“What about the President? He's a man of God. He’s against transhumanism. Maybe he's the true leader? Maybe he'll pass laws and force the issues—and get everything back on track.”
“No way—he's lame too. He's just a petty politician manipulated by lobbyists and money. Besides, Belinas and him are already bedfellows. If I had the President's kind of power, I would hang all these transhumanists in public. That’s the kind of leadership we need.”
The IMN co-anchor chimed in to the anchorwoman beside him, “Do you think they mean Reverend Belinas, head of Redeem Church? And the President—our President of the United States of America?”
“I can’t speculate on that,” Patricia Hayes answered back cautiously. “That's for the authorities to unravel.”
Only twelve feet from the news anchors—yet out of view of the cameras—the senior IMN producer began stomping his feet and waving his arms. Furiously miming with his hand over his mouth, he ordered them to shut up. Then he mouthed, “Don't implicate any national leaders, you idiots.”
Nobody in the newsroom wanted to jeopardize his job or bring trouble to the station over a story as controversial as this. The country was already tense enough. And the unfolding terrorist event had the potential to cajole the pendulum of public opinion and sensibility.
Patricia Hayes watched her producer and quickly said, “Sure—so then let’s discuss the background of this Jethro Knights a little more. He’s the founder of that new radical group, Transhuman Citizen. Our sources tell us he's an International Geographic man and a Victoria graduate. And if I remember correctly, didn't he make a heated criticism, which had caused some controversy at that major transhumanism conference last year? In fact, wasn’t he the one who threw the rock back at the protestors?”
Reverend Belinas stood still, overwhelmed with shock, watching the television. He was incredulous that these things were happening. Three minutes ago he was deep in his peaceful morning prayer, one of his favorite moments of the day. Now the world was hearing his name connected to a potentially murderous crime. He yelled at his bodyguard, “Get me Senator Michaelson on the line immediately. This is going to fucking blow up!”
The bodyguard dialed, deeply afraid. It was the first time anyone had ever heard Belinas curse.
************
The television news channels continued their speculation about who Jethro Knights and Transhuman Citizen were, sending their in-house researchers sprint-searching to track down as much information as possible. Each channel came up with different ideas and unique angles. Some implemented video feeds they had in their digital libraries from the 25th Anniversary Transhumanism Conference. Others aired footage from the Victoria University town hall forum. Still others spliced in images from Transhuman Citizen’s website and passages of the TEF Manifesto.
The term “Transhuman Citizen” quickly became the most Internet-searched name in the country that hour. The searches all led to the website of Jethro’s organization, which viewers found simple, elegant, and expedient in describing what Transhuman Citizen and its philosophy, TEF, represented. The site portrayed a streamlined direct-action group, well-conceived and aptly financed, with top executive leadership and a handful of internationally recognized scientists in support. There were offices with physical addresses all over the world: Paris, Beijing, Buenos Aries, Sydney. There were multilingual secretaries and fundraisers in each foreign branch to answer telephone calls and emails. A viewer came away impressed, convinced—believing this could be one of the most vocal and formidable arms of the transhuman movement, even if it seemed overly radical.
Inevitably, the police caught the story too. Only fourteen minutes after Jethro went live on television, sirens—first faint, then louder—raced toward the Cryotask building.
Once Jethro heard the sirens, he texted Oliver Mbaye:
Here we go. Step two.
Oliver texted back:
In booth, waiting. Entrance vent locked.
Jethro's plan involved catching the four terrorists in the windowless, concrete basement. He assumed they would try to escape the same way they had entered once they saw police outside. Two nights before, Jethro and Oliver installed a heavy bulletproof security door with deadbolts at the entrance to the basement. All Jethro had to do was quietly follow the terrorists to the underground room and lock them in. The police could take care of the rest. The bombs weren't scheduled to go off until the employees arrived, so there would be at least an hour to collect and dismantle them—or throw them into the nearby San Francisco Bay.
