(R)evolution (Phoenix Horizon Book 1)

by PJ Manney

  Carter winced behind the senator, making a subtle throat-slashing sign with his hands.

  “But aren’t there other techniques available that we’ve got a better handle on? Where we know about the dangers and pitfalls more thoroughly?”

  The senator seemed engaged, and Peter was midexplanation with no way out, so he ignored Carter. He caught sight of Amanda charming Mathilde. Whatever she was a professor in, Amanda was holding her own.

  “Well, to someone,” said Peter too quickly, “every one of them has pitfalls, be they genetic, robotic, nano, or pharmacological in nature. Some of the objections are moral. Some are social or economic. Some have undesirable side effects. And some just suffer from a yuck factor.”

  The senator shook his head. Peter thought he didn’t understand and plunged ahead, speaking faster still. “That’s when you think, ‘Yuck! Why would I do that?’ but you don’t have a better reason not to embrace the idea. Historically, the yuck factor has been a deterrent in technology development, but only temporarily. It’s also a moving target. What we thought was offensive a generation ago is not offensive now, like in vitro fertilization. Or recycling technologies that purify sewage. And what we think is icky now, won’t be to our children and grandchildren . . .”

  “Mr. Bernhardt . . .” interrupted the senator.

  “Senator?”

  “We don’t want your nanobots . . . or nano-anything . . .”

  “I’m not trying to convince you about nanobots, sir, just how we should respond to this crisis . . .”

  “You are not the man to deliver any ‘gifts.’ No one wants what you’re offering.” Senator Davidson turned to Carter. “My boy, we’re done here. Please send my regards to your father.” He returned to Mathilde as she was introducing Amanda to two distinguished gentlemen. They kept ogling her, while casting glances at Peter with a smirk. They weren’t even waiting for his dead body to cool.

  Even Carter shivered. He caught Amanda’s eye and beckoned her back. “Pete . . . I’m sorry, I had no idea he’d be so negative. And slow down, man! Use a little finesse.” He took a deep breath and looked for another target. Congressman Salvatore Amendola of New York was passing with his aide. “Congressman!” said Carter jovially.

  “Mr. Potsdam! How ya doin’, buddy?” He slammed his meaty paw into Carter’s manicured hand.

  Carter introduced the Bernhardts.

  “I grew up in your district, Congressman,” said Peter, smiling.

  Amendola went pale. “I can’t help that . . .” He turned to Carter. “How’d he get in? You bring him?” Amendola looked furtively to his right and left, then pulled Carter in close. “You hear the rumor? They might have a warrant for him, right?”

  Carter looked stunned. Peter felt sick.

  The aide tugged on Amendola’s arm. The congressman ducked and weaved. “I can’t be seen talking to him. Good luck, buddy!”

  Carter was contemplating their options when a bellicose fireplug with a mean comb-over waddled up to the trio: Senator Herbert Mankowicz of Illinois. “Davidson said you were here. You got balls. Both of you.” He wagged his finger at Carter. “And you should know better!”

  “Herb!” beseeched Carter, “please just hear us out. That’s all we’re asking.”

  Peter went into his song and dance again, finishing with, “But here’s the most important thing I can tell you: no laws stop the juggernaut of technological progress. At best, we only delay it slightly. Now that humans know how to make nanobots, they will make them again. Even delayed, we can’t know everything up front, even though we desperately want to, and we ride out the unexpected the best we can.”

  “It’s easy to be glib when it wasn’t your family members who died at the hands of the unknown,” scolded Mankowicz.

  “I’m not being glib, sir. And that doesn’t make it less of the truth. Only more painful. But here’s the point: If ATEAMO hadn’t used nanobots, they would have used something else. Terrorists use whatever works. They don’t stop being terrorists because you take away one of their weapons. And they don’t become terrorists because they find a new one. The objective is to create tools and prevent them from being used as weapons, because for every stick we dug up the ground to plant food with, we could have used that same stick to bash in someone’s head. Swords into plowshares, sir . . .”

