(R)evolution (Phoenix Horizon Book 1)

by PJ Manney

  “Whatever you do must work. And you sound like you can act, though I’m no judge. The wind and sound effects worked for me.”

  “Yeah, those are good.”

  “And everyone’s doing what you told them to do. So congratulations. You’re a hit.” He emptied his glass, and his hand went in search of a refill.

  “Please, allow me,” said Carter, grabbing the scotch. Their hands met at the bottle at the same time, Tom’s hand covering Carter’s for a moment.

  “Thank you,” said Tom, and he withdrew his hand.

  Carter filled both his and Tom’s glasses.

  “What’s your chosen poison tonight?” asked Tom.

  “Other than whisky?” Carter held his glass aloft. “By the way, cheers . . .”

  “Cheers.”

  After he took a swig, Carter sighed, and his tense shoulders dropped an inch. “You know? After all these years, the one thing I’ve never done is experience a Bacchanalia straight.” He raised his glass. “Or as straight as I can be.” He snorted at his private double entendre and took another sip, unable to resist a wistful glance into the darkness.

  “Please don’t hold back on my account.”

  “No,” said Carter. “It’ll be interesting to be an observer this year. Maybe it’ll teach me restraint. I’ll need that as a new father.” He seemed earnest in his desire for self-improvement.

  Could Carter’s sociopathic guiltlessness know no bounds?

  “Did Josiah ask you to babysit?”

  The Cheshire cat grin illuminated the night. “Can’t get anything by you, can I?”

  “Where’d you find Mac?”

  “Headfirst between some Amazon’s thighs and not up for air anytime soon.”

  “To each their own,” said Tom, grinning slyly as he raised his glass and sipped again.

  Struggling to read into Tom’s words and gestures, Carter lobbed a ball back. “I’ve given your offer at the PAC dinner some thought. And I think you’re right. I’m better with a partner. Let’s spend this week exploring if a relationship between us will work.”

  Tom smiled broadly. “Great. I’m really looking forward to getting to know you better.”

  Without eye contact, Carter found it frustratingly difficult to infer his meaning. Was this guy “family” or just obtusely straight?

  Fantasies of a different sort ran through Tom’s mind: a blow to the throat, crushing Carter’s trachea and suffocating him was pleasant to imagine.

  “I hear you’ve got problems in Russia that need more than the usual help . . .” poked Carter.

  Tom breathed in sharply. “Unfortunately, the problems . . . have left Russia.”

  “And if the Russian mob comes after you, I don’t want to be collateral damage.”

  “That’s fair. But Josiah seems to think he’s got that covered. I hope to God he’s right . . .” Tom shivered at the thought of assassination. “We’ve got lots of time to discuss my head on a Russian pike. Come on,” said Tom, grinning again. “Let’s cruise camp.”

  Drinks drained and refilled, Dionysus led his blind Tiresias through the wilderness. Tom grasped Carter’s elbow as they visited the bonfire by the lake, where groups of older men gathered. With Josiah’s favor now public, Thomas Paine was Celebrity of the Week. Many engaged him in conversation, eager for his opinion, or just to meet the mystery man. He made sure to give each man the introduction best calibrated to put him at ease. He had to be sure not to physically mirror them, because that would make it clear to a third party he could see. But he could vocally and conceptually copy them. He must have said and done the right things, because even alpha dogs who bristled with territoriality and challenges ended conversations wanting him as their special friend. Several times, Carter couldn’t help smiling at Tom’s smoothness.

  Since Tom arrived at camp, every man whose hand he shook was given a gift: while his right hand grasped theirs and his left patted an arm or shoulder, both deposited RFID tags, small as powder specks, on their person. He held them in a tiny, impermeable nanoplastic pocket built into his larger khakis’ pocket. Then he mentally IDed the tags and put them in a database, acting as the primary receiver and transmitting the information back to his lab for backup. It didn’t matter if they washed their hands or changed their clothes. He just kept shaking hands and depositing more. He tagged and released hundreds of men in one night to see where they went and with whom they associated, and he continued throughout the week.

