by Marcus Sakey
It scared her. And so when she lined up her sights on the place he had knelt, she didn’t hold back. She held down the trigger and unloaded the rest of the magazine at him. The bullets ricocheted off the concrete, sparked off his rifle, and though she couldn’t say for sure, she thought she saw his body fall.
She dropped to the floor, removed the magazine from her rifle, and reached for a new one. The bag was empty. She grimaced, said, “Jolene?”
As she looked over, she saw Jolene on the floor, arms outstretched and a strangely placid expression on her face. Staying low, Natalie hurried over. No point in checking for a pulse. There was a neat hole in her forehead.
Something tore in her then. She hadn’t known the woman long, had really only had the one conversation, but they had fought side by side, and that had connected them in a way she’d never understood before. Like her, Jolene wasn’t here for ideology, or Tesla, or even her own survival. She’d fought for a child. Natalie took a trembling breath. Laid a hand on Jolene’s eyes and closed them. Then she grabbed her dead friend’s spare ammunition and moved to the next window.
The moment she popped her head up, there was a fusillade of fire from the street below, flashes from a dozen spots. She dropped, fought the shake in her hands. The street had been filled with attackers, men sprinting across with impunity. For the first time in a long time, Natalie let herself look around.
When the attack started, there had been eight of them spread out across the floor. Eight men and women, including Jolene and Kurt and the pudgy girl with the dog. Jolene was down, Kurt was nowhere to be seen, and the dog was whimpering and pawing at the girl’s body. Best Natalie could tell, she was the only one left.
Their line had failed. The Sons had broken past the building. It was over.
You don’t know that. They’d been hit hard here, but maybe the rest of the city hadn’t taken as much fire. She had to believe that, because otherwise it meant the militia was streaming in everywhere, and how long could it be before they reached the city center and the bunker where her children hid?
She didn’t dare even crouch, instead crawled across the floor, pushing aside broken glass and spent shell casings. Her file cabinet was shredded, the metal punched with scores of holes through which paper scraps bled. The d-pad was already active; she’d left it up so that she could glance at the map as she reloaded, although she had been too focused to actually do it very often.
The city glowed in swirling colors like fire. It wasn’t just their position that had broken. The Sons had gotten in through a dozen spots, and pitched battles raged all over the city. Epstein’s towers still held, but the colors showed the militia drawing closer from every direction.
They’d failed. Somehow everything hadn’t been enough.
Natalie stared. Tried to think what to do. She was low on ammunition and wildly outnumbered. The situation had flip-flopped, and now she was on the outside, and the killers were between her and her children. There was no way she could get through town.
She imagined Nick in this position and knew what he would think. Fight until they kill you. She loaded a fresh magazine, readied herself to face that fire again.
As she was about to stand, the battle map disappeared from her screen. There was a flash of an image, and not only from her d-pad, she saw, but from Jolene’s. Others across the floor lit up too, casting bright lights against the ceiling. A ten-foot wall screen mounted on the opposite building glowed to life. And on all of them, the same image. A surreal, impossible picture.
Her ex-husband.
CHAPTER 45
When he’d thought of the idea earlier, Cooper had imagined a tri-d studio—lights, makeup, and more importantly, a professional. A newscaster, maybe, or Jakob Epstein. Someone who talked into cameras for a living.
“Time is a factor,” Erik said over their video link. “And credibility.”
“Exactly. That’s why it should be someone who knows what they’re doing—”
“They will not listen to us.”
“What makes you think they’ll listen to me?”
“Statistically also unlikely. Odds of success are—”
“Okay,” Shannon cut in. “That’s enough confidence-boosting, Erik. Is the link ready?”
“Yes. We’ve activated dormant Trojan horse software. Estimated efficiency puts the message on 96.4 percent of screens in America.”
“Jesus Christ,” Cooper said.
Shannon lowered the d-pad. “Give us a second.”
