Apex

by Ramez Naam

  “I’ll see you all soon,” he said. He was stronger today, after more sleep and more time for his body to knit itself together. “I’ll come with you on the first step. After that, I’m going a different way. But I’ll meet you all in Cuba. We’re all going to be together again.”

  I hope.

  He’s lying, Timmy sent.

  Rangan winced.

  He’s not lying, Alfonso replied. He’s just scared.

  Scared? Rangan? He could feel the boys’ disbelief

  He sighed. I’m a little worried, he sent them. He still felt awkward communicating this way, when it seemed so natural to them. But just do what Abigail and the other grownups say, and we’ll all be just fine, OK? Promise me?

  The waiting was the hardest. All Sunday afternoon and evening, then sleeping fitfully Sunday night. And again all day Monday, waiting for nightfall, pestering Levi and Abigail for details that they weren’t inclined to give.

  “The less you know, the less you can give up if you’re caught,” Levi said. “We don’t even know all the details.”

  “Just have faith, Rangan,” Abigail told him. “Faith.”

  Sunny beaches. Palm trees. A place where he wasn’t a wanted man. Where he could finally call his parents, and tell them he was alive, and safe, and not a terrorist. A place where no one was about to waterboard him, or torture kids to force the tech he’d co-created out of their heads.

  Give me that, Rangan mumbled inside his head, and maybe I’ll have some faith.

  Darkness came.

  Levi descended into the hidden cellar.

  “Truck’s here, boys,” the minister said. “Time to go.”

  Officer Barb Richmond let the patrol car drive, its lights off, her eyes scanning right and left, her night vision amplified by the car’s glass.

  Madison looked like a warzone. Roofs were gone. Windows blasted out. Cars rolled over or shoved into ditches. Trash and debris scattered everywhere. Trees were down. Power lines were down. Low-lying streets and crossings were still flooded. The storm was gone, but the aftermath was fearsome.

  No one had died, though. They’d done their job, and kept the public safe. No one had died.

  But Owen had come damn close.

  She brought her eyes down to the monitor, flipped it over to the feed from the cordon around the spot where Owen had nearly lost it. Homeland Security was here now, and she couldn’t read their internal traffic, but she could read the messages from her peers on the force.

  And they made her smile.

  The noose was closing in. The drones circling in tighter and tighter loops. More and more buildings and other hiding spots being searched and crossed off. Blimp-based surveillance on-site now, watching the whole area in infrared and a dozen other spectra. Shankari was probably hiding in a drainage ditch, somewhere in the few square miles that remained. Or buried under a bed of mud and hay. Or maybe he was already dead.

  No. Better if he was still alive. Hurt, maybe. Broken bones, like Owen. Burns over half his body, like Owen. A concussion, like Owen. But without Owen’s friends. Without medical care. Without any hope. Just a drug dealer and terrorist, out there on his own. Just an attempted cop-killer, in pain and scared, knowing justice was coming for him.

  Barb smiled at that.

  I should be out there, she thought to herself. I wanna find that SOB. I wanna see him hurting.

  Instead she was here, following up on this unlikely lead.

  She flipped the screen back to the image. A satellite visual capture from two months ago of what might be a van that might match the make and model of the one Shankari had been driving, seen on the streets of Madison. Except that it was night time. Seen from space. Illuminated only from one side in the headlights of another vehicle.

  She shook her head. The patrol car reached its destination and came to a stop. She was at an intersection, on the west side of town, six blocks off the main strip of Seminole.

  Barb looked around. This was a residential neighborhood. She knew the occupants of at least a third of the homes within sight. She couldn’t imagine any of those people harboring a terrorist. Even so, she had a job to do.

  She spoke aloud. “Display recent arrests, warrants, disturbances, changes in occupancy.”

  The car’s glass came alive, painting the houses in faint halos. Green. Green. Green. More green. One yellow, from a domestic dispute. Evan Coolidge. Drank too much. Hit his wife once. Got a very stern talking to. And then, off the record, an even sterner talking to from several of his neighbors. Never a second call. Barb doubted Coolidge was capable of assisting in a petty robbery, let alone terrorism.