  Mankowicz looked at him with sudden contempt. “You don’t think anyone buys that ATEAMO is just three snot-nosed kids! Who supplied them? You?”

  “No! Of course not! And I want to help find who did! But no one will let me.”

  “You’re damned lucky you’re with Carter. Or I’d have kicked your ass myself!” The fireplug stormed off.

  Peter couldn’t stop shaking. “Please, Carter. Let’s get out of here.” Amanda squeezed his hand for support.

  “No,” said Carter as he gestured for a waiter. “That’s just blood in the water for these sharks. You’ve got to rough it out. Nanotech scares a lot of people, and they want someone to blame. If we can change even one or two of their minds, it’s worth staying all night.” He handed Peter and Amanda flutes of champagne.

  Peter couldn’t drink his. “Why are you damaging your relationships for me?”

  Carter looked surprised. “I want what’s best for you.”

  “That’s your insecurity talking again, Pete,” said Amanda quietly. “We need you to keep trying.”

  Much of Peter’s fear came from misunderstanding the power dynamics of the room and how he did or didn’t fit in. He assumed he was the only victim. The truth was every person there was on the make as much as he. Along with them, he burned with the envy of the perpetual outsider, a peculiarly American schadenfreude. Money, power, or beauty were supposed to mystically confer insider status in American society, but rarely did to the extent the possessor wanted, because no one believed they’d finally arrived at the magic circle’s center.

  Through it all, Carter’s performance was smooth as silk. He held chairs for women, entered and exited conversations without a social ripple, and made everyone feel good in his presence. Peter tried to emulate him, but fear overwhelmed his synapses. His clumsiness only made matters worse.

  And so the evening went. Carter introduced them to more members of Congress, cabinet officials, corporate tycoons, even religious leaders and entertainers; and Peter did his best to convince them. No one’s opinion seemed to budge, and Peter was tossed out of the magic circle time and time again.

  Four hours into the evening, there was a commotion, and many men dressed in tuxes, sunglasses, and earpieces filtered through the crowd. With chants of “Four More Years” ringing around them, President John Stevens and First Lady Elizabeth Stevens made a grand entrance. This would be the couple’s last stop of the night after making an appearance at each of the official balls in their honor.

  The band struck up “Hail to the Chief.” The usually unmusical Carter sang the lyrics under his breath, loud enough for Peter and Amanda to hear.

  “I didn’t even know there were words,” said Amanda.

  Carter smirked. “You think he’s the only human GO player in the room?” jerking his thumb at Peter. “Learned it in the womb. Family’s had a rep at every inaugural ball since the first. But it wasn’t played until James Polk’s in 1845. We must have heard it then.”

  After shaking hands and slapping backs for half an hour, the president stood at the podium to speak. He told them the nation chose once again to place awesome responsibility into his humble hands and that the overwhelming voter support was a powerful confirmation of his policies. He pledged, with God’s help, to avenge the deaths of the innocent Americans of 10/26, and he gratefully accepted the mandate of the people. The words life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness, democracy, America, family, values, justice, and pride were rung like bells throughout. Deeply uninspired, everyone expected this speech and could have written it on their cocktail napkins between drinks. Yet his audience responded like it was the Good News from Heaven.

  P
eter stood behind Amanda and Carter, so they couldn’t see the devastation in his face. That’s when he saw Jessica Rabbit again. Her gaze took all of him in and savored it, making her grin mischievously. He found it hard to believe his makeover was that successful, and he watched her from the stronghold behind his wife. The speech seemed to go by more quickly than before, until an elder statesman stopped to speak to her in passing and the two quickly went their separate ways, each disappearing into the crowd.

  By the early hours of the morning, the party wound down. A few diehards slow danced. The three slouched in their seats around a table. Amanda had kicked off her shoes. Then the band kicked into one last song: “American Pie.”

  Amanda, exhausted only moments before, perked up and grabbed her husband’s arm. “I want one dance. Just one. Something has to be salvaged from tonight.”

