented Mandarin: Welcome back.
Feng sighed and opened his eyes. He was in a soundproofed room, the walls thickly padded. And across from him, seated in a chair, was a tall Asian man. Japanese, perhaps. In his forties. Graying at the temples, but still fit and hard. In his hand was a silenced pistol of Chinese design, pointed at Feng. On his face was a grim smile.
Feng recognized the man from Kade’s memories.
“You’re Nakamura,” Feng said.
“And you’re Feng,” Nakamura replied.
They stared at each other in silence
for a moment.
Feng broke it. “You pulled me from the building?”
Nakamura nodded. “You got lucky. A beam fell above you, got pinned against your jeep. You were in an air pocket. Otherwise…”
Feng laughed. “Lucky. Yeah.” He rattled the restraints behind him.
Nakamura raised one eyebrow. “Beats death.”
Feng nodded. The man had a point there.
“Where’s Samantha Cataranes?” Nakamura asked.
Feng blinked in surprise.
“Thailand, maybe?” Feng guessed. “Left her six months ago.”
Nakamura frowned. “Why?”
Feng shrugged as best he could. “Wanted to find kids. Nexus kids.”
Nakamura’s frown deepened. “Lane let her go?”
Feng cocked his head, quizzically. “What you mean?”
“Lane,” Nakamura started again. “He…”
“You have him?” Feng interrupted. “Kade?”
Nakamura stared at him.
“Who turned Sam?” Nakamura asked, “Lane? Or Shu?”
Feng blinked again. “You turned her. ERD turned her. Killed a little girl in Bangkok. Killed civilians. Blew up building with people in it. While they’re all on Nexus and Sam feels it. That’s what turned her.”
Nakamura went silent. In the corner of his eye the DNA match kept blinking. A match against Lane’s DNA, on Feng’s clothing. No match on Sam’s DNA, anywhere. Feng hadn’t been near Sam anytime recently.
Was it possible? That neither Lane nor Shu had reprogrammed Sam? That what she’d experienced had flipped her so suddenly?
Jesus.
Feng interrupted his thoughts. “Kade. You have him or not?”
Nakamura looked at Feng. If Sam really had turned on her own… Then the worst thing he could do was lead the CIA to her.
He needed more data. But he also had a mission.
“No,” he told Feng. “I don’t have Lane. But I want him. Who took him?”
Feng calculated. That third force must have Kade. The old Indian man and his soldiers.
Handing Kade over to the CIA would be no better. But if he helped Nakamura… Chaos could produce opportunity. An opportunity to get Kade free.
“I don’t know,” Feng said. “But I’ll help you find out. One condition.”
“What’s that?” Nakamura asked.
“When you go get him, I come with you.”
It took twenty minutes to figure out who had taken Kade. Nakamura listened as Feng told his story, then fed the data and the description of the man to a CIA analyst AI. It brought back dozens of hits of older Indian and South Asian men who might have been in Saigon, who had connections there, who might in some way be connected to the case.
He showed the images to Feng on a slate from across the room, one by one.
“That’s him,” Feng said. “I’m sure of it.”
Nakamura looked at the hit. Shiva Prasad.
With the name came data.
The untouchable billionaire had entered Vietnam on his private jet a week ago. And before dawn this morning his passport had been electronically stamped again, as he’d left in that jet once more, with a flight plan filed for his private island off the coast of Burma.
“Hey, you have any food?” he heard Feng ask. “Really hungry.”
Nakamura smiled widely.
“Sure, Feng,” he said. “And I hope you can swim.”
55
OLD FLAMES
Monday October 29th
Holtzmann fumed after the call with Barnes cut off. But there was nothing he could do for those poor children.
Somehow he had to get Rangan Shankari out of ERD custody. But how? He could walk Shankari out of that cell, give him the keys to his own car, and in the very best case the ERD would just pick Shankari up a few hours later, and lock Holtzmann away for good.
He needed help.
An underground railroad. That’s what the rumors said. A network that got Nexus-born children out of the country. Would they take Shankari? Holtzmann had no idea. But he thought there was one person who might know.
Her number was in his phone, years after she’d tired of his lies and his weakness and cut off their affair. Did she ever think back to their time fondly? Or was he a pathetic figure in her mind, a man who’d lied and cheated, seduced her even though he was her professor and fifteen years her senior? Would she even talk to him after their encounter at the Capitol?
There was only one way to find out.
Holtzmann tapped on his phone, and called Lisa Brandt.
She picked up on the third ring.
“Hello?”
“Lisa,” he said. “It’s Martin Holtzmann.”
“I know who it is,” she said coldly. “What do you want?”
Martin paused. Hostility… He deserved it.
“Lisa,” he said. “I was thinking about our last conversation. I… I may have changed my mind. I’d like to talk.”