  There was a warning indicator flashing at the bottom of the car’s glass. CONNECTION FAILED – WORKING OFFLINE. “Expand warning,” she told the car.

  “OmniPD data transmissions are down in both directions due to structural damage from Hurricane Zoe,” the car’s voice said. “Data reflects latest available when vehicle synced at precinct and may be out of date. Video and telemetry are not being received at precinct. Be advised to use radio for all high priority communications.”

  Barb grunted to herself. Hardly mattered. She could call in anything, in the unlikely event there was anything to see.

  “Drive,” she told the car. “Slow spiral outwards from this location. Keep the display up.”

  The car did as she asked, its own lights completely off, its movement nearly silent on its electric motors and wide tires. The buildings around her came up in more green and green and just a tiny bit of yellow.

  More houses. The clinic. The old elementary school.

  The elementary school brought the videos Melanie had forced Barb to watch into her thoughts again. Those kids, being beaten by Homeland Security. That political appointee, Barnes, killing a man. She shook her head. They were fakes, all fakes. No other way to explain it. Her daughter was school smart, but too liberal, too quick to believe in conspiracy nonsense like that. Someone was faking all these videos, trying to stir up chaos right before the election. And now all these people were falling for it, screaming about how they wanted to change their vote! Well, hell with that. Barb had voted for John Stockton and that was that.

  Melanie would make a great doctor, though. Barb was proud of her daughter, liberal and a little naïve or no.

  The spiral widened out. A one block radius. A two block radius. Madison was dead quiet right now, everyone huddled together, neighbors whose homes had been damaged taking shelter with those whose homes were still solid. The streets were empty. The lights were out. No one in any of these homes was any sort of suspicious character.

  Three blocks. Coming up on the episcopal church.

  And what was that? A truck behind the church? Its empty cab was pointed to her, but she could see that it was fairly substantial behind that. Her windshield gave it subtle red overtones, not the red info-box that would indicate a criminal record, but signs of heat, leaking from the rear. The inside of that vehicle was warm.

  Barb frowned. Relief work? Had they been distributing supplies from this church? She tried to remember, but she didn’t think she’d seen it on the list.

  Looters? Was that possible? In Madison, of all places?

  “Vehicle registration,” Barb said, pointing with her eyes at the truck half a block ahead.

  Her squad car replied immediately. “That vehicle is registered to Carlton Farms, Charlottesville Virginia.”

  Barb looked down as more information scrolled across the screen. Carlton Farms was an organic farm, less than an hour west of here. The truck was registered to the business. No infractions in the last three years. Title up to date. All from the squad car’s cache. But the odds it had changed in the last two hours were remote.

  Barb relaxed. Maybe a donation of supplies from the farm for locals who’d been affected? Charlottesville hadn’t been hit nearly as hard.

  Even so. Best to be sure.

  “Command, car 148. Stopping at St Mark’s Episcopal. See what looks like relief work.
Going to check on safety of all involved.”

  “Roger, car 148,” came the reply.

  Barb pulled her patrol glasses on. There was the same warning in the lower right – CONNECTION FAILED – WORKING OFFLINE. She popped the radio earpiece in her ear, made sure that was live. It was. Then she let herself out of the squad car, and walked towards the moving-van-sized vegetable truck. The glasses painted their own IR imagery on the scene. The vehicle’s drivetrain was hot. The empty cab was warm. And as she came around, she saw that there was heat leaking from the large contained back.

  Shouldn’t they want the area where the food went kept cool?

  She was looking at the truck, this thought dawning on her, when the small side door of the church opened, and a man she’d never seen before popped out.

  Barb turned in time to see the look of surprise cross the man’s face, before he ducked back inside, pulling the door closed behind him.

  “Truck’s here,” Levi said. “Time to go!”

