(R)evolution (Phoenix Horizon Book 1)

by PJ Manney

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “I know . . . some people . . . who are not happy about this . . .”

  “But you work in nano. What are you doing to distance yourself?”

  “Consolidating or selling where I can, emphasizing that the rest are either benign or indispensable. In my position, it’s really just spin to the right people. Most importantly, I don’t make bots.”

  Peter shifted uncomfortably. They were close to the taboo subject.

  Carter knew Peter needed permission. “Go ahead. Ask me.”

  “Okay . . . Why did you never help me or Biogineers before?”

  “Because I always believed bots might be manipulated given the right circumstances. You did, too, but you got over your reservations . . .”

  “But . . . !”

  “I know, I know you tried to fight your VCs and the feds, but by the time I felt strongly about it, you didn’t want to hear it anymore, you were so desperate to move on and make a success of the company. And I wasn’t up for another fight with you. And now . . . nanobots are dead.”

  Peter sighed. “Next question: You’ve backed so many companies. Did you stay away from Bruce Lobo on purpose?”

  “Oh Jesus, yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I know what he is. And how he thinks. I don’t need that kind of grief.”

  The Latina brought over the meals. When she placed Carter’s steaming plate and Smart Water down, she gave him her most special smile. The one she reserved for her boyfriend, but not her husband.

  “Gracias, Alma,” gushed Carter. “¡Que delicia mas impresionante has cocinado! ¿Y quién se puede comer un burrito tan grande? ¿De verdad hicistes la salsa de Chipotle solamente para nosotros?”

  Alma nodded, giggled, and ambled away.

  Peter rolled his eyes. “Did you ever have to go head-to-head against him?”

  Having taken a big bite, Carter nodded vigorously.

  “And . . . ?”

  Carter finished chewing, swallowed, and dabbed his lips with a napkin. “I beat him every time,” he said with relish.

  “How?”

  “By being as ruthless as he was and never presenting a vulnerable side. He’s a fucking animal.” He took another big bite of burrito. With a full mouth, he garbled, “Eat. It’s great.”

  Peter never thought of Carter as ruthless, but then Peter had never been on the other end of a deal with him, either. The burrito looked tasty enough, but his appetite had waned since the attacks, and his baggy clothes showed it. Peter took a bite, chewing on thoughts before speaking. The enormous burrito made a mess of his hands and face. But Carter was untouched by the salsa and juicy carnitas meat that squirted from both ends of the tortilla.

  “How do you eat so neatly?” Peter asked.

  “Breeding.”

  “Asshole.”

  They grunted with laughter, and Peter spit a bit of burrito out.

  “My dear, I can’t take you anywhere.” Carter handed him a napkin to mop up his dripping chin.

  “Okay . . . ever since we met, you’ve hidden your business from me. Even when we were both starting up. Did you really not trust me? You know me well enough to know I’d never divulge anything, never steal from you, never betray you.”

  “You’re right. I was paranoid. But I was also a kid. And I apologize. So even though I wasn’t there before, I am now. I’m going to get you out of this mess, because there’s still some life in that carcass of yours.”

  Peter couldn’t avoid feeling the aristocrat was being patronizing. “Noblesse oblige?”

  Carter sighed with annoyance. “And you’re going to need more than just my help. There’s a . . . group I want you to think about . . .”

  “Group? What’s a ‘group’?”

  “A club.”

  “I’m not a joiner, you know that.”

  Carter appraised his mood, changing tack. “Well, you need to get your hands dirty.”

  “Dirty? How?”

  “Nobody’s getting reelected without making heads roll over 10/26. You’re part of the investigation and it’s your head on the chopping block. They’ll go after all the top execs, including Amanda, because they can. And she can’t get pregnant if you’re in separate prisons. There’s a bit of cabinet and agency reshuffling going on, and they need to know who’s got the job to nail you. If I do nothing, you’ll probably be whoever’s first meal to make his—You grew up with the Italians. What’s the Mafia phrase?”

  Peter’s former playmates would not appreciate the cultural stereotyping. “Make his bones?”

