Amped

by Daniel H. Wilson

  I scan the periphery for gray suits.

  Nobody is around. Vaughn is alone, crouched at the tombstone. His back is to me, perfectly vulnerable. I slowly rise, and the grappling dummies fade.

  Now, I attack.

  Trees and hills accelerate to a gray blur around me as my vision closes in on blue boot prints rising out of the soil. My legs are pumping, palms slicing the air as I gain momentum over the damp grass. My arms pull back, hands collapsing into fists like neutron stars.

  As I make my final leap, my eyes register the tombstone. My retinal keys in. It’s carved in the shape of a cherub, lying down, wings folded and sleeping. Three words are inscribed on it that detonate in my mind: Emma Camille Vaughn.

  Those first two letters: EM.

  My heels dig into the ground and I grunt with the exertion of keeping my fists by my sides. I’m a foot behind Vaughn, catching my balance, and it’s suddenly, deafeningly still and quiet in the cemetery. The sound of my breathing rakes across the chattering chorus of windblown leaves overhead.

  Vaughn speaks, on his knees. He doesn’t turn around.

  “If you’re here to kill me, go ahead,” he says.

  With an effort I stand up. Blood rings in my ears.

  There is a new flower next to the tombstone. A simple yellow daffodil. An older flower is in the grass next to it, still yellow.

  “She was six,” says Vaughn, still facing the grave. “Six years old. It’s hard, really, to explain how little and sweet she was. My Em.”

  Elysium. Em. His baby daughter’s name.

  Beneath the child’s name, in small block letters, is the simple message: HUSH MY DEAR, BE STILL AND SLUMBER. ANGELS GUARD YOUR BED.

  “Elysium,” I say. “Heaven. Where heroes go when they die.”

  “My inner circle. Friends who know why I fight. Who I’m fighting for.”

  Vaughn wipes his face and his hand comes away wet. He isn’t acting. Was never acting, I realize.

  “We had the implantation done privately. It was all my idea. My wife said wait. Said we should let the technology mature. But the doctors told me Emma was going to learn slow and that didn’t fit into my program. I had the access and the money and I thought I had the answer. And for a few months, I did.

  “It was an infection. She started vomiting and we thought she had the flu. We took her to the hospital, but it was too late. She was so little. Such a sweet little baby girl in her hospital bed.”

  Vaughn’s head bows.

  “That doesn’t give you the right to start a war,” I say.

  The man turns, looks up at me for the first time. He wipes away tears and snot with a carefully manicured hand. One of his knees is stained with dirt.

  “I’m not starting a war,” he says. “And I don’t intend to.”

  “You hired Lyle to kill the other Zeniths.”

  Vaughn blinks at me, frowns. “What’s a Zenith?” he asks.

  The politician is hunched over, hair mussed and cheeks covered in tears, and he has a look of real confusion on his face. He honestly doesn’t know. Vaughn doesn’t know what’s been happening.

  I’m backing away from this kneeling man, finally realizing.

  Somebody is building a new world.

  The laughing cowboy.

  “It’s Lyle,” I say. “It’s always been Lyle.”

  Someone shouts from the woods. In my peripheral, I see a gray suit coming, knees flashing as he runs. Gun winking at me.

  I’ve got a goddamn ace up my sleeve that’s been waiting there for ten years. Since the birth of Pure Pride. Wait until I show them what I got. Then they’ll know war.

  Vaughn is the ace.

  “He’s going to kill you to start a real war,” I whisper urgently, backing away. “The safety zones aren’t his goal. He just needed to put the amps against a wall. So they’ll fight. Cancel your speech. You need to hide. You need to run.”

  “You’re mistaken,” says Vaughn. “Lyle belongs to me. Not the other way around.”

  I can hear footfalls now. The wheezing grunt of a linebacker hurtling through space. Too far away to catch a Zenith, but no time left.

  “Please,” I say to Vaughn.

  And then I am motion. The trees swallow me up.