  Rangan nodded, grinned, putting the most sincere excitement he could behind it.

  Here we go! He sent to the boys.

  They were still dubious, but they went along with it.

  Abigail and the women named Janet and Laura herded the boys up the steep stairs and through the hatch in the floor. Janet and Laura would be coming on the first part of the journey, it seemed. Levi waited downstairs with Rangan. Then the driver, a man named Juan, came down too, and together they helped Rangan slowly ascend the stairs, one foot at a time, until he was at the top.

  Painful, definitely painful. But so much better than two days ago.

  “OK,” Juan said, when they were all gathered upstairs, in the anteroom by the side entrance to the little church. “I’ll go unlock the back of the truck. Then we all go out, and hop right in. There’s mattresses in the back to sit on, and some candy bars, and I’ve got it all warmed up for you boys. Just remember, you have to be quiet the whole trip, OK? Just a couple hours the first leg. Everybody’s used the bathroom already? Nobody has to go?”

  The boys all nodded dutifully, looking at Rangan.

  I’m still here, he sent. I’m with you this whole part.

  Rangan gave a thumbs up. “We’re good to go, man.”

  Juan nodded, then turned and opened the door to step out.

  Everything happened in a blur. The door opening. Juan jumping back in with a yelp, trying to push the door closed, then the door exploding out of his hands, slamming into his face, and the cop following him in, the drawn pistol in her hand, yelling.

  “Shit!” Barb yelled, jumping after the man, her hand going for her gun. The door was closing. She kicked out in reflex, shoved it forward before the perp could get it to lock, and then she was inside the church and her vision was flashing red and holy fuck!

  THREAT ALERT THREAT ALERT THREAT ALERT THREAT ALERT

  RANGAN SHANKARI

  APPROACH WITH CAUTION

  ARMED EXTREMELY DANGEROUS

  DEADLY FORCE AUTHORIZED

  The man’s face was lit up. A red box around him. Targeting circles around his torso. The fucking terrorist who’d tried to kill Owen. Her whole world constricted to him and her heart was pounding like a motherfucker and she had this asshole to rights and oh my god he was fucking armed he’d taken out two cops already oh fuck oh fuck.

  “HANDS IN THE AIR!” she yelled at him, her pistol in both hands.

  Green halos were up around other figures. Levi. Abigail. Pregnant Abigail. And a room full of kids and women! Jesus the bastard had taken hostages.

  Shankari was raising his hands, slowly, so fucking slowly.

  ARMED EXTREMELY DANGEROUS flashed at her over and over again in red.

  DEADLY FORCE AUTHORIZED flashed right below it.

  On her right was the other perp, bleeding from his face. Two of them. Barb maneuvered to her left, where she could cover them both.

  ARMED EXTREMELY DANGEROUS

  DEADLY FORCE AUTHORIZED

  Holy fucking shit.

  “OVER BY SHANKARI, ASSHOLE! Levi, Abigail, get the kids out through the door!”

  “Barb,” someone said.

  The bleeding guy was looking up at her like he didn’t understand. Fuck there were two of them. She needed backup. She needed backup now.

  ARMED EXTREMELY DANEROUS.

  “Command!” Barb said aloud.

  DEADLY FORCE AUTHORIZED.

  “BARB!” It was Abigail.

  “Go ahead, 148,” came the voice in her earpiece.

  “BARB!” Abigail stepped straight in front of Barb.

  She pressed her chest up against the barrel of Barb’s pistol.

  Barb tried to move. What the heal was Abigail doing? And Abigail just moved with her, keeping her chest right in the line of fire. And then Barb saw her face. The minister’s wife had a finger to her lips, the universal sign of “shush”. She was shaking her head.

  The room changed. These weren’t Shankari’s hostages. These were his… his… accomplices? And these kids. Barb looked around. They weren’t running out of the room. They were cowering. They were afraid. They were cowering away from her. And towards Shankari. Over Abigail’s shoulder Barb could see one of the kids had his arms wrapped around the red haloed terrorist, even as Shankari had his arms pointed at the sky.