  “Don’t you mean one last dance on the Titanic?” said Peter. He didn’t get up.

  “Come on, Amanda,” said Carter. “I’ll do it.”

  Her face lit up, as though Prince Charming had asked her to dance. Carter handed her back her shoes. “You’re going to need these, Cinderella.” She grimaced, but slipped them on anyway before curtsying to him. He took her hand and waist and they spun away. Peter had never seen Carter dance like this before. He twirled her around the floor, and in his arms Amanda became Ginger Rogers. It was easy to imagine her fox-trotting into Carter’s aristocratic class. Formal dance lessons were not a part of either Peter’s or Amanda’s childhoods, but he used to watch the rich kids go to the Presbyterian church at the top of Main Street and Broadway for their lessons every Tuesday night, all decked out in suits, dresses, and polished shoes. He never had the opportunity to join them. On Tuesday nights, he washed dishes at Benny’s Restaurant to help his dad pay the rent.

  He wondered if observers thought Amanda was Carter’s wife.

  The song ended, and the two dancers tripped the light fantastic back to him.

  “God, it’s been years since I’ve done that,” panted Carter. He gave Amanda’s hand a squeeze. “I’ll make a society matron out of you yet.”

  “Lemme guess,” Peter deadpanned. “Kiddie dance classes.”

  “Every Thursday night for four fucking years,” said Carter. “Complete with navy suit, red rep tie, and buffed black oxfords. And acne.”

  Everyone applauded as the band said good night and the recorded music kicked in. As they walked to the garage, Peter absentmindedly said a prayer, even though he didn’t believe in them, that they could have the opportunity to start again. Dear God, that’s all he wanted. A fresh start.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Carter led them underneath the convention center to the parking lot and the toasty warm limo he had hired for the evening. They sprawled in the back. Peter was afraid to speak.

  “Carter, do you really think Pete will go to jail?” asked Amanda quietly.

  Carter couldn’t bring himself to respond.

  The three were silent as the limo joined an endless procession that crawled past security, street closures, and demonstrators, including “Remember 10/26” supporters and anti-nano activists, all the way back to the Hay-Adams Hotel, where they shared a lavish two-bedroom suite, again courtesy of Carter.

  The limo pulled up to the canopied hotel entrance, and Carter turned to Amanda. “Do you mind if we abandon you to take a walk? I need to talk to Pete.”

  Normally, Amanda would complain about being left out of the threesome. But tonight was different. Maybe it was the cold weather. Or maybe she needed to be alone.

  “Do what you need to do,” she said.

  Peter helped her out of the limo and walked her to the lobby.

  She kissed him and said, “Never forget how much I love you. And don’t keep me waiting too long . . .” As she walked away, three different men appraised her while she crossed the lobby, as though they knew she’d be available soon.

  Carter and Peter wandered in the stingingly cold night air, crossing H Street and entering Lafayette Park toward the bright lights of the White House and the Washington Monument rising like a sentinel behind it. Painful scenarios ran through Peter’s mind. He’d go to jail. Amanda would divorce him in prison, and some other rich man would marry her. They’d have the child she always wanted. Maybe a house full of children . . .

  Carter was silent, too, hands stuffed in overcoat pockets and head bowed. Peter hoped he’d get on with it, because his nose was numb, his stomach was spurting acid, and his bones ached from fatigue.

  “I don’t get it,” Peter finally blurted out. “I’m smart. I’ve worked hard. Done everything right. And I’m about to lose . . . my life. It’s over.” The iconic columns and front door of the White House were visible at the end of the allée of naked trees they passed, branches heavy with ice. “How does it all come so easily to you? Was it because you were loaded to start with? Or knew how to get what you wanted?”

  Carter snorted, steam belching from his nose. “That’s not half wrong. But that’s not everything.” He was silent again.

  “Well, are you going to tell me?”

  “Yes. But are you ready to hear me?”