  BBC News

  * * *

  US & CANADA

  Q&A: The US “Amp” Problem

  The president of the United States has declared a state of emergency, going so far as to create “safety zones” to protect hundreds of thousands of citizens with neural implants from violent demonstrations.

  Implants of this sort are in common use throughout the European Union, medically and electively. So why are they causing such a row in the US?

  What is an “amp”?

  The derogatory term refers both to a neural implant or to an implanted person.

  Why are Americans debating?

  An emotional debate has raged between those who say the technology is vital for medical progress and those who say it creates an unlevel playing field for those who do not have the implant. Scientists and people with disabilities have claimed that neural implants can cure disease, but many middle-class voters and religious groups are opposed.

  Why has the debate turned violent?

  Government funding of brain implantable devices has been blocked and the US Food and Drug Administration (FDA) recalled the most popular type of implant. Discrimination against implanted individuals was legalized. Some implantees responded with a series of violent attacks. American pundits believe these attacks may have provoked an even more violent backlash from regular citizens.

  I get inside the Cathedral of Learning by scaling the back side of the building. The front is guarded by police and mobbed by demonstrators. But whole hog, the soot-stained concrete wall is alive and writhing with virtual handholds, friction estimates, and climbing routes. My fingers are steel claws. It takes three minutes to solve the tower wall, thirty more seconds to wriggle in an arched window.

  If anyone saw me, it’s too late to matter.

  And there are plenty who could have. I can feel the roar of a thousand people outside rumbling through the structural bones of the building. The lawn out front is packed with Pure Pride supporters. A thousand pairs of eyes turned up toward a double wood-plank door perched above a three-story arch. It leads to a wrought iron balcony big enough for one man and a nest of microphones.

  Senator Vaughn stands there now, framed in ornate stonework.

  I sprint down dim hallways, praying that Lyle hasn’t beaten me here. I’m faintly aware that I’m gasping for breath. My chest heaves as I negotiate cramped corridors, trying to reach the room that leads to that iron balcony.

  Finally, I spot the door at the end of a hallway. There’s a piece of white paper taped to it. PRIVATE, it says.

  Some minute vibration in the floor causes me to freeze, throw my back against a wall. A gray suit crosses farther down the hallway, patrolling the building. I watch him, holding my breath, letting my eyes taste the shadows.

  The guard doesn’t seem upset or panicked. Lyle isn’t here yet. Nobody must have reported me climbing the wall yet, either. There is still time to save Vaughn’s life. Time enough to stop Lyle from triggering a civil war.

  In a fuzzy way, I realize that I can see the sound I’m making. Every careful step I take closer to the door sends a ripple racing over the tile, like splashes through a puddle. Each quiet breath I take dissipates quickly to silence. Surgically planting each foot, I manage to creep closer while eliminating the ripples of visible sound.

  This is the only door that leads to Vaughn, and it’s under constant surveillance. Well, almost constant.

  Gray suit paces a few more feet, turns. The door is unwatched for a split second. Observing the smooth, relaxed muscles in gray suit’s neck, I leap across the hallway. As his muscles contract and his bald head begins to turn, I knife the door open with my fingers and ease my body through. A gaze estimate appears like a spotlight projected from gray sui
t’s eyes, racing down the hallway. It lands on the door as it closes the last few inches.

  A soft snick and I am in the empty room.

  I crouch and listen as gray suit approaches. Watch the rippling light from his footsteps swell under the door. He nears, stops. Slowly, the doorknob turns as he checks it. Turns all the way, pauses, then lets it flip back.

  He keeps walking.

  Now I allow myself to breathe. This room is a stone alcove. The carved ceiling folds into itself over the polished marble floor. The far wall is dominated by arched wooden double doors that lead to the wrought iron balcony and to Vaughn.

  I’m too late. He’s already giving his speech.

  A line of light runs between the doors. From the other side, I can hear Vaughn speaking. He enunciates each word into the microphones. This is it: Vaughn is outside delivering his master stroke. If he claims to have identified the villain behind Astra, well, there’s nothing I can do about it now.

  From the sound of it, I’m only hearing the tail end of the speech.

