Apex

by Ramez Naam

There were men with him. Soldiers. Many of them.

  They were outside now, he was certain of it.

  He reached out with his thoughts, searching for any transmitter, but there was nothing.

  He retuned his mind like Ling had shown him, opening himself to all sorts of electromagnetic activity, but he was blocked. Shielded. The hood or something else was cutting him off.

  The city sounds disappeared first. The hustle and bustle, the sounds of traffic and street vendors and everything else, went away, bit by bit, then the last of them, all at once.

  Were they taking him out to the country? A secret location to interrogate him? A spot to put a bullet in his head?

  Then something else changed. They went down a ramp and something about the sounds told him they weren’t outside at all. Then more turns, and a stop, and the soldiers were moving, and he was being shoved out, and led down a hallway of concrete, and through doors, and more doors, and into an elevator, and then out.

  And into somewhere quieter, more hushed. It felt different under his feet.

  Hands guided him, turned him, propelled him, stopped him, propelled him again.

  Then suddenly his wrists were being tugged at. There was a clicking, a second click, and the restraints were off. Someone pushed him, almost gently, and he fell into a chair. Someone else tugged at the hood and it came away.

  He was in an ornately decorated room, sitting, facing a carved wooden door in a gold-gilt frame.

  I’m not dead, he realized.

  Then the door opened. A massive man in a grey suit entered, then a second. They moved into the room, their faces masks, their eyes scanning.

  Behind them came a small, grey haired woman in an elaborate green silk sari.

  Kade’s face recognition app flashed text next to her. He ignored it.

  He didn’t need its help to recognize Ayesha Dani, Prime Minister of India.

  Kade pushed himself to his feet, nearly groaning as pain hit him again.

  The PM stepped forward until she was just feet away from him. The top of her head came to his chin. There was a piece of paper in her right hand.

  “You told one of my most trusted advisors to ‘fuck off’,” she said. He voice was the voice of authority. A voice you listened to. Her pronunciation was precise, accented, but somehow more perfect in her use of English than most Americans ever managed. “Why?”

  Because he’s an asshole, Kade thought to himself.

  He blinked, fought to adjust to this very different situation. “I needed to…” He wracked his exhausted brain for the right words. “…convey to Secretary Aggarwal the… depth of my convictions on this issue,” he said. “I didn’t feel I’d… gotten through to him.” He paused. “Before that… point of emphasis.”

  She studied him. He could see her eyes taking him in, taking his measure in some fundamental way he didn’t understand. “You can help our children learn faster.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Kade took a slow breath in through his nose. They had to start this the right way.

  “Honestly,” he told her. “You can do that yourselves, with Nexus, without me.”

  The Prime Minister held up the paper, flapped it in Kade’s face. At this distance he could see roman letters on it. English words.

  “Then these conditions of yours,” she said. “Why should I agree to any of them?”

  Kade’s eyes moved from the paper back to Ayesha Dani’s eyes.

  He spoke with all the conviction he had. “Because every one of those is the right thing to do – the right thing for those children you’re going to give Nexus to, the right thing for India, and the right thing for the world. Because in time, if you’re the person I think you are, you would have done them all anyway.”

  She looked at him for a moment, her face unchanged, her eyes still studying him.

  “And,” Kade said, a smile slowly spreading across his face, “because with my help, your children will do even better.”

  20

  Election Day

  OUTCOME SUDDENLY UNCERTAIN AS ELECTION DAY ARRIVES

  Tuesday, 5.31am, Washington DC

  American News Network

  Polls and analysts gave wildly differing assessments of the likely outcome in the race for the Presidency late Monday night. A barrage of scandals battered the campaign of President John Stockton and bolstered challenger Stanley Kim, but may see their impact muted by the record setting number of early votes cast in this election.

  Senator Kim made a videocast appeal to voters on Monday.

 

  “My fellow Americans, this is a democracy! In a democracy, the candidate chosen by the majority is the one elected to office. It’s clear that today, knowing what we now know, a majority of you would cast your votes for me. If you did vote early, know that the constitution and the laws of the land are clear: your vote is not actually cast until election day, even if you’ve sent it in before then. There is still time to change your vote. And if you decide to do so, and you’re denied that right for any reason, we ask only that you register that fact at the net site that follows…”

  The Stockton campaign in turn, has denied the allegations, saying that…

  Barb tapped the slate to turn it off, then stepped out of the car – her personal car this time, and walked down the sidewalk towards Town Hall. She took a turn inside the door towards the West Room. She stopped outside to start her phone recording and stuffed it into her shirt pocket. Then she stepped inside, into her designated polling place.

