A Better World (The Brilliance Trilogy Book 2)

by Marcus Sakey

  Ethan had made two stoplights but caught the third. His fingers tapped at the wheel as he waited.

  “You’re saying that after one day without deliveries, stores go empty?”

  “The modern world is intricately connected. Businesses like grocery stores operate under what is known as just-in-time inventory. If you buy a can of beans, the scanner tells the computer to order more, and they arrive in the next shipment. It’s an incredibly complex arrangement of systems. The Children of Darwin seem to understand that. Their attacks target the weak points in our own systems.”

  “Mr. Cornell, you’re with the Department of Analysis and Response. Isn’t preventing this sort of attack what the DAR is for?”

  “First of all, thank you for having me. Second, I would like to remind everyone, including you, ma’am, to keep calm. This is a temporary problem caused by a violent but small terrorist organization—”

  Ethan sped east, past a restaurant, a car lot, a high school. A new luxury market had opened near the river not long ago. It was pricey enough that people might not have thought of it. Even if you’re right, you won’t be for long, so plan your moves. First goal is baby formula, whatever vegan moonbeam variety they have. Then milk. As much meat as you can pile in the cart. Skip the perishables, go for canned and frozen vegetables—

  The road to the store was jammed, cars honking and flashing, double-stacked in a single-wide lane. Forty yards ahead, he could see a mob surrounding the entrance. As he watched, a woman tried to force her cart through the crowd. Cries went up, and the ring of people tightened. A man in a business suit yanked at her shopping bags. The woman yelled, but he filled his arms and spun away, knocking the cart over in the process. Cans and bottles spilled across the pavement, and everyone dove for them. A thin guy tucked a chicken under his arm like a football and sprinted away. Two ladies with expensive hair fought over a gallon of milk.

  “—again, we expect to have this problem under control soon. If everyone can just stay calm and work together, we’ll get through this.”

  There was a crash, and the front window of the grocery store collapsed. The crowd surged in, yelling.

  Ethan turned the car around.

  When they’d moved to Cleveland, the real estate agent had assured them that Detroit Shoreway was the neighborhood they were looking for: a mile from the lakefront, two from downtown, solid schools, tree-lined streets, and a friendly community of people “like them”—basically all the advantages of the suburbs without being one. A great place to raise kids, the agent had said with a knowing look, as though visualizing sperm and egg meeting.

  It had taken some getting used to. Ethan was a native New Yorker and mistrusted any place where you needed a car. Hell, a couple of years ago if anyone had suggested he’d end up in Cleveland, he’d have scoffed. But Cleveland was where Abe had set up his lab, and despite the fact that the guy was the most colossally arrogant prick Ethan had ever met, he was also a genius, and the second-place spot at the Advanced Genomics Institute was too good to pass up.

  In the end, he’d been surprised. Much as he loved Manhattan, you could live in the same apartment for a decade and never meet your neighbors. It was a pleasant contrast to dwell amidst the simple Midwestern kindness, the backyard barbecues, and the I’ll-get-your-mail-you-can-borrow-my-lawnmower-we’re-all-in-this-together vibe.

  Plus, he loved having a house. Not an apartment, not a condo, an actual house, with a basement and a yard. Their house, where they could turn the music up as loud as they wanted, where Violet’s midnight cries weren’t waking a downstairs neighbor. He was a reasonably handy guy, could wire a light fixture and drywall a nursery, and it had been such pleasure to make the place theirs one sweaty afternoon at a time, and then to sit on his front porch with a beer and watch the sun set through his maple trees.

  Now he wondered if he’d been fooling himself. Manhattan might be congested and expensive, DC might be sprawling and hectic, but there was no way the markets wouldn’t have milk.

  Yesterday you would have said the same about Cleveland.

  He killed the engine and sat in the dark. Tomorrow he could drive out of town, hit the highway, find formula somewhere.

  Yeah, but she’s hungry tonight. Man up, Daddy.

  Ethan climbed out of the CRV and headed for his neighbor’s house, a solid gingerbread thing with ivy devouring the southern half. They had three boys spread out at metronomic two-year intervals, and the rough sounds of play thumped through the walls.

  “Hey, buddy,” Jack Ford said when he opened the door. “What’s up?”

  “Listen, I’m sorry to ask, but we’re out of formula, and the stores are cleaned out. You have any?”

  “Sorry. Tommy’s been off it for like six months.”

  “Right.” Sirens started, a cop or an ambulance not too far away. “How about regular milk?”

  “Sure thing.” Jack paused. “You know what? I’ve got some evaporated milk in the basement. You want it?”

  Ethan smiled. “You’re a lifesaver.”

  “What neighbors are for, right? Come on in, have a beer.”

  Jack’s house was crayon art and blaring cartoons and the smell of casserole. Ethan followed him down creaky basement steps into a half-finished space. On a carpet remainder in the corner, two recliners faced a huge tri-d screen, a new model with the enhanced projection field. The rest of the basement was given over to deep shelves packed with canned goods and cased food.

  Ethan whistled. “You’ve got your own a grocery store down here.”

