by Naam, Ramez
[holtzmann]It doesn’t matter. But we have an opening tonight. Can you fake a seizure at 11pm?
[rangan]Yes. What then?
[holtzmann]If it’s convincing enough, you’ll be taken to the nearest hospital. From there some friends will get you free.
[rangan]What about the kids?
[holtzmann]Just you.
Rangan blinked in surprise. Holtzmann felt the boy struggle inside, felt hope and guilt and fear and principle war with one another. Seconds passed. Then he felt Rangan come to a decision.
[rangan]No.
[holtzmann]We may not get another chance.
[rangan]Not without the kids. They come, or I don’t.
Holtzmann groaned inside. He wanted this so badly. He needed to get Rangan out. It was so close, so very close.
[rangan]They’re kids, man. You’re torturing them. It’s fucked up.
Holtzmann closed his eyes. He could fake a medical emergency. There were any number of things he could inject Shankari with that would force a trip to the ER.
[rangan]Goddammit, don’t you have any fucking conscience at all? They’re KIDS.
Holtzmann felt himself slipping further. Images of the children went through his head. Alfonso Gonzales, the one who’d been tortured until he gave up Nexus. Bobby Evans, the one they’d spent four hours torturing before finally giving up…
[rangan]Please. I don’t even have to go. Don’t worry about me. Get at least get one of the kids out instead.
Holtzmann grabbed his slate out of Rangan’s hands, stood up.
[holtzmann]I’ll think about it.
[rangan]Wait, wait. What about Ilya? Kade? Wats?
Holtzmann stared at Shankari. And suddenly he felt so tired, so very tired of all of this.
[holtzmann]Dead. Hunted. Dead.
Shankari dropped his head into his cuffed hands as Holtzmann turned and strode from the room.
Holtzmann sat in the bathroom stall, the lid down over the toilet, fully clothed, and wept. He wept in frustration. He needed to get Rangan out. He had to do it. His whole body was wracked with the need, his palms sweating, his breath coming fast, his skin tingling. Rangan had to be free!
He could do it. He could go into his lab, load up a syringe with a cocktail of tramadol and dapoxetine. That would do the trick. One injection, and a few minutes later, Rangan would be seizing hard, would need to be taken somewhere for treatment.
Yet Rangan was right. Those children… One by one, they’d be tortured. They’d become guinea pigs for new cures. Some would die in the process. Some would survive to be shipped off to concentration camps, or to be set free, scarred by the loss of Nexus.
Holtzmann clenched his fists, pressed them against his head. He wanted to scream with the force of the struggle inside him. Gaaaaah!
I’ve never been brave, he told himself. Always been a coward. Goddamn it! I want to do something right for once.
He had to try. Had to try to get Rangan and these children out at the same time.
And the other children? The children being studied in Virginia? In Texas? In California?
Dear God, he told himself, I can only do so much at once!
He would save these children here, the ones under his own direct care, if he could. The rest would have to wait.
Holtzmann took the car, left campus, went to a coffee shop in the DC slum that surrounded the sprawling Homeland Security complex in Anacostia. There he linked himself to the net, tunneled in through an anonymizer, connected to the Nexus board, and fired off a message.
[Change of plans. A dozen more friends to get out. Young ones. You get the rest of the files after.]
And then he went back to the office, and stumbled his way through another day of hypocrisy.
Rangan sat in his cell, shaking.
Did I just do that? he wondered. Did I just say no to getting out of here?
Yeah. I did.
He’d spent his whole life as a taker. He’d spent his whole life as a boy. But he didn’t have to end it that way.
Those kids… they needed out of here. They deserved their freedom more than he did.
It was time to do what was right. It was time to do something for someone else for a change. It was time to be a man.
Sweet fucking Jesus, Rangan thought. I hope it works.
62
UP THE COAST
Wednesday October 31st
Sam pushed through hard seas Wednesday night. Four days she’d been traveling now, moving the little stealthed boat at night, hiding during the brutally hot days. Her shoulder, tended with a continuous supply of fresh bandages, antibiotic cream, and abundant food, was healing.