Everything changed when Jethro, watching his monitors, saw Refia reach into his pocket and grab his vibrating cell phone. The terrorist was surprised to see his brother's caller ID on the screen. He knew his brother would only call at that exact moment for an absolute emergency. As soon as Refia answered, the voice began shouting madly at him.
“They know! They know fucking everything, man!”
“Huh? Calm down, bro,” whispered Refia. “What are you talking about? Why are you calling me right now? You know what I'm doing.”
“Look behind the painting in front of you, brother.”
“What?”
“They're filming you do this, Refia. At Cryotask.”
“Calm down. Are you drinking again? What are you talking about?”
“Just look. Behind. The painting. In front of you,” the man said, desperately trying to control himself.
“Look behind the painting? Hold on.”
Refia walked up to the Monet knockoff and examined it. He poked his index finger at a tiny tube flush with the canvas, gradually realizing that it was a micro-camera lens. He lifted the painting and saw wires leading into the wall.
“What the hell?”
“Do you see now? It's a fucking hidden video camera!”
“Jesus Christ. How do you know this?”
“It's live, I'm telling you. The whole thing is on TV. I'm watching you right now—holding the painting up. Looking at it with your crooked teeth. There are cameras all over the place. I’m watching Johnny, Brian, and Diego too. All of you are IMN headline news.”
“That's insane!” Refia exclaimed, flabbergasted.
“I know it is. But still—the whole country is watching you, man. The entire building has live hidden cameras everywhere. There's that transhuman guy, Jethro Knights, inside the building somewhere. He set you up, man. He can even hear this conversation. Everyone can hear this conversation. I'm hearing you talk to me on TV. It's crazy.”
“You're insane.”
“No, man. The entire country is watching you. They’re hearing you talk about the church. About the boss. About everything.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Refia said, shooting paranoid, furtive glances around the room. He slowly realized the magnitude of what was occurring.
He ran over to a television hanging on the wall and switched it on. A few seconds later, when the picture came into view, there he was on Channel 2, San Francisco local news. Bold red headlines ran across the screen: Live Breaking News. The anchorperson was speculating about whom the caller speaking with the terrorist might be. Then the broadcast cut to Jethro Knights in a small room on the third floor, his weapon pulled.
“Oh my God,” Refia hissed. A moment later he faintly heard a police car with its sirens sounding. Then another. And another. Until the noises became so loud that he knew they were only about half a block away and coming for him. He ran to the nearest window and saw six squad cars rushing up the street. Behind them was a SWAT team in a black courier van. Within seconds of parking, uniformed men bearing shotguns and automatic weapons drained out of the vehicles. Officers rapidly cordoned off the street with yellow “caution” tape and began throwing burning flares onto nearby sidewalks. Police car lights flashed everywhere. News vans were also arriving. Reporters jumped out and ran towards the scene with cameras and microphones.
“What can I do?” Refia shouted into the phone, backing away from the window and pulli
ng out his handgun. “We have to escape.”
“No, man. He's locked you in. The vent is bolted closed. He's planned it all.”
“Who?”
“That Jethro Knights guy. From Transhuman Citizen. Don't know who they are. It doesn't matter. He’s just some damn transhumanist. But you're locked in and surrounded.”
There was silence on the phone—a profound reckoning began to occur.
“You won't be able to escape, Refia,” the brother said finally, solemnly hinting at something ominous.
“What can I do?” Refia asked. As he watched himself on television, however, he already knew what needed to be done.
His brother whispered, “You know what to do, bro. You're with God now. You wage His war. And protect His glory. Remember the training?”
“Yeah, I remember,” Refia answered quietly, reluctantly. He thought about the covert Redeem Church terrorist training camp in Wyoming, and of the arduous six months he spent there, preparing.
“Good, then finish the mission. May God's infinite might and peace be with you.”