  He hoped it would reveal Dulles’s mole. And the club’s plan.

  Dill Kenilworth made a special effort to make Tom’s acquaintance. “I want to congratulate you, sir, on being a role model to millions of disabled Americans,” said Dill, pumping Tom’s hand strenuously.

  “Thanks very much, Dill, but I’m not trying to be a role model to anyone.”

  “You may not be trying, but that doesn’t mean the good Lord hasn’t made you one. If He doesn’t see fit to heal you because you don’t truly believe in our Lord Jesus Christ as your personal savior, the Lord is still making you his example of how living—and dying—with whatever affliction He’s seen fit to bestow is ennobling and empowering. It’s the best of what makes us human. You’re not some namby-pamby running to every Dr. Frankenstein for some . . . robot cure . . .”

  As they walked, Tom built a detailed map in his Cortex 3.0, searching for what couldn’t be seen, like bomb shelters, as well as amassing a complete list of every brother and staff member attending. There were more men here than during his previous visit, filling every bed available.

  One of them was Anthony Dulles’s mole. Any of the more than three thousand men could have a piece of the puzzle, whether they knew it or not. He scanned all transmissions into and out of camp and ran background checks on everyone. Given the thousands of people involved, Talia, Ruth, and the mysterious Miss Gray Hat helped collate and complete electronic dossiers in a database on the most likely candidates. As more and more members were processed, patterns quickly emerged. Some had married into each other’s families. Many had businesses or projects together. For instance, a group of six ran a company most Americans considered as American as apple pie. However, digging revealed their headquarters was physically based in Singapore, with intellectual property rights filed in Dubai, financed by Koreans, staffed by Australians, with no accountability or taxes to anyone. Dozens of members protected the company from the media, government, and consumers. What American interests were members protecting other than their own? Or did it reveal the growing irrelevance of nation-states and their economies that rendered currency—any nation’s currency as long as it was solid—as the only thing worth allying to?

  No one he met seemed to know or was willing to say why the members were all summoned this year. Josiah was playing it close to the vest.

  When Tom and Carter ran out of liquor, they headed to a bar for refills and sat down gratefully. Schmoozing was exhausting work.

  After they were served, Carter regarded Tom intently, eyes darting, searching for something in his face and manner. “How much do you know about me?”

  “Which answer do you want? The philosophical or the informational? And do you really want my answer?”

  Carter hesitated. “Touché. But . . . yes.”

  “Well, philosophically, we can’t know anyone. We present each other our well-constructed masks, which are no more real than Plato’s shadows on cave walls. I would argue most people don’t even know themselves. And they avoid self-knowledge with good reason. It’s painful to see our frail, scarred psyches. Makes us feel inferior. Informationally, we uncover layers of history, behavior, and relationships and piece it all together into a rag doll of a personality. Anticipating a possible business deal, I’ve uncovered everything that can be publicly found about you. As I’m sure you have of me. But the simulacrum’s a poor zombie creature in comparison to the person before you, isn’t it? Isn’t there far more subtle information to glean in person if you know what to look for? Even with the masks? I may n
ot be able to see, but I’m getting all kinds of information about you, and how people behave around you. It’s very hard to decipher a true identity, and not everyone’s up to the task. But I believe you might be.”

  Carter had the stunned look of a skeptic who has met a flawless psychic. Or his match. “I agree. But you realize most people here wouldn’t understand a word you just said.”

  “Of course. Which is why you’re with me. And not Dill. Being the smartest guy in the room in a group like this can get lonely, can’t it?”

  There it was: the slight puppy-dog wideness to his eyelids and pupils, the relaxed and open posture, the deepened breathing. Carter was hooked. He wanted to believe that a man like Tom, physically and economically immune to his more obvious enticements, could understand the “Carter” under the veneer. So far, no one had come close. Until now.

  But hooked didn’t mean stupid.

  “You’re good . . . very good. I could take lessons from you. Fuck, I’m thirsty.” Carter upended his glass. He stared out at the revelers.