  “Yeah, you know. Once a Boy Scout.” His neighbor bobbed his head, a not-quite embarrassed motion, then opened a mini-fridge and pulled out a couple of Buds. He dropped in a recliner, gestured to the other one. “So the supermarkets are empty?”

  “The one I was just at, people started looting.”

  “It’s the abnorms,” Jack said. “The situation with them is getting worse every day.”

  Ethan gave a noncommittal nod. He knew a lot of brilliants; while abnorms raised the bar in every field, science and technology were where their advantages were clearest. Sure, there were days when it drove him nuts, when he knew that despite degrees from Columbia and Yale, there were people out there he would simply never be able to match. It was like playing pickup basketball with the Lakers; no matter how hot your skills were otherwise, on that court someone could always stuff the ball in your face.

  Still, what were you going to do? Stop playing? No thanks.

  “Every generation believes the world is going to hell, right?” Ethan sipped his beer. “The Cold War, Vietnam, nuclear proliferation, whatever. Impending doom is our natural state.”

  “Yeah, but no milk in the grocery store? That’s not America.”

  “It’ll be okay. Radio said the National Guard is going to start distributing food.”

  “To half a million people?” Jack shook his head. “Let me ask you something. You study evolution, right?”

  “Sort of. I’m an epigeneticist. I study the way the world and our DNA interact.”

  “That sounds like a wild simplification,” Jack said with a smile. “But I’ll take it. What I want to know, have there been times like this? When a brand-new group just, you know, appeared?”

  “Sure. Invasive species, when organisms are moved to a new ecosystem. Asian carp, zebra mussels, Dutch elm disease.”

  “That’s what I thought. Those were all pretty disastrous, right? I mean, I’m not a bigot; I don’t have anything against the gifted. It’s the change that scares me. The world is so fragile. How are we supposed to live with a shift like this?”

  It was a question often heard these days, bandied about at dinner parties, debated on news programs and in feedcasts. When the gifted had first been discovered, people had been more intrigued than anything else. After all, one percent of the population was a curiosity. It was only as the one percent grew to adulthood that the world had finally come to realize they represented a fundamental shift.

&n
bsp; The problem was, from there it was a tiny step to hating them. “I hear you, man. But people aren’t carp. We gotta find a way.”

  “Of course. You’re right.” Jack heaved himself out of his chair. “Anyway, I’m sure it’ll work out. Let’s see about that milk.”

  Ethan followed him through the basement. The shelves were stacked four high with cases of canned food, batteries, blankets. Jack pulled a twenty-four-pack of evaporated milk from the shelf. “Here we go.”

  “A couple of cans would be fine.”

  “Take it, it’s no big deal.”

  “Can I at least pay you for it?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  Part of him wanted to protest further, but he thought of Violet, and the empty supermarket, and he just said, “Thanks, Jack. I’ll replace it.”

  “That’s fine.” His neighbor gave him a long look. “Ethan, this may sound weird, but do you have protection?”

  “A pack of condoms on the nightstand.”

  Jack smiled, but only out of courtesy.

  Ethan said, “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “Come here.” He walked to a metal cabinet and started fiddling with the combination lock. “Until the National Guard gets this all sorted, I’d feel better if you had one of these.”

  The gun cabinet was neat, rifles and shotguns locked into stands, half a dozen pistols on pegs. Ethan said, “I’m not really a gun guy.”

  Jack ignored him, took down a pistol. “This is a .38 revolver. Simplest gun in the world. All you need to do is pull the trigger.” Fluorescent lights gleamed off oily metal.

  “That’s okay, man.” Ethan forced a smile, held up the milk. “Really, this is plenty.”

  “Take it. Just in case. Put it on a closet shelf and forget about it.”

  Ethan wanted to make a joke, but the expression on his neighbor’s face was serious. The guy’s helping you out. Don’t offend him. “Thanks.”

  “Hey, like I said. What neighbors are for.”

  After the last two hours, walking in the front door of his house was like stepping into a hug. Ethan snapped the lock and stepped out of his shoes. Gregor Mendel sauntered over and rubbed his head against Ethan’s ankles, purring softly. Ethan rubbed the cat’s neck, then picked up the case of milk and followed the warm light flowing down the hall, looking for his girls. He found them in the kitchen, Amy holding Violet to her chest.

  “Oh thank God.” His wife’s face lit up to see him. “I was getting scared. Have you heard the news? They’re saying that people are looting stores.”

  “Yeah.” He held out his arms, and Amy passed Violet to him. His daughter was awake and impossibly beautiful, neckless and pudgy with a shock of auburn hair. “I was there. Everything is cleaned out. The milk is a gift from Jack.”

  “Lucky he had some.” She opened a can and poured it into a baby bottle. “You want to feed her?”

  Ethan leaned back against the counter and switched his daughter to his left arm, bracing her weight on his hip. She saw the bottle and started to cry, a desperate sound like he might be teasing her. He popped the nipple in her greedy mouth. “Is this a whole can?”

  “Five ounces.” She read the label. “It’s pretty caloric. We can probably water them down to stretch it longer.”

  “Why? There are twenty-three more cans.”

  “She eats four times a day. That’s not even a week.”

  “The stores will be figured out by then.”