Refia looked at the phone, mumbled farewell, and hung up. His brother was right. Refia stood up straighter, a man newly determined. He tore into his backpack and removed the master timer from its case. He stuck the device on top of a cryonics tank and re-calibrated it for ninety seconds.
Moments later, Jethro received a text from Zoe Bach:
They know. Exiting. Doubt u can catch them in basement.
A hidden video camera was just able to view the red numbers on the digital screen of the master timer. It showed eighty-three seconds left. Then eighty-two, eighty-one, eighty, . . . and downward.
A second text came through from Zoe, only ten seconds afterward:
No! Wrong! Suicide. Re-timing bombs. 73 sec ONLY. Get out!
A third text broke in from Oliver:
Get out of building NOW, Jethro! Suicide!
Jethro’s phone rang. It was Preston Langmore. Simultaneously, another call came in from Zoe. Jethro couldn’t answer or look at his phone anymore. There was no time. He took a final glance at the monitors to see where each terrorist was, then cocked his gun and launched himself out the bedroom door, towards the stairs.
In front of the Cryotask building, police bearing bullhorns yelled at spectators and neighbors congregating on the sidewalks: “Clear the street! Bomb blasts are imminent! Clear the area immediately!”
People hurried back inside their homes or ran away down the street.
Refia's backup man, Diego, who had heard the whole phone conversation between the brothers, lost his nerve when he saw the master timer tick to sixty seconds remaining. Afraid to die, he turned and flew down the stairs, abandoning the mission. He kicked open the front doors of the Cryotask building and sprinted outside. He was met by a cluster of police officers with drawn guns. A sharpshooter on the SWAT team shot him in the left knee as he ran towards the sidewalk. Diego yelped and fell to the ground. He gripped his leg in agony.
The terrorists on the first floor, Johnny and Brian, didn't know about the phone call from Refia's brother. Confused, they watched Diego dash past them out the entrance and get shot. It made no sense. Their instincts told them to quickly retreat to the basement. While they were running across the house they yelled at Refia on their headsets, asking him what the hell was going on? Johnny and Brian looked at each other in panic when they found the basement vent locked tight.
Forty feet directly above them, Jethro Knights descended from the third floor with incredible speed, jumping four steps at a time. He held his pistol in one hand and his cell phone in the other. But on the landing of the second floor, a gun exploded—and a bullet whizzed by his head. It caused him to misjudge a step, and he tumbled into a wall, dropping his handgun and phone. His weapon landed four feet away from him. He lifted himself up to grab it and heard a fuming voice in front of him.
“Touch your piece and I'll shoot you in the face.”
Jethro looked up and saw Refia pointing the barrel of a .38-caliber revolver directly at his head. The terrorist was only three feet away from him.
“You must be the bastard who did this,” Refia said.
A text from Langmore beeped and came through Jethro’s phone:
30 seconds! Get out NOW!
Refia walked over to Jethro's gun and kicked it down the rest of the stairs.
“Your fate is sealed with mine. You're going to die here and meet God. He’s going to judge you and send you to eternal hell with all these dead freaks, whether you like it or not.”
Jethro Knights stood up straight and focused on Refia, scanning the man up and down. Then Jethro’s lips formed a hearty, mocking grin. “Oh, I'd like that. I'd like very much to meet your god. And you're wrong about the dead freaks.”
Jethro’s reaction and answers caught Refia by surprise.
“Huh? What do you mean, you'd like that?”
“Because if I ever met your god, and it had the audacity to judge me and try to send me to your make-believe eternal hell, I'd kill it. I’d kill it mostly for being sadistic, but partly for being unimaginative. And no dead freaks are going anywhere. The three frozen patients that were here got moved out quietly last week and shipped out of state. No one gets held here too long; the earthquake danger of this city is too risky for long-term cryonics storage.”
It took a few seconds for Refia's mind to register this startling new information.
Eleven, ten, nine, eight, . . .