The weather had started calm, but grown rougher each day as she moved further north. Tonight was the worst. The waves tossed her little boat around. She secured the weapons and extra fuel and food and water and surveillance gear as best she could, but inevitably they crashed from side to side as well. The wind died down around midnight, and she made great time after that.
She found a small, unlit island before dawn, settled into a narrow cove for the day. She’d made seventy miles that night. She was now just thirty miles from Apyar Kyun.
Sam ate all she could, cleaned her shoulder wound, then forced herself to sleep. Slumber came slowly, and when it came, she dreamt of Sarai, of Jake, of death.
Sam woke gasping, had to jam her own hand into her mouth to silence herself. It was only noon. There would be no more sleep.
She readied her gear instead, stripping it down, cleaning it, assembling it, testing it. Rinse. Repeat.
The sun dropped lower in the sky. It was Thursday afternoon now. She could reach Apyar Kyun before midnight, spend this night studying the island, scanning it with the high-powered scope and infrared imagers Lo Prang’s men had provided, find a way to get her kids back.
Sam steered her little smuggler’s boat out of the cove, out into the water. It was rougher away from the island she’d spent the day at, but the engines kept her moving forward. The waves buffeted her, rocked her, but she endured.
She fought the wind and waves for four hours, pushed within ten miles of Apyar Kyun. The winds died, and Sam quietly rejoiced, and progress got easier. She was just a mile from Apyar Kyun, a few hundred yards past a final tiny unnamed island, when the storm came back with a vengeance.
The big wave hit her from the port side, from out in the deeps, and battered the little boat to the side. The force of the blow snapped an anchor point, loosing a strap. Gear she’d secured came free. A pile of water jugs toppled to the bottom of the boat. More anchor points failed. A stack of food collapsed. A box of ammunition flew across the cabin and struck the far side.
The boat tilted precariously, up at thirty degrees, forty-five degrees, sixty degrees. Sam threw herself at the rising side, grabbed a strut, hauled her body in to counterweight the boat. It teetered on the edge of capsizing then fell back into place with a shuddering crash into the next trough.
Sam grabbed for the controls, scrambled to turn the boat into the next wave. She got the nose around as the next wave hit her hard, sending the loose gear flying. Something hard and metal struck her in the head.
This was crazy. She had to take shelter until this passed. She fought to turn the boat between deadly waves, get its prow pointed back at the tiny island she’d just gone by.
The boat shuddered as she steered. There was a beach ahead. Three hundred yards. A gentle slope, with tall palms above it, their leaves crazily shaking in the wind. Two hundred yards. She pushed her thrusters forward towards it. One hundred yards.
And then a massive wave struck her boat from behind, lifted her up, and threw her forward at the island. The beach surged forward at her. Sam had time to catch her breath. And then her boat struck the beach at full force.
63
DECISIONS
Thursday November 1st
Kade collapsed in the bed, utterly exhausted from the work of assimilating so much of Shiva’s mind at once. Sleep took him
immediately. His dreams were of chaos, of a world falling apart, of a group mind that could knit the world back together, of the heavy mantle of responsibility falling across his shoulders that he could, that he should, that he must accept.
He woke in twilight. A final memory played through his mind. Bihar. The children, burned to death in the orphanage. Thirty-five of them. Thirty-five whose names he could recount, whose faces he could recall. Thirty-five children murdered because they were different, because they were special. The horrors that ignorance could lead men to commit.
And the punishment he’d dealt out in response. The way the judge had screamed as Shiva’s men drove the nails into his wrists, pinning him to the crude cross. The anguish on all the killers’ faces as the flames rose higher. The sense of power he’d felt, of righteousness as he punished these monsters for what they’d done.