  “Still,” she said.

  He nodded. “You’re right. Good idea.”

  They stood for a moment, both dead on their feet, but with a sweetness to it too. Everything had a sweetness these days, a golden glow like he was watching his own life in some sun-faded movie print. Becoming a father made everything fraught with meaning.

  “Hey,” he said, “want to hear something funny?”

  “Always.”

  “Jack’s a survival nut. His basement is stocked like a bomb shelter. He even gave me a gun.”

  “What?”

  “I know.” He chuckled. “He wouldn’t let me leave without it.”

  “You have it with you? Now?”

  Ethan balanced Violet in one arm, pinned the bottle under his chin, and pulled the gun from his jacket pocket. “Crazy, huh?”

  Amy’s eyes widened. “Why does he think we need a gun?”

  “Said we should have it for protection.”

  “You tell him we had condoms?”

  “He didn’t seem to think that was enough.”

  Amy said, “Can I see it?”

  “Careful, it’s loaded.”

  She weighed it gingerly on an open palm. “It’s heavier than I would’ve thought.”

  “I know.” Ethan popped the baby against his shoulder and started rubbing her back. Violet promptly belched like a trucker. “You’re not freaked out about it?”

  “A little.” She set it on the counter. “But it’s probably not a terrible idea. Just in case.”

  “Just in case of what?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Indestructible’s Jake Flynn out of the closet!

  Heartthrob Jake Flynn is well known for his abs. But it’s the fact that he’s an abnorm that’s startling people. Last week the singer-turned-box-office-sensation announced he was a tier-five brilliant, a fact never before revealed.

  Now, in an exclusive interview with People magazine, the hunky star comes clean about life, love, and being brilliant.

  PEOPLE:

  Let’s start with your gift. You’re hyperthymesitic. What does that mean?

  FLYNN:

  I remember certain trivial details with exceptional clarity. If you give me a date, I can tell you what I wore, what the weather was like, that kind of thing.

  PEOPLE:

  May 3, 1989.

  FLYNN:

  One of those days when you know spring has arrived. Blue skies, puffy clouds, the smell of things growing. I wore Spiderman pajamas. [Laughs.] I was five.

  PEOPLE:

  You’ve always been private about being gifted. Why?

  FLYNN:

  If I talked about it, that would have been the way I was framed. “Abnorm actor to star in blah, blah, blah.” It’s not that important to me, and I didn’t want it to be that important to anyone else.

  PEOPLE:

  Then why come out now?

  FLYNN:

  People are getting so worked up about norms and abnorms. It felt like by not mentioning it, I was part of the problem. I just wanted to say hey, you all thought I was one thing, and now you know I’m something else. And yet nothing’s really changed. So chill.

  PEOPLE:

  Your gift must make learning lines easier.

  FLYNN:

  I wish. It’s not a matter of memory. I lose my car keys all the time.

  PEOPLE:

  Abnorms are hot right now. What do you say to people who suggest you came out as a publicity stunt?

  FLYNN:

  That’s ridiculous.

  PEOPLE:

  Why?

  FLYNN:

  For one thing, it’s about the twentieth thing I think of myself as. I’m a husband, I’m a father, I’m an American, I’m an actor, I’m a singer, I’m a Cubs fan, I’m a dog lover. On and on. After all of that stuff, it’s like, oh yeah, I’m also an abnorm.

  PEOPLE:

  What do you think of the growing conflict between norms and abnorms?

  FLYNN:

  I hate it. For me being an abnorm is no different than having blue eyes. I get that there are tier ones out there, exceptional people who are changing the paradigm. But there are a lot more folks like me. I mean seriously—I know that it was raining in Denver on June 9th of last year. Because of that, my government wants to implant a microchip in my neck?

  PEOPLE:

  When you put it that way, the Monitoring Oversight Initiative does seem a little silly.

  FLYNN:

  The problem is that the media portrays this li
ke there are two factions, norms and abnorms, and we’re all supposed to choose sides. But really, it’s a spectrum. At one end you have President Walker murdering his own people because he’s afraid of what brilliants represent, and he wants the power to contain them. On the other, you have abnorm terrorists saying it shouldn’t be about equal rights, that brilliants should rule the world. The extremists are the problem. Most people just want to live their lives.

  PEOPLE:

  Speaking of lives, you and your wife, Victoria’s Secret model Amy Schiller, recently had a baby girl—

  FLYNN:

  Oh God. Not the name question.

  PEOPLE:

  It’s an unusual name.

  FLYNN:

  I don’t know what to tell you, man. We want her to be her own person, to not feel like she has to fit the world’s constraints, and we both really like Thai food, so . . .

  PEOPLE:

  Noodle Flynn.

  FLYNN:

  Won’t be any others in her kindergarten class.

  CHAPTER 3

  He was being the spider when the SUV finally stopped.

  The truck was black. There were two men inside. It had been coasting to a halt for almost three minutes. It would be three more before the doors opened. Then five minutes to cross the half dozen paces to where he sat. He had plenty of time to be the spider. An ocean of time, massive, deep, crushing, and cold. Time like the Mariana Trench, thirty-six thousand feet deep. Time that weighed and warped.