  The time was 6.01am.

  Jenny Collins was working the table. Bill Banks was in uniform, providing security. No one else was there.

  Barb walked up to Jenny.

  “My name is Barbara Ann Richmond, and I want to change my vote.”

  21

  Goodbyes

  Tuesday 2040.11.06

  Rangan said goodbye to the boys in the hidden basement of a farm supply store on the outskirts of Palmyra. There were tears. He almost couldn’t bear it.

  He hugged them all tight, said as much as he could.

  I’ll see you in a few days, he sent.

  But he didn’t sound convincing even to himself.

  Then he left them in the care of Laura and Janet, and started the slow, painful ascent of the narrow stairs.

  At 7.42pm, sweating bullets, gasping in pain, he was there in the darkened alley, and the non-descript car pulled into the other end, as he’d been told it would.

  His driver went by “Oscar”. That wasn’t his name, he was quick to tell Rangan. That was just what Rangan should call him. Oscar was tall, lean, freckled and red-haired, younger than Rangan, and twitchy. He was wearing a black hoodie, not unlike the one Rangan had been loaned. He spoke with a Jersey accent.

  “Lie down in the back. Pull the blanket over you, the greyish one. Don’t lift your head up, ever. If you can see out the windshield, the cameras can see you. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  Oscar drove, or the car did. Rangan wasn’t sure. Miles passed. The motion went from start and stop to the fast, steady flow of a freeway.

  “Shouldn’t I be in the trunk or something?” Rangan asked.

  “T-rays,” Oscar replied. “Terahertz scanners. See right through the trunk. Nothin’ more suspicious than a man in the trunk.”

  Rangan noodled on that.

  “So how do you know…” he started.

  “I don’t know anybody!” Oscar snapped. “And neither do you! Knowing people gets em killed, OK? You wanna do those people that helped you a favor? You forget about em. You ever get in touch with them again? You ever mention their names? You’re killin’ em. Literally. So I don’t know em. You don’t know em. And you sure as hell don’t know me.”

  Rangan shut up for miles after that, just staring at the ceiling of the car, trying to be grateful for the help Oscar was giving him, trying to take the
things he was saying to heart.

  “So where are we going?” He finally asked.

  Oscar said nothing.

  “It’s not like I’m gonna tell anybody,” he went on. “Hell, I don’t know anybody, right?” He forced a chuckle.

  “Baltimore,” came the eventual reply.

  “Baltimore?” Rangan was surprised. That was north of here. Cuba was the other way. “Shouldn’t we be headed south?”

  Oscar took his time in replying. “We go where there’s a boat we trust, that’ll take you. You’re a hot commodity. The Cubans want you. But it’s a hell of a risk for anyone transporting you.”

  “So why Cuba?” Rangan spoke up to the ceiling of the car.

  “Cuba’s still shit poor,” Oscar said. “They’re way behind the US in industry. They’re not big enough to be another China or even another Mexico. But if they can say ‘yes’ to tech the US and all the other rich countries say no to… maybe that gives them an edge. Lets them move ahead in ways we won’t. There’s a lot of funky biotech down there. Now maybe neurotech too.”

  Rangan pondered that.

  “Plus maybe they like the idea of refugees from America heading down to Havana. Good propaganda.” Oscar laughed.

  Then the man’s tone changed. “Shit.”

  “What?” Rangan asked, his body suddenly tensing.

  “Fucking Stockton,” Oscar said. “He’s going to fucking win.”

  Rangan exhaled, feeling himself relax. Not the cops then.

  A woman’s voice filled the car. A news broadcast.

  “…ANN is confirming that President John Stockton has carried the key battleground states of Ohio and Illinois. That adds to New York, Pennsylvania, and Florida.”

  “That’s right, Jane,” said a different woman’s voice. “In fact, as we can see on this map, the only states that Stanley Kim has carried thus far are Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Maryland, and Vermont. Despite Senator Kim’s commanding lead in today’s polls, President Stockton has captured twenty-two of the twenty-six states where voting has closed, and amassed almost one hundred and ninety of the two hundred and seventy electoral votes he needs to retain the White House…”

  “Fucking piece of shit,” Oscar exclaimed, silencing the broadcast.