  “Haven’t I been following your orders all night?”

  Carter looked unconvinced and stared at the White House. “When I was at Stanford, I knew I wasn’t going to make breakthroughs and be one of the people up on the dais in Oslo when they handed out the Nobels. But I know how to read people. And I know what they want. Even before they do. That was a way that I could make myself matter. I could see the miracles nanotechnology would bring to us were just about to break, and I was determined to be a part of it. As much as I wanted to do this, I needed help from people more powerful than myself. So I joined a club. I trust them like I trust you. And they made my dreams come true.”

  It sounded simplistic and overwrought, but Peter couldn’t help asking, “What club?”

  “The Phoenix Club. Ever hear of it?”

  “Yeah. But I thought they were just a bunch of rich old farts playing Iron John games in the woods. Isn’t that passé? And didn’t the Sun Valley Conference and Davos eclipse all that?”

  Carter nodded his head. “It’s what everyone would like you to think. And some of them are rich old farts in the woods . . .”

  “Why would I want to be a part of that?”

  “Like everything in life, it’s more complicated than that.” Carter began walking toward the White House again.

  “Why are we talking about clubs again? You know it’s not my scene. I’ve made my own way the hard way,” said Peter with resentment choking his voice.

  Carter’s voice dropped with gravitas. “Forget everything you think you know about clubs. This is not a country club. Or even a fraternal organization or secret society in the traditional sense. This is an echelon of society, the engine in the country’s machine. I can’t explain it all to you right now. It’s too fucking cold. I want someone else to do that. Just do me this favor. Come to lunch with me tomorrow. It’s the last chance you’ve got, Pete.”

  “You’re kidding . . .”

  “These are the only people who can help you now. ‘If I have seen further, it is by standing on the shoulders of my club brothers.’ ”

  Peter shook his head. “Okay, man, now you’re just fuckin’ goofy. And who’d want me in their club? And why?”

  Carter’s mouth formed a small, tight grin. It was too cold to smile any bigger. “A couple of weeks ago, I went ahead and put your name up for membership. Just in case. Tomorrow, you can meet the president of the club and ask him anything you want. The bigger question for you is: How much did you value your old life? What’s it worth to you to avoid jail? Get your company back? Save your marriage?”

  “And what do I have to sacrifice to do this?”

  “Trust me.”

  “I’m innocent. The truth will set me free.”

  “I hope Amanda’s next husband is smarter than you.” Carter turned away and walked quickly back to the hotel.
>
  Peter had never felt so cold in his life.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Amanda was under the covers on the far side of the bed, breathing softly and evenly. Disappointed, Peter quietly shut the door to the suite’s living room and tiptoed in, taking off his overcoat and gloves and throwing them on a chair. She purred and rolled to him with a heavy-lidded smile.

  “What was that about?” she murmured.

  “What?”

  She turned away, mumbling into her pillow, “If you’re going to be that way . . .”

  He crawled onto the bed and rolled her toward him. “I’d rather be this way.” She was warm and inviting. He kissed her deeply, afraid to let it end.

  She pulled her mouth away and laid her hands on his jacket lapels. “Your tux is still freezing. So, do I have to play Mata Hari and sleep with you to find out?”

  “Yes. Most definitely.”

  “Okay, so why’s Carter all secret squirrel?”

  “He wants me to join a club.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “If I agree, I meet the head guy tomorrow. Carter thinks this is my last lifeline. That it might somehow solve our problems. I’ve never done anything like this, never asked for this kind of help before. And I don’t know what the price is. There has to be a price. After a whole life of doing things the right way, I’m not selling my soul for a sin I didn’t commit.”

  “You and your damned integrity are going to destroy us. Carter put his reputation on the line for you tonight. Your ego is more important than him? And our family?”

  She had taken apart her elaborate updo, and her still-lacquered hair spread across the pillows, framing her face in waves of shiny black silk.

  He knew she was right. He had to save himself. And her. “I can’t resist you both,” he said.