They were still at the airfield, in the drone hangar. The lights were on, and Cooper felt strangely exposed under them, their sodium glare blasting out against the darkness of the city outskirts. The steady pop-pop-pop of gunfire continued in the distance, although it seemed quieter than before, which he was having a hard time imagining was a good thing. Shannon sat on a stool with her broken leg extended. His gift could read her pain in the sheen of neck sweat and the too-wide pupils. She said, “You okay?”
“I know this was my idea.” He rubbed at his eyes. “But all of a sudden I don’t know what to say.”
“Just open your mouth and let the truth come out. I believe in you.” She quirked her crooked smile at him. “So don’t blow it, okay?”
Before he could respond, she pointed the d-pad camera at him, said, “Now, Erik.”
“Activating.”
Cooper swallowed his retort. Stared at the lens. Tried to imagine his face suddenly appearing on every d-pad, every phone, every tri-d in the country. Quickly decided that was a bad idea. Panic seized his belly. What was he supposed to say that could change the world?
Don’t talk to the world.
Talk to Todd and Kate.
“My name is Nick Cooper,” he said. “I am . . . I was a soldier, then an agent at the Department of Analysis and Response, an advisor to President Clay, and an ambassador to New Canaan. I’m an abnorm, I’m a patriot, and above all, I’m a father fighting for his children.”
He took a breath, let it out. The air rushing past his broken tooth sparked electric. “Tesla is under attack by an illegal militia. The sound you hear is gunfire. Right now people on both sides are dying. Normals and gifted, men and women.
“Thirty years ago the world changed. We didn’t ask for it. We didn’t expect it. Since 1980 we’ve been trying to deal with it. We’re doing a lousy job. And lately, both sides seem to think that war is the only way to make things right.
“But the words right and war don’t belong together. War may sometimes be necessary, but it’s never ethical. There is no such thing as a moral war.” He thought of his children, huddled in a bunker. Of jets falling from the sky and a missile destroying the White House. Of Soren, trapped in a virtual hell Cooper had imagined. “It makes monsters of us all.
“Worst of all, war is never contained. It has no rules, no boundaries. We tell ourselves that we are fighting for our children. But it’s our children who suffer the most.”
Todd sat on the bunk with Kate and stared at the screen. The bunker was bright and had been noisy, thousands of kids all talking at the same time. But now all of them were quiet as they stared at the screens in their hands or those mounted on the wall.
He could barely breathe. Dad. Dad was alive. He looked terrible, his lips swollen and face dirty and a gash beneath his eye and blood between his teeth, but he was alive.
“A smart woman once told me,” his father continued, “that there wouldn’t be a war if people didn’t keep going on television and saying there was. That the problem wasn’t in our differences. It was in our lies.
“I have to believe that. I have to believe that by telling the truth, we can stop this. Not the politicians’ truth, or the terrorists’, not the part of the truth that we find convenient. The whole truth, even the stuff that stings.
“We are different, and dealing with those differences isn’t easy. We’re all scared. We’re all hurting. And most of us just want to live our lives. We don’t want to take to the streets, we want to put in
a day and then have a beer and play with our kids.”
Kate squirmed against him, and Todd looked down, saw her eyes were wide and wet. She said, “I told you he’d protect us.”
“Shh.” He wiped snot from her nose, put his arm around her, and tilted the d-pad so she could see better.
Dad said, “But this isn’t happening far away, to people we’ll never meet. It’s happening to our children. We know it’s wrong, and we’ve been letting ourselves ignore that.
“And there are people who are taking advantage. Extremists on both sides doing it for power. Some think they know better than you. Some are just scared. In the end, it doesn’t matter. The fanatics don’t care about you, and if you let them, they will push us into war for their own benefit.
“I’m talking about people like John Smith. And Secretary of Defense Owen Leahy.”
Standing at the men’s room sink, Leahy stiffened, his stomach filling with acid. He’d been using the toilet when the tri-d on the wall switched suddenly to video of Nick Cooper. He’d hurriedly wiped and flushed and now stood rooted.