Silence. More silence.
“I’m listening,” she said finally.
“Could we… talk in person?” he asked.
“I’m in Boston, Martin.”
“I know, I know,” he said. “I can come to you. I’ll take the train up. Lunch tomorrow? Leonetti’s?” She used to love Leonetti’s.
Another pause.
“Not lunch,” she replied. “Coffee. Harvard Square Café. 2pm. Come alone.”
“Thank you…” he started.
The line clicked and went dead.
Lisa Brandt ended the call, and looked across the small room to where her wife Alice rocked their adopted son Dilan as he nursed.
“Martin Holtzmann?” Alice asked with a raised eyebrow.
Lisa could feel the wave of surprised curiosity and concern radiate from her wife, overlaid with the mixed fatigue and contentment of Dilan suckling at the milk produced by her hormonally augmented breasts.
Lisa nodded. “Holtzmann.” But her eyes were on their son. She could feel his sleepy hunger, his secure comfort. Such a special child.
I should have taken the hormone boost too, Lisa thought. I should be doing my part nursing him. But it was easier for Alice, easier with her career in finance already established enough that she could take so much time off, while Lisa still toiled daily towards tenure in her ivory tower.
“What did he want?” Alice asked.
“To talk,” Lisa said. “Maybe to blow a whistle.”
Alice squinted, and Lisa could feel her skepticism. “Whistle-blowing takes balls and a conscience. The Martin Holtzmann you’ve described didn’t sound like he had either.”
“No,” Lisa sighed. “He didn’t.”
Anne got home an hour later.
“You look better,” she said.
Holtzmann smiled. “I feel better. In fact, I think I’ll go to the office tomorrow.”
Anne Holtzmann lay in bed, pretending to sleep, listening to her husband’s breathing until she was sure he was out.
Something was very wrong here. Paranoia. Emotional outbursts. Night sweats and vomiting. It almost reminded her of…
Anne rose quietly and padded into the bathroom. One by one she opened the medicine cabinets, then the drawers, searching through them, looking for a bottle of pills.
Nothing. Martin had finished the painkillers months ago. So why was he acting like a man on drugs?
Anne Holtzmann crept quietly back into bed, troubled. Tomorrow. Tomorrow she’d do some digging into her husband’s activities.
56
EN ROUTE
Monday October 29th
He who knows when he can fight and when he cannot will be victorious. Sun Tzu had written that in The Art of War. Feng repeated it to himself again and again as Nakamura drove them out of the city, to a darkened piece of coast on the Mekong Delta, as Nakamura left Feng chained inside the jeep as he loaded supplies into the inflatable boat, as Nakamura clipped a metal leash to Feng’s restraints and pointed with his gun towards the beach.
So tired. Every part of him hurt. He’d downed thousands of calories and the hunger still gnawed inside, his body ravenous for resources to apply to its reconstruction. At his best, he thought he could take the CIA man. But chained, wounded, tired, and weaponless?
Ahead the inflatable boat waited on the sand, piled high with supplies as waves crashed down a few meters beyond it.
“The engine won’t start without me,” Nakamura said. “Drag it out into the water.”
Feng did as he was told, dragging it out with his bound hands as Nakamura followed, until he was thigh-deep in the surf. The CIA agent climbed in, the end of Feng’s leash still in his hand. “Come aboard,” he said. And then Feng was in the boat as well, in the front, looking back at Nakamura.
“We going all the way to Burma in this thing?” Feng asked.
His CIA captor just laughed.
Nakamura kept half an eye on Feng. The rest of his attention he devoted to the rendezvous. He steered south and east for an hour, his eyes peeled for any sign they were being followed or observed. Off to his left, robotic container ships bobbed on the horizon, their superstructures illuminated for safety, waiting for their turn to enter the Nha Be River and unload their wares. Ahead, the sea was dark and apparently empty.
His GPS told him it was time. They were in the zone. He killed the engine. At the forward end of the boat, Feng raised an eyebrow.
Access resource “Manta 7,” Nakamura subvocalized. Initiate pickup sequence. Execute.
“You may want to turn around,” he told Feng with a smile. Reluctantly, the Confucian Fist did so.
For a moment nothing happened. And then a patch of dark sea became calmer, darker, flatter.
Something was rising up. Something wide and blacker than the midnight water, shaped like a stretched rounded wedge, a boomerang with a thickened center. It rose above the waves and water ran off of it.
The central fuselage of the sub was a thicker bulge in the middle of the flying V, twenty feet long and perhaps five feet wide. It gave way in a graceful arc to the wide wings, forty feet from one wingtip fin to the other, swept slightly back behind the body. Every surface was curved for stealth and hydrodynamic efficiency. Barely visible were the ports that could open to launch probes, sensors, and weapons. It was a thing of beauty.