“Well, then what the hell are all those tanks doing up there, steaming and flashing lights?”
“They're empty and in storage, owned by transhumanists who haven't died yet. And fully insured as well, should anything happen to them. Apparently, your superiors didn't notice that before they assigned you this mission. Quite short-sighted, wouldn't you say?”
“Oh, you son of a bitch,” yelled Refia furiously. He cocked the trigger of his gun and prepared to shoot.
In that moment, many of the bombs on the first floor began detonating in a cacophony of explosions. Parts of the floor they stood on ripped apart and burst into flames. The blasts caused Jethro and Refia to be thrown into each other. The men instinctively latched arms and began wrestling. Each tried to headbutt the other. Refia freed his right arm and punched first, landing a fist on Jethro’s ear, which caused him to yelp. But there was no time to fight—the building swayed, ready to collapse. Both men could hardly keep their balance. Around them more explosions went off, and masses of wood and stone started to crack and fall on them.
Knowing there were only seconds left to escape, Jethro pushed hard off Refia and took a huge lunge towards a window ten feet away. Refia tried to grab him, but missed. The terrorist’s other hand lifted his gun and fired twice. One bullet missed widely, but the other grazed Jethro's shoulder. Before Refia could get off a third shot, he was rocked by the erupting bombs on the second story, causing a fireball to sweep over him. Refia fell backwards, screaming, swallowed by a pit of twisted blazing wood and collapsing walls.
The window in front of Jethro was still an opening to the outside, but its shape was contorting and closing with every step he took towards it. He felt like he was climbing a hurling mountain of debris. Fresh air, sunlight, and safety were now only four feet away. The last of the bomb blasts brought him within two feet of the shifting, cracked window. Heat and flames singed his hair and clothes. He made one last push to dive through the jagged glass, his left hand covering his face, his right hand pulling himself through the window sill. Around him, the building raced downward, collapsing on its foundation, glass splattering everywhere. Massive amounts of crushed wood, piping, and drywall jettisoned in every direction.
Jethro's dive threw him twelve feet into the air before he crashed onto a stone path outside. Warped building materials littered the ground. Behind him, a plume of black smoke hissed from where the house once stood, and a broken gas pipe accentuated the fire, torching the ruins like a flamethrower.
Viewers all aro
und the country held their breath. Many television stations caught the entire sequence on air, first using Jethro's inside cameras, then using cameras from news vans scattered outside Cryotask. It took almost a minute for the dust to clear from the demolished site. Near where the front entrance had stood, the shot Redeem Church terrorist was apprehended and handcuffed by police. Fifteen meters away, Jethro Knights limped from what was now a gigantic blazing inferno. Oliver Mbaye and a handful of policemen and firemen rushed to his aid, helping him to walk. His left ankle was visibly hurt, and a sizeable wound on his abdomen was bleeding heavily. Otherwise, he only had some scratches and one large cut on his right cheek. He refused to get into an ambulance, but accepted gauze for his stomach wound. A fireman carefully led him to a squad car, pushing reporters out of the way when they tried to interview him. Jethro quickly got into the back of the vehicle. The captain of the police force jumped in right next to him. A sergeant, waiting in the driver’s seat with the car running, immediately took off and drove them to the downtown police station.
“I hope you don't mind the limelight,” were the captain's first words to Jethro as they departed the chaotic scene. “Because after that stunt, you’re famous.”
Chapter 17
At a San Francisco police station, Jethro Knights was brought into an interrogation room with bright lights and a large, shatterproof, one-way viewing window. Inside the room were three chairs and a steel table. A nurse came in, gave Jethro some pain medication and bandaged his stomach wound. After she left, two local detectives in gray suits entered and introduced themselves. They were friendly, explaining that the interview was a standard and necessary procedure. They were careful not to insinuate Jethro was guilty of any crime—they just wanted information.
Jethro listened politely, but then told them they were wasting their time, and that they were going to be called off the case any minute.
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