  Tom leaned in. “Now let me ask you a question: What are you most proud of?”

  Carter struggled with the word. “Proud?”

  “Yes, and not some cliché like ‘my service to my country.’ That’s a load of crap. I want to know what gets your motor running.”

  “I . . . I don’t know . . .” Carter mentally ran through his life, but anything positive he had built he had also destroyed, and his drooping expression betrayed it. “Umm . . . becoming a father? I was a . . . I don’t know, I’d guess you’d call it a playboy . . . but I’ve changed. I really have. Marrying Amanda and getting ready for this baby . . .”

  “But you’re not a father yet. You might fail miserably at it. And pregnancy is usually the mother’s job. Come on, there must be something you’ve earned all on your own . . .”

  “Prometheus . . .”

  Tom smiled at the lie. “Good answer. Then I’m even more honored you’d consider me for a partner. I hope I do nothing to lessen your accomplishments.”

  “And what are you most proud of?” asked Carter.

  “Making it this far. With everything against me, I wasn’t sure it was possible.”

  Tom could feel Josiah approach them from behind, along with Bruce. Sensitive to the low tones of the two men chatting, Josiah cleared his throat loudly.

  “Carter, son? I’ve been lookin’ all over for you. I got a problem with two gentlemen that I think you might be the only one diplomatic enough to handle. You know ’em, and you’ll know how to defuse ’em. If I have to hear their nonsense one more minute, I swear I’ll shoot ’em right where they stand. Tom, do you mind if I break up your conversation? This might take a while.”

  It was obvious Josiah was lying, not only by his physical tells and the fact that Crichtons were also security personnel, but from Carter’s low-grade panic he fought to suppress. And Josiah’s RFID tags revealed he was most recently near the mines, then his signal had disappeared for a time, until he resurfaced.

  “Of course not,” said Tom.

  “What are you drinking?” asked Bruce, his voice already slurred.

  Carter held up the whisky.

  “Mind if I join you?” But facial twitches revealed Bruce wasn’t a willing babysitter.

  “Guys, it’s not necessary. I won’t fall in the lake or anything. One of the staff’ll steer me back to the cabin when I’m done.”

  “Nah. Happy to take you,” insisted an unhappy Bruce.

  “Now you take care of our boy, Bruce,” said Josiah. “We’ll be back late, Tom. Don’t wait up. Have a good night.”

  “Wanna walk?” asked Bruce.

  “Happy to.”

  “Good.” Bruce took Tom’s arm and they started down a tree-lined path. “I got someone you should meet.”

  Within minutes, the RFIDs did their job, tracking Carter and Josiah to the mine entrance, where they disappeared.

  Tom stood on the front porch of a prostitute’s cabin, and framed in the doorway was Vera, hands braced high up both sides of the doorframe, displaying her scantily clad body to its best, backlit advantage. But her intended audience couldn’t appreciate it. She quickly adjusted her game plan, stroking Tom’s arm. After she introduced herself, he acted surprised.

  “What are you doing here?” He turned to Bruce. “Where are we?”

  “Come inside, Tom. We’ll talk,” Vera purred.

  “Have fun, man!” Bruce pounded his back and limped into the darkness.

  She guided him inside and closed the door behind them. The quasi-Victorian room was simple, neat, clean, and utilitarian. There was a canopy bed without fabric (suitable for bondage and hanging toys, restraints discreetly out of sight for now), an overstuffed recliner, and a hard, upright chair. There was a bureau for the escort’s clothes and accessories. One wall was mirrored, as was the ceiling, which had strong hooks embedded for additional toys. There was a bathroom, with a sizable tub shower just beyond the only internal door.

  “Bruce didn’t tell you I work here Camp Week?”

  “No. I’d remember that.”

  “He’s a naughty boy. I specifically told him to tell you first. Well, now you’re here.”

  “But why are you?”

  “This is what I do, Tom. And I’m very good at it.”

  “I’m sure you are, but . . .”