“Both of these men,” Cooper continued, “would tell you that they are fighting for their country. They may even believe it. But what they really want is war. The only weapon we have against fanatics is the truth, so here it is.”
It’s impossible, Leahy thought. An abnorm trick. Cooper is dead. He was assassinated weeks ago.
“Several months ago, a team of researchers discovered the biological source of brilliance. Not only that, but they figured out how to replicate it.
“That’s been a goal for thirty years. It could change humanity’s future forever. It’s a triumph that belongs to all of us, that should have been screamed to the heavens.
“Instead, it was concealed. The scientists were chased by the government and terrorists alike. The work ended up in John Smith’s hands. The greatest discovery in human history, and he immediately weaponized it. He used it to develop a virus that would have cost hundreds of millions of lives if he’d been able to release it.
“That’s the truth. But there’s more. Today, as an army of killers swept toward his city, Erik Epstein tried to beg the president for mercy. He couldn’t get through.”
The image cut away from Cooper, replaced by a split screen. On one side sat Erik and Jakob Epstein. On the other, Leahy found himself staring at himself. The call from earlier. No. Oh, no . . .
Erik: We surrender. Unconditionally.
Leahy: It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it? You’ve already murdered seventy-five thousand soldiers. Destroyed the White House. Killed our president.
Erik: Self-defense. Orders were given to attack, to bomb our city—
Leahy: I know. I gave them.
The video froze on him, an unflattering pause, a cold smile on his face.
Then Cooper was back. “That’s the truth too. These people use our lives as poker chips. They did it in the Monocle. In the bombing of the stock exchange. Right now, a mob is burning a city of innocents. And all for lies.
“Both normals and gifted are staring into the abyss. But there is still time, barely, to make a choice. We can find a way to move forward together.” He paused. “Or we can keep fighting. All of you watching can sit quietly while Tesla is destroyed, while thousands of brilliants are massacred with their families. But make no mistake, that won’t be a victory. Someone will survive, and they will strike back harder. Blood will lead to blood. In the end, we’ll annihilate each other.”
Cooper stopped talking, and the video held on his face for a moment, blue flames burning behind him, the faint firecracker pop of gunfire. Finally, he said, “We are better than this. We have to be.”
A moment later the video disappeared, and the screen returned to a newsfeed, the anchors confusedly blinking at one another.
Leahy stared. His hands shook. They looked so old. Part of him wanted to run, but where would he go? There was no window to crawl out of, no getaway car waiting to whisk him to safety.
You’ll have to bluff it through. You can do that. You’ve done it before.
He took a deep breath and stepped out of the bathroom.
Camp David’s largest conference room had been converted to serve as the Situation Room. Ranged around the table sat the chief advisors, the surviving cabinet, the commanders of the armed forces. Twenty pairs of eyes stared at him. On a dozen screens, the battle for Tesla raged.
President Ramirez rose from the head of the table. She pressed a button on the intercom. “Could we get some agents in here please?”
“Madam President, I can explain—”
The door to the conference room banged open and four men in dark suits rushed in, eyes sweeping for threats, their coats open and hands inside.
Ramirez said, “Detain Secretary Leahy for treason.”
The Secret Service agents glanced at one another, then drew their sidearms and moved toward him. Leahy said, “Madam President, this is foolish—”
“If he resists,” Ramirez said, “shoot him.”
Then she turned to the people around the table. “Get me Epstein.”
CHAPTER 46
“We are better than this.” Cooper’s face was ten feet high. “We have to be.”
The video cut back to the anchor, a warm-eyed woman in severe glasses. “In the three days since former DAR agent Nicholas Cooper made an impassioned plea to the American public, round-the-clock negotiations between the United States and the New Canaan Holdfast have been ongoing, with sources close to the president saying they are confident that this marks, quote, a new era of communication and friendship, end quote. While no agreement has been formalized, the expected provisions will include sharing the technical details of the so-called Couzen-Park Therapy, the process by which abnorm gifts can be replicated in—”
Erik Epstein changed the channel with a gesture.