  “Right. Make his bones with the administration. In the meantime, I have some friends I want you to meet, so hopefully, you won’t be a meal at all.”

  “Who?”

  Carter smiled. “Ever been to an inaugural ball?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then consider me your fairy godmother.”

  Peter snorted. “That’s not too hard.”

  “You’ll meet the right people there. The kind that can help.”

  “But I’m not voting for the guy!”

  Carter glared like a stern schoolmaster. “You roll with the punches and play with the big boys now. Or it’s over, and Amanda and I learn to love the drive to Lompoc for visiting day.”

  “So how am I getting my hands dirty?”

  “Make every president your president; and every administration and their associates, hangers-on, and cronies will be there when you need it. And you couldn’t need it more.” Carter pushed his empty plate away. “Look. Once they’ve strung you up as the patsy, the anti-nano bill will be presented for a vote by Senators Mankowicz and Davidson as a bipartisan salvo right after the inauguration. The president promises if he wins, it’s the first thing he’ll sign. It’ll pass overwhelmingly, and by the beginning of next year, the US will be under full restrictions and sanctions regarding all nanovirus and bot supplies and research. The EU sanctions will immediately follow. And they need their scapegoat to make it happen. We’ve got to stop the bill and stop them from slaughtering you. You will do whatever it takes, to whomever you have to, to save your ass. Don’t forget, everyone has their price.”

  “I don’t,” said Peter quietly.

  “How can you still be that naive? It’s a vicious world out there. You’re up against the wall, Pete. And they’re loading their rifles.”

  “After all these years, you still don’t know who I am?”

  Carter snorted. “You got over your reservations about nanobots. And you will make the necessary choices when you realize how much you’re threatened now. I’m telling you, Peter Bernhardt will survive this. And I’ll prove it.”

  “Has anyone ever told you ‘no’?”

  Carter laughed. “No.”

  “And everyone’s telling me ‘no . . .’ ” The world felt very heavy. Peter wasn’t sure he could hold up Amanda’s needs, society’s acrimony, and the brunt of the government’s legal might, alone. He looked across the street. A ten-year-old Mercedes had parked, and a man in a baseball cap and sunglasses pulled out a long-lens camera. It was too obvious to be a fed. A paparazzo had found him. He shuddered, feeling the firing squad take aim.

  “Help me, Carter. Please . . .”

  CHAPTER TEN

  During the two and a half months before Inauguration Day on January 20, the Bernhardts lived under continued surveillance. Biogineers took a beating in the media, but while no links between the company and the attacks had been proven, they didn’t have to be. Peter cooperated during continued lengthy interviews with the FBI, DHS, and NSA, but he was still treated like a terrorist. Their assets were seized and their house foreclosed upon, but Carter made sure they didn’t starve. Meanwhile, Ruth and Peter focused their research and brought on Chang Eng and Jesse Steinberg as consultants. They had no job prospects with Biogineers on their résumés and hoped this long shot might resuscitate their careers. But it was no coincidence they were also the only former colleagues willing to speak to Peter. He
remained persona non grata to the entire high-tech world.

  When the team was ready, they pitched the full brain-computer interface concept to Carter. He loved it, and asked to partner with Peter. But the amount of funding needed was very large, and Carter couldn’t cover it alone. And Peter’s name scared any investors away. Carter told him to take one thing at a time: Peter had to save his ass before starting another company.

  Carter helped immediately in more fundamental ways. Their old Stanford Avenue college house was to be vacated. So he gave the Bernhardts their old digs back, rent free, for as long as they needed it, and Peter traded his glorious lap lane for Stanford’s Avery Aquatic Center. Peter resented being back in the old neighborhood. It meant he had failed. And the looks and comments he got at the pool from students angered him daily. There was no more idealistic, righteous, and misinformed mudslinger than a university undergraduate. However, he was a short walk from Ruth’s house, so they could discuss work at any time. And being surrounded by busy young people, even scolds, made him more optimistic about the future.