  She ran her fingers through his hair. “You know, I’ve been with blind men before. I really enjoy it. You use your other senses so much more, so sensual, like a woman.” She whispered in his ear, “Very sexy . . .”

  Tom gently pulled away. “Why are you letting yourself be used like this? Is Bruce your boyfriend or your pimp?”

  “He can be both . . .”

  Reaching out, his fingers searched for a seat. He bumped into the hard chair and sat with a sigh. Vera crouched at his feet. “You’ll have to forgive me, Vera, but you’ve really . . . surprised me. Please believe me, I’m not judging you. I’ve been told of your beauty, and I know you’re highly intelligent. I like you and I just want what’s best for you. And I guess I’m old-fashioned enough to think this isn’t it.”

  Vera sat back on her heels for a moment. “Thank you. Most men don’t bother to question the impropriety of the situation and just enjoy taking advantage of it.”

  “I’ve never been that kind of man.”

  “No. You’re a gentleman. I thought they were extinct. When you came to my defense at the dinner, I was impressed, although you had no notion of my occupation and felt free to back me . . .”

  “I could tell something was wrong, and I was surprised at their bad manners. And I would still come to your defense.”

  “We Russians have our own sense of bad manners—Nyekulturny—but few in Russia understand being a gentleman in the European sense, of having consideration and deference to those who are less fortunate than themselves, because they can afford to. After centuries of czars and commissars and Mafiosi and oligarchs, it’s a trait that couldn’t survive. Lobo is just like a Russian. Maybe that’s why I’m with him. We understand each other . . .”

  Tom wished Vera could hear Elvis Costello’s tortured singing “A Man out of Time.” Maybe she’d realize she was living a cliché.

  “You’re lucky you have Talia,” Vera continued.

  “I know.”

  “She shares your values. And she’s very kind to me. I never forget a kindness.” It was pathetic listening to one of the world’s most beautiful women describing her life as if she were a tormented, feral puppy.

  “How do you put up with this?”

  “With what?”

  “The abuse . . . the degradation . . .”

  “Degradation? I make more money than most people in the world. And what is the value of my life? Isn’t it culturally relative? I am treated much better here for what I do than if I stayed in Russia. Here, I am exotic, rare, valuable. In Russia, I’d be dead, because I am disposable. There’s always another pretty body to warm a mattress an
d relax a customer. And death can be a relief. Why do you think Russians smoke and drink so much? We want to have as fun, pain-free, and short a life as possible.” She touched him, stroked him. “Here, I make very good money, live the life I want with who I want. I don’t want to die when I live here. But how can you understand? You’re a rich, white, American male. What do they call them? A Master of the Universe? You’re accustomed to believing the world is there for the making and taking.”

  What had Vera and Bruce concocted that linked them together? Bruce had been too eager to introduce him to Vera at camp both times. And what about the others who used her services? Could Bruce have arranged something as old-fashioned as a pillow-talk scam among his own “brothers”? And were the men nowadays dumb enough to fall for it?

  Surfing the net in his head, he scanned data on men he surmised were involved with Vera. Cross-referencing their corporate histories with camp dates, patterns emerged. In some cases, within months after camp, Bruce bought or sold shares, made moves on companies, created or dissolved business relationships with these men. Several times, he made moves on companies before CEOs revealed they were retiring or turning over the reins for health reasons. While some deals were open, some appeared clandestine, through holding companies that appeared benign to corporate officers. Investigating the fronts revealed Bruce controlled them.

  He could not let his DNA expose him. But did Bruce use DNA to reveal other secrets? A semen sample would expose not only genetic propensities for diseases, but active diseases. He didn’t need an insurance company to release this information. He could collect it himself.

  To Vera, all the analysis on the second track of his mind was invisible. He could carry on the conversation without missing a beat. “I appreciate your efforts to make me feel good about myself. But I’m deeply in love with Talia. And I would never do anything to betray her love. Not when we finally found something so real and important to us.”

  “Every man says that right before he gives in,” she purred.