“—arrival of the prisoner transport carrying retired two-star General Samuel Miller. Miller, who incited and led the militia group known as the New Sons of Liberty, will be tried as a war criminal. His arrest is controversial, as is the general amnesty granted to all members of the militia who lay down their arms—”
Another gesture, another channel.
“—forty-five minutes later there were jet fighters over Tesla. The whole nation had been told that military intervention was impossible. The official story is that Secretary of Defense Owen Leahy exaggerated the effects of the military retrograde in order to allow the New Sons of Liberty to attack the Holdfast. But how far beyond him did the conspiracy go? How do we know that President Ramirez herself was not part of that decision, and only forced to act because of the pirate broadcast?”
Gesture.
“—I agree that Mr. Cooper’s speech was moving. But what people seem to be ignoring is that abnorms hijacked every device in America. It wasn’t just a massive privacy violation, it was a criminal act employing the same methodology as the computer virus that murdered seventy-five thousand soldiers and destroyed the White House.”
“Yes, but isn’t that the point? Their technological superiority has to be taken into consideration. If NSOL hadn’t been stopped, the Holdfast could have used that same technology aggressively—”
Gesture.
“—media is painting Nick Cooper like he’s some kind of hero. The man is an assassin. He killed people for the DAR. He openly admits to murdering activist and author John Smith. But because he claims Smith was a terrorist, we’re supposed to cheer—”
Cooper said, “I’m getting tired of myself. Mind switching me off?”
Erik smiled and muted the stream, then turned, tucking his hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt. Behind and above and around him, video kept playing in a dozen quadrants. Footage of helicopters buzzing the Tesla streets. Thousands of protesters packed around the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool, waving placards. Owen Leahy in handcuffs. Ethan Park wearing a sharp suit and talking with his hands as diagrams of DNA helixes spun. Workers picking through the ru
bble of the DAR offices. The brothers Epstein lit in strobes of flashbulbs, Jakob suave as ever, Erik looking like he’d been balled up and slept in. And always, everywhere, the video of Cooper beat to shit, pleading to the camera as blue flames burned behind him.
That night, after Shannon turned off the d-pad, they had just stared at each other. Bone-weary, wrung dry, and out of moves. It had been a terrible feeling. Half a mile away, the battle had continued, the gunfire raging. Natalie was out there somewhere, his children were still in danger, and there was literally nothing more he could do. Nothing but wait and hope.
It had only been a few minutes before his phone rang, but they were the longest few minutes of his life. Millie had been on the other end, her voice filled with a lightness he’d never heard as she said that Erik and the president were speaking, and that they were agreeing to trust each other.
“Can they?”
She’d paused, then said, “Yes. I think they can.”
Not long after that, the cavalry had arrived on a roar of afterburners and the whapping of helicopter blades. Mounted loudspeakers ordered both sides to put down their weapons, stern voices assuring the armies on the ground that the one in the sky was fully armed and ready to fire.
A bluff. The military retrograde had gone so far that it had taken a direct order from the president to the commander of Ellsworth Air Force Base to even get craft in the air, and they didn’t have a bomb between them. But the New Sons didn’t know that. And whatever else the militiamen were, by and large they were patriots. That was how General Miller had motivated them in the first place, selling them the idea that they were the rough men America needed. There were certainly a few psychos too, but faced with direct orders from their president, not to mention the seeming might of the United States Air Force, they had stood down.
President Ramirez had granted a full amnesty for every person on both sides—other than Miller, who would likely hang alongside Owen Leahy—assuming they laid down their weapons. That part stuck in Cooper’s throat, the idea that these men who had marched children in front of them, who had tried to kill Natalie and Todd and Kate, would just go back to their homes. But he was the one who’d called for compromise, and the nature of compromise was that no one was happy. That’s how you knew a fair deal had been reached.