  Meanwhile, Carter arranged invitations for them to the most exclusive inaugural ball for face time with people who could help. He spent days briefing the Bernhardts on what to say, and tested them while flying from California to Washington on his Gulfstream VII. They had everything riding on their presentation. The powers that be would either release Peter from purgatory or send him straight to hell.

  The main ballroom of the Washington Convention Center held the American Ball. It was only one of ten official balls that evening, with names such as the Freedom Ball, the Democracy Ball, and the Independence Ball, each celebrating the reelection of President John Stevens in the greatest landslide in American political history. Attendance at the balls was based on the state one hailed from or whether one fulfilled a special role, like active military personnel. But the American Ball was special. It was for the inner circle of the president and by invitation only. All its attendees had been invited to another ball, many of which were in different ballrooms created within the convention center, or in separate hotels; however, this was the one they arrived at by the end of the evening to show deference and loyalty. The American Ball would have been the hottest ticket in town, if tickets could have been bought.

  Standing at the ballroom doors after running several security gauntlets, including a vigorous and intimate manhandling of Peter’s genitals after being X-rayed, the Bernhardts took in the remarkable display of national and personal power. It was beyond the million-dollar necklaces on the couture-gowned ladies or the tables heaped with caviar, lobster, and oysters and the free-flowing champagne. What made eyeballs pop was the over-the-top set dressing. The huge, institutional space was transformed into a neoclassical, Jeffersonian pastiche. Presidential portraits from the National Portrait Gallery lined the blue velvet damask-covered walls, installed to hide the convention center’s industrial design. Dozens of crystal chandeliers, each one worthy of The Phantom of the Opera, hung overhead, suspended from a false ceiling of tented and draped red-and-white-striped silk. Tables were set with real linen, real sterling-silver place settings, real lead-crystal glasses, and real porcelain. Enormous silver centerpieces from the Smithsonian and White House collections held hundreds of thousands of dollars of flowers. White columns festooned with red-rose garlands divided the space. A rotation of the best dance bands in America played off to the side next to the parquet dance floor.

  Amanda couldn’t help but catch her breath at the outrageous display. Carter smiled indulgently at her, like a parent at a child’s delight over a just-lit Christmas tree. He leaned over and whispered, “Now remember, girl. Their rocks may be real, but the faces and tits ain’t. And if some old broad gives you the cold shoulder, give ’em a few ‘Om Shantis’ back. That’ll shake ’em up.” She whacked him nervously with her evening clutch.

  Carter had dressed them with the same degree of care, and cash, lavished on the ballroom. Peter wore his first tuxedo, handmade by Carter’s tailor, and even cut his hair to a socially acceptable length. Carter wanted to make sure there was nothing about Peter that read “irresponsible” or “immature” to the people they would meet. Amanda’s long black hair was piled on top of her head, and she wore a beautiful barebacked, sleeveless gown of draped pale gold satin. She looked otherworldly, like Galatea come to life from the pages of Vogue, and every man that evening admired her as she passed. She had never looked so beautiful. Not even on her wedding day. To level the playing field, Carter had borrowed a pair of spectacular canary diamond drop earrings from his mother to go with the gown. She kept touching them to make sure they were still there.

  “Don’t worry so much,” Carter whispered. “They’re insured.”

  “How much?” she asked.

  “Two million.”

  Amanda stiffened, more nervous than before. With her arm linked through Carter’s, and Peter dutifully following behind, Carter said, “Now don’t wander off. Security’s tight, and we might get separated.”

  These weren’t Peter’s people, and they would smell a fraud. Perspiration trickled down his back. Which meant he couldn’t take his jacket off without looking like a wreck. That made a new rivulet of sweat break out and head south. He wedged himself between Carter and Amanda and whispered in her ear, “Mandy, don’t let me drink champagne, or I might not stick to the script.”

  “It’s not the words I’m worried about, Pete. It’s your eyes. You never hide how you feel. I love that I always know what you’re thinking, but not now. Please, honey. Just for tonight.”

  “I’ll try.” He studiously ignored a passing waiter with a tray of cool bubbly.