  “I do not stand before you today, I stand with you,” says Vaughn in a measured tone. His magnified voice echoes against the hard buildings outside. “We who are gathered here today, made in the image of the Almighty, stand together in naked defiance of martyrs and terrorists.

  “I stand with you, arm in arm at the edge of the abyss. And together, we stand stronger than any man-made steel ever beaten in a foundry. And though vicious extremists may lash out at us, we continue to stand together firmly, without fear, and with the knowledge that we stand for America.

  “And that is why, mere blocks away from the medical laboratories where this grave threat to our nation was born, and mere blocks from where it will soon be eliminated, I ask you all once again that you not retaliate. We have the amp problem firmly under control. Violence will not right the wrongs. It will not solve our problems. And it will not best serve the interests of our children, those born and those who have yet to join us.”

  The air reverberates with the dull impact of thousands of dutifully clapping hands. The temblor builds slowly, growing until the shadowed room itself hums as if it were on a launchpad. A few angry catcalls pierce the applause as it begins to fade. But judging from the general response, Vaughn’s message seems to have been accepted.

  “Thank you,” says Vaughn. “God bless America.”

  And the crack of light splits in two.

  Joseph Vaughn stands before me, a stark black silhouette against bright gray Pittsburgh skies. A great writhing mass of humanity spreads out behind him like a cloak.

  Before I know what’s happening, I’ve got two fistfuls of his shirt and I’m yanking him inside. I kick the double doors shut, muting the clamor outside. Drop my forearm under his chin and ram him up against the wall before he can make a squeak.

  “Where’s Lyle?” I ask.

  He snarls and I notice he’s bitten his lip. Those white canines peek out at me, dipped in blood. “Don’t know, Mr. Gray,” he says. “He and I are done. Our transaction is complete. He performed his duties and I paid him handsomely.”

  “Why didn’t you name me as head of Astra?”

  Vaughn eyes me greedily. “Because you had escaped. But now here you are. Lucky me.”

  His eyes go to the door and I know he’s waiting for those gray suits. It’s a good bet they’ll show any minute. But the guys with walkie-talkies are the least of my worries. They’re only human, after all.

  “You’ve got no idea what’s about to happen,” I whisper.

  Vaughn struggles to straighten himself against the wall. He pushes against my forearm with a soft palm. I don’t let it budge. “I would suggest that you get your fucking amp hands off me,” he spits. “You think your little friends in the camps have it bad right now? Do you have any clue what those people out there would do if I were harmed?”

  I relax my grip, but keep him pinned. Keep my eyes inches from his face, watching every expression that sweeps over his face.

  “That’s exactly why Lyle is going to kill you,” I say.

  Vaughn shakes his head.

  “Lyle Crosby and I built the Pure Human Citizen’s Council together from nothing,” he says. “Pure Pride was an idea that he and I hashed out in a basement nearly a decade ago. The organization runs on fear, Gray. Fear needs violence. Pure Pride required the intellect of a great man and the bloodlust of a savage. Now let me go or I yell.”

  I uncurl my fingers from his shirt. When I speak, my own voice echoes in my ears. “You think that you used Lyle against his own kind,” I say. “But you’ve been used. He won’t stop.”

  Vaughn laughs in my face. Hot breath rolling over my cheeks. With a sharp tug, he yanks my arm off his chest and I let him. He steps back and wipes the blood off his mouth with his hand. Looks at it and shakes his head.

  “We’ve worked together for a decade. The man hates himself, pure and simple. And there’s no way out of it. The implant changes your brain patterns over the years. A little nudge here, a nudge there. Even if Lyle were able to remove the technology and still function … he would never be a man again. He knows that. It’s why he never wanted it to happen to another person. And that was a guarantee that I could provide.”

  Vaughn pulls a white handkerchief out of his breast pocket and dabs at his lip. “We’ve got the research shut down and seized. Control over the doctors. The existing amps are corralled and imprisoned. We won. It’s over. Lyle Crosby got everything he wanted out of our arrangement.”

  I hear a familiar acid chuckle behind me. Stepping away from Vaughn, I slowly turn around. My eyes devour the light, analyzing.