Kade shuddered with the echo of it. He knew that power. He knew that righteousness. To punish the guilty. To rid the world of monsters. He’d felt it when he’d neutered that bastard Bogdan in Croatia, when he’d stopped that sex slaver in Nairobi, when he’d squeezed his mental fist around Holtzmann’s brainstem…
He fell to his knees, gasping. He wanted that power. He craved it. He’d felt most alive these past few months when he’d let it course through him, when he’d used his back doors to cripple the bastards who used Nexus to harm others.
It would be so satisfying to use that back door for more, to reach out and fix the world, fix the problems that people couldn’t seem to solve on their own. Oh yes. It would feel so damn good.
This was the logical extension of all he’d been doing. He’d used his back doors to stop thefts. Why not use them to stop the massive theft of humanity’s future that was happening right now? He’d used them to stop rapes. Why not use them to stop the rape of the earth? He’d used them to prevent murders. Why not use them to end the unnecessary deaths of millions from famine and poverty and preventable disease?
He dreamt of linking those million Nexus-using minds around the planet, why not use Shiva’s tools to force that linkage?
Shiva’s vision was just Kade’s own, only bolder, larger.
And imposed on humanity by the will of one man. Or two.
Ilya’s right, Kade realized. If I deserve the back doors, then so does Shiva. If Shiva doesn’t deserve them, then I don’t either.
Are you wiser than all humanity? Ananda had asked.
That was the crux, wasn’t it?
Kade ate a bit from the dinner cart, avoiding the meat, too aware now of the cost to living things of all varieties. Nita had shown him that, shown Shiva that, long ago. Then he showered, to give himself time to think, to be sure he was doing what he believed in.
He dried himself off, dressed in fresh clothes, slipped sandals onto his feet. And then he knocked at the door, to signal for one of his keepers.
The door opened a moment later. The dusky-skinned security man stepped in, the Nexus jammer around his neck, the secondary door closed behind him.
“Can I help you, sir?”
Kade nodded. “Would you please let Shiva know that I’d like to see him, if he’s available?”
The man smiled. “Yes, sir.”
64
STORM WARNINGS
Wednesday October 31st
Holtzmann spent Wednesday at the office in a daze. He accepted the well wishes on his return to health, pushed through messages and meetings, delegated tasks, assured Barnes that he was working hard on back doors.
Anne fought with him that night. It was one-sided. He let her rant at him about his secrets, question why he’d really gone to Boston, whether he was fucking Lisa Brandt, whether he’d fucked her when she was his student, whether he really believed the conspiracy theories he was spouting. He didn’t defend himself. He was too tired for all that, too far gone in his own world. Instead he apologized to his wife, again and again, then slept on the couch.
Thursday November 1st
Holtzmann woke Thursday morning to two pieces of news.
First, Zoe’s storm track had bent further, sending it almost directly northwest now, aiming it squarely towards Washington DC. The Mayor of DC had ordered an evacuation of the city. The governors of Virginia and Maryland had ordered evacuations of counties in the storm’s path. The DHS and other agencies had backed up those orders, commanding only essential personnel to stay. Holtzmann wasn’t among them.
Second, a new message on the Nexus board, just minutes old.
[Friday night, during the storm. Staffing will be bare bones. A fire alarm will go off in a different wing of your building. Get your friends out. Get them to Pecan Street. A white van will meet them.]
Holtzmann stared at the message, read it again and again. Someone else. They had someone else inside. Someone who could pull that alarm.
But they needed him too. He’d have to stay, to find some way to free Rangan and the children, without being caught himself.
Three hours later, Anne was gone. She’d woken, then started packing for evacuation. He’d told her he was staying. She’d screamed at him, then pleaded with him, alternated between the two, telling him he was going mad, telling him he was throwing his life away, throwing her life away. In the end, she’d gone without him.
Noon on Thursday now. Wind was picking up outside. In less than thirty-two hours, he’d be breaking prisoners out of ERD Headquarters. Madness.
There was one other piece of madness to attend to. He picked up the phone, dialed Claire Becker.
“Hello?” she answered.