  ARMED EXTREMELY DANGEROUS continued to blink over Shankari.

  It was surreal.

  DEADLY FORCE AUTHORIZED just above the head of the boy who had his arms wrapped around Shankari.

  She was here and somewhere else. This was all so far away.

  “No. Oh no.”

  “Unit 148, please repeat.”

  Barb’s mouth hung open. No no no.

  “148,” Dispatch’s voice was sharper this time. “What’s your status?”

  Barb looked into Abigail’s eyes. The woman pulled her finger away from her lips, and mouthed a single word at her. “Please.”

  Barb took a deep breath.

  “Status nominal, command. False alarm. Please disregard. 148 out.”

  Silence for a moment.

  Then a slightly annoyed. “Roger, 148.”

  Her thumb found the safety, and somehow it was on. The barrel of the pistol dropped of its own accord, away from Abigail’s chest.

  Then her left hand came up, found her tactical glasses. And somehow they were off her face, the earpiece was out of her ears.

  It was all someone else doing this. Not her.

  Barb stared at Abigail. “The videos?”

  Abigail looked her in the eyes. Levi came up, put his arms around his wife.

  “I only know about the kids. And him.” She gestured at Shankari. The terrorist. And then she nodded. “Those parts are true.”

  Barb swallowed hard. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Oh, Barb,” Abigail said, reaching out to put a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry. We did our best to tell the whole world.”

  Later, in a daze, Barb walked out of the church, her gun in its holster, her patrol glasses dangling from one hand.

  She walked around the truck and to her waiting squad car. There, at the rear of the car, she crouched, as if in a dream, and carefully placed her patrol glasses behind the driver’s side tire of the cruiser.

  Then she let herself into the driver’s seat, rolled down the window, and backed over the glasses, then forward, then back, until she was sure they were destroyed. Then she got out, and scooped up the pieces, to drop them in a storm drain somewhere with fast running water, to render the data on them, the video and audio that hadn’t been transmitted, beyond retrieval.

  Then Barb called back in to dispatch.

  “Command, car 148. Resuming patrol sweep for Shankari.”

  19

  Rude Awakening

  Monday 2040.11.05

  They came for Kade half a day later. He’d been allowed to eat, to relieve himself, then had fallen asleep in the chair from sheer exhaustion, his head cradled on his one undamaged hand atop t
he table.

  He woke to the sound of the door slamming open. He looked up, saw armed soldiers moving towards him, more of them coming in, filling the room.

  A sound escaped his throat. He pushed back from the desk in alarm, tried to stand at the same time. A back leg of the chair caught on something as he did, and suddenly the chair was toppling backwards, and he was toppling with it.

  He reached out to break his fall, and his bad hand slammed into the floor.

  Horrid pain flared up it.

  Then Kade’s head slammed into the floor. More pain blossomed in his battered ribs. The world spun.

  “Get him up,” he heard someone say.

  Two soldiers loomed above him. Their hands closed like vices on his biceps. They heaved and he came to standing, a groan escaping him as more pain shot through his abdomen. He started to double over, and then a hood came down over his head, cutting off his vision of the world.

  “Hands,” the same voice said.

  He had a vision of invoking Bruce Lee, but he knew how futile that would be.

  His wrists were yanked together behind his back. The damaged one ached so hard tears came to his eyes. Cold metal closed around them. He heard the snick of something locking.

  Kade brought the icon for the suicide script he’d written front and center.

  Whatever this was about, they weren’t going to get anything useful out of him.

  “Walk,” the voice commanded.

  Walking hurt. He heard muffled sounds. Doors opening and closing. Footsteps. Echoes on tile and then bare concrete.

  They went down, into tunnels.

  Into a garage.

  He was shoved into a vehicle.

  Then movement, acceleration, banking, turning, driving. The sounds of hustle and bustle. The city outside. New Delhi.