  Lyle.

  Leaning across the open doorway like a butcher knife buried in a kitchen table. He’s wearing black jeans and a wrinkled cowboy shirt with pearl buttons. There is a smear of blood on his chest. A gray-suited body of a guard sprawled at his feet. In his right hand is a dead-black Glock .44 semiautomatic pistol. Index finger inside the trigger guard. He casually reaches up and scratches his temple with the slide of the gun. The fluorescent orange sight dot hovers, mesmerizing.

  “I wouldn’t say I got everything I wanted,” he says. Lazily, Lyle extends his arm. Pulls the trigger without the slightest hesitation.

  Three, two, one, go.

  By the time the bullet leaves the barrel of the gun, I’m moving fast as a reflection in the mirror. I feel the light of the sudden searing muzzle flash blaze across my retinas. Tiny meteorites of gunpowder residue impact my cheeks and forehead as I lunge forward.

  The bullet passes by. Not meant for me.

  Twisting, my palm closes across the slide of the gun. The brass cartridge arcs past my face, end over end. The bullet itself is ten feet away, vaporizing a hole in Vaughn’s expensive suit, tearing through the meat of his pectoral muscle, shattering a rib and a clavicle, and spraying the wall behind him with pieces of his shoulder blade.

  As I tear the gun from his hands, Lyle depresses the magazine release with his thumb. Then he lets go of the gun altogether. The magazine, pregnant with rounds, drops away.

  Vaughn staggers with a plume of red mist erupting from his chest. His knees hinge drunkenly and he falls. The side of his face audibly slaps the tile wall. A wet, coughing bark grates out of his mouth as the weight of his body meets the ground. The head of the PHCC and second-term senator from Pennsylvania lies still.

  I land and roll with the empty gun in my hand. The ejected magazine is too far away. With a tug from both hands, I disengage the slide and smack the top of the gun against my palm, popping the barrel out. I land in a crouch, pieces of the Glock raining around my feet.

  Vaughn screams hoarsely, face buried in the crook of his arm.

  “Aw, quit your crying,” says Lyle, a feline smile curled into the corners of his mouth.

  “You promised I could turn him in,” gasps Vaughn. “You promised.”

  Lyle clucks his tongue. “Listen to yourself. You used to be so put together. When I found you, boy, you had ba
lls. Now you’re just a sad, fat, old reggie.”

  I’m on my feet. Circling toward Vaughn. Hands up and ready for when Lyle attacks.

  “Help me,” says Vaughn.

  “He wants me to help him,” Lyle says to me, rolling his eyes. With one eye on me, he steps over Vaughn and spits words at the sweating, bleeding man.

  “You were never in control, genius. After I leaked the existence of Echo Squad and got us disbanded, I did a nationwide search to find a guy just like you. What happened to your daughter was such a sad story. I constructed the bones of the PHCC for you. Told you what you wanted to hear. But, goddamn, how could you not know by now? You never did figure it out. I only built you to destroy you.”

  “No,” says Vaughn, and he is crying now. “No, we did it together.”

  “I made you more than a man. I made you a symbol. You’re the most human human there is, boy. And here in a minute, when I toss your screaming ass over that balcony and you go splitter splatter in front of the ten million zealots we created? Hoo boy. Then a real war’s gonna start.”

  “What about the amps?” I hear myself say.

  “We trigger a life-or-death situation and force them to fight. Force them to overcome.”

  “They’ll die.”

  “Maybe. But you gotta understand, Gray. In this world, I’m a broke-dick dog. A tool to be wielded by another man. But in the new world? Shit, I’m a warlord. A barbarian king. Free to spread my dominion over this nation. Who knows, man, maybe the world.”

  “You’re going to get five hundred thousand people slaughtered.”

  “Aw, I’m disappointed in you. You’re looking at the little picture, Gray. You think Europe is going to allow a genocide? Rest of the world is already using implants. In China I hear they’re state issued, for Chrissake. This thing is gonna go global quick. And we’ll be heading the charge.”