“Claire, it’s Martin Holtzmann.”
“Martin… Anne said you had a fight…”
“Claire, I’m looking for any files Warren may have left behind. Anything from the early days of the ERD, or even further back, from his time at the FBI.”
“Martin… I know Anne thinks I’m crazy. But I think they killed him. To keep him quiet.”
“I know, Claire.”
She went silent for a moment. Then, “You believe me?” Her voice sounded girlish – vulnerable.
Holtzmann sighed. “I don’t know. But I don’t think you’re crazy. And I don’t think it’s impossible.”
She responded with relief. “Oh my God, thank you, Martin, thank you, thank you–”
“Claire,” he cut her off. “What I’m looking for in Warren’s files… If I found it, it would be the opposite of keeping him quiet. You understand?”
There was silence across the line again. Then Claire Becker spoke.
“We’re about to leave, Martin. In the evacuation. The girls are almost finished packing. If there are any files, they’d be in Warren’s office. I can give you the door code…”
An hour later he was on his way to the Becker home.
Holtzmann punched the door code into the panel inset on the Beckers’ front door. The lock flashed green at him, and its motor whirred as the deadbolt slid open.
He pushed open the door. “Hello?” he called out.
There was no answer.
It felt wrong, being here. He hadn’t set foot in this home since Warren died. Nothing for it.
Holtzmann padded into the main room, leaning on his cane, then pushed himself up the stairs to the second floor. Something made him move in a hush, an eeriness about the place. His friend had lived here. And now that friend was dead.
ERD had been here, he was sure, cleaning up after Becker. What could he hope to accomplish? But he had no other leads.
He pushed open the door to Warren Becker’s office and stepped in, cane in hand. It felt like entering a mausoleum.
The room was tidy. Wooden shelves lined the wall, filled with mementos, display plates, paper books. A single window gave light. A large wooden desk sat below the window. A circular carpet covered most of the floor. Two doors led to a washroom and a closet, respectively.
Holtzmann sat behind his friend’s desk. It still felt wrong, being here. But he had to.
Pictures of Claire and their daughters deco
rated the desk. Everything was tidy. There was a workstation atop it, a four-inch black cube with a handful of ports, a large flat display and a keypad. There was a space where his secure terminal would have been, undoubtedly cleaned away by DHS.
Holtzmann activated the workstation. Password-protected, of course.
The desk drawers were unlocked. Holtzmann rifled through them. Papers, nothing classified. A personal slate, also password-protected. Pens. Medals and commendations that Becker never displayed. A drink drawer with a half-full bottle of Laphroaig, glasses, an empty ice bucket.
He emptied each drawer, tapped their bottoms and backs and sides looking for some false compartment. He felt ridiculous, an amateur doing a job for professionals. Warren Becker had been a professional. Holtzmann was not.
He gave up on the desk, moved to the shelves. One by one he pulled down the mementos, the books, searching for a false cover, something hidden between the pages, a false back or side or top or bottom to a shelf.
Nothing.
The carpet caught his eye next. But when dropped to his knees and rolled it up, he found nothing but wooden floor boards beneath. None came loose. None sounded different than the others when he rapped on them.
The bathroom revealed toiletries, cleaning supplies, and nothing else.
The closet was no better. Golf clubs. Spare shoes. A jacket missing a button on the sleeve. He searched all of it, looked for some secret compartment or hidden memory chip or something. He tapped his cane against the walls of the closet, searching for some hidden space.
Nothing.
Nothing nothing nothing.
Holtzmann collapsed back in the chair, frustrated. He’d been here for hours now. He was tired and hungry. He still craved an opiate hit that he had no way to deliver. It would feel so good to just unwind…
Wait.
Holtzmann opened the drink drawer again. The bottle. He pulled it out. It looked… different. He’d seen Warren pour Laphroaig at the office. The bottle he’d poured it from wasn’t quite the same as this. He turned it over in his mind, scanning the label. There it was. “Bottled in 2029.” Eleven years ago.