  The waiter stopped and served a glass to a guest. In a room filled with men hanging on to their wives, and their wives desperately hanging on to body parts mismatched to their carcasses, she was a vision. Wild, bright red hair hung in long ringlets down her shoulders and back, framing languid eyes and a dancer’s posture. She was very curvaceous, in a long, black body-hugging dress that emphasized every taut inch of her, like an old-time movie star. “Bombshell” was the word they would have used back then to describe her. Or later, “Jessica Rabbit.” No one else in the room, except Amanda, looked as lovely. But what set her apart was the intelligent intensity that shone from her eyes. She looked like a woman you wouldn’t want to cross, because she’d get even in ways you couldn’t imagine. She regarded Peter over the rim of her champagne glass and smiled.

  Carter scanned the crowd, catching someone in his sights. “Perfect. Two o’clock. Senator Patrick Davidson. Pennsylvania. Friend of the family. Chairman of the Health, Education, Labor, and Pension Committee. He was a vocal critic of nano from the get-go. Coauthored the anti-nano bill. Wife’s name is Mathilde. She’s French. Professor at U Penn. Now he’s got the bit between his teeth. Excellent practice. Let’s roll.”

  As they made their way through the crowd, Amanda said, “I could handle Mathilde if we need to divide and conquer. What’s she a professor of?”

  “Oh God. I don’t remember,” said Carter. “What are the French professors in? Postmodernism? Semiotics? Jerry Lewis?”

  Davidson looked to be about seventy years of age. The same age as Peter’s father, but they couldn’t have been more different. Here was a man who took great pains with himself, who would be pleased to be called “fighting fit” like the ex-marine he was. Mathilde had long gray hair, but done in a tight, chic chignon that emphasized the severe simplicity of her floor-length silver sheath, like a slender surgical blade.

  They were in conversation with another couple. The woman had a blown-tight face only a wind tunnel could love and the hands of a crypt keeper. The man had his own plastic surgery to keep up, his skin looking like a slick pickle recently removed from its jar. Carter approached at a discreet distance and caught Davidson’s eye. After a bit more banter, Davidson subtly brought him into the conversation and introduced him.

  Carter put out his hand. “Pat! How’s the elbow?”


  Davidson shook hands gingerly, then reflexively rubbed his right elbow with his left hand. “Last surgery was two months ago. Doc promises me I’ll be whipping your ass with my serve by May.”

  “Then I’d better tell Father to get the court in shape. He doesn’t pay attention to the grounds staff if we’re not around to harass him.” Both men laughed. Carter smoothly maneuvered Peter in, leaving Amanda to handle Mathilde and the other couple. “Pat, I want to introduce you to my dear friend, Peter Bernhardt. Pete, this is Senator Patrick Davidson from Pennsylvania.”

  Davidson caught sight of the “scarlet P” with a grimace. “I’m surprised you’ve got the nerve to be here, Mr. Bernhardt.”

  He shook the senator’s hand, trying not to pump hard. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  Davidson winced in pain. “Carter, I assume you’re introducing us because we all know he’s in a heap of trouble and you think I can help. That’s an unusual miscalculation on your part.”

  “Yes, sir,” Peter jumped in. “I know I’m in a lot of trouble. But it’s also unjustified, sir.”

  “How can you say that? Over seventy thousand people died because of your nanotechnology. I watched them, young man!”

  “Neither I, nor my company was responsible. We simply manufactured a technology similar to what was weaponized. Two other companies in Asia did, too, and I hope the government is investigating them as well. However, for what it’s worth, I tried to convince the government ten years ago this might be a problem. And I was told by the administration at the time that they didn’t want to ruffle business feathers with overregulation and that I had an overactive imagination. I still have copies of all the correspondence to prove it. Regardless, Senator, I never want this to happen again, and I am prepared to do whatever it takes to protect the public.”

  “That’s rather after the fact.”

  “I appreciate that, but here’s my dilemma, Senator. I want to save people’s lives on both ends of the debate. Not only from becoming victims of weaponized technologies, but also from brain diseases we can cure. This is very personal to me, sir. My father suffers from Alzheimer’s. And I was producing a cure for him, and millions of others, before this disaster happened.”