  Rangan said nothing. Not my country any more, he thought to himself.

  They drove in silence. Then Rangan felt the car slow abruptly, heard Oscar swear again under his breath.

  “What?” he asked, his body tensing once more. Bad election results didn’t apply the brakes.

  “Traffic jam,” Oscar said. “Accident up ahead.”

  “Accident?” Rangan asked, incredulously.

  “Fucking hell,” Oscar said. “I’m getting us off the friggin’ freeway. Someone blew up a goddamn car.”

  “What?” Rangan wanted to sit up, wanted to see what the hell was going on, but Oscar’s admonition rang in his mind. If you can see the windshield, the cameras can see you.

  But… someone blew up a car?

  He felt the car swerve hard to the right, brake, then accelerate briskly as it or Oscar moved them across lanes and towards an exit. Then they were moving smoothly again, banking on what he was sure was an exit ramp, banking, banking.

  “We’re on the outskirts of DC, now,” Oscar said. “We’ll take surface streets past the accident, then back onto the freeway.”

  Rangan grunted. He felt the city streets from the car’s pattern of motion. Driving. Stopping at lights. Turning. Driving. Stopping. Turning.

  And then he heard Oscar exclaim again. “What the hell?”

  The car came to an abrupt stop.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Oscar said. “It’s a fucking riot.”

  22

  No Concessions

  Tuesday 2040.11.06

  Pryce smiled and mingled backstage at John Stockton’s re-election party.

  She wanted to be anywhere but here.

  She was part of the administration, not part of the campaign. But the President had insisted that she travel with him on this trip, as on so many others.

  She’d hoped perhaps Miles Jameson would be here, that she could have a word with the ex-President. But the man who’d chosen John Stockton as his VP and effectively handed Stockton his first term as President wasn’t in attendance. And his people weren’t responding to any of her messages.

  At least the election was going well. Texas put them over the top. Really, it could have been any of the dozen states whose polls closed at 9pm eastern, but the President chose to call it Texas.

  They were here, after all. John Stockton had told his campaign to rejigger everything, to move his election night party to Houston, to be here in solidarity with the city. Pryce imagined the expense was ruinous, that Miami felt snubbed by the abrupt move. But then again, Stockton had steamrolled to victory, and he wasn’t ever planning to run for office again.

  “That’s it!” His campaign manager Larry Cline said. “Three hundred and fifty eight electoral votes! And the whole West Coast isn’t even in yet. It’s a landslide!”

  There were cheers among the select staff and family in the private room back stage.

  Pryce watched from across the room as the President hugged and kissed his wife; his daughter; his son-in-law, Steve, an Air Force Captain whose career she’d been quietly watching. Even his grandson, Liam, was still awake, and to the small crowd’s apparent approval, the President lifted the one-year-old into the sky, and both grandparent and grandchild seemed to take great delight in the many airplane-like flights the President gave the boy through the room.

  Pryce asked the waiter for another glass of Perrier.

  Protocol dictated that the loser call to concede. Yet pride and the need to make one’s supporters feel that it had been a close race – even if it hadn’t been – meant that the call would usually come well after the outcome was clear.

  So they waited. Pryce watched, studied the President as the hours wore on. The west coast results came in. California went for Stockton. Washington went for Stockton. It was officially a landslide. Every network, every blog, every analyst, every expert system, every machine learning system, and every idiot who could count agreed.

  And Stan Kim didn’t call.

  Stockton’s grandson fell asleep. The President himself mixed with his staff, thanking them, making jokes, smiling, giving hugs and high fives, ticking through his mental list of people who deserved special thanks once the dust settled.

  Finally Pryce noticed Larry Cline working his way towards the President, a grin on the Campaign Manager’s face, but that unmistakable look of you have work to do buried beneath it.

  He said something to the President, and Stockton nodded. She knew what that meant. If Kim wouldn’t call to concede, eventually the President would have to call him.

  The two men walked off. And Pryce slipped in behind them.

  Stockton made the call from an adjoining room of the suite. His campaign manager Cline, his VP Ben Fuhrman, his Press Secretary Greg Chase, and half a dozen others were watching from an adjoining room. He imagined it was the same on the other side.

  Stan Kim’s people kept him waiting, purely as posturing, he was sure. Stockton waited, and waited, and waited.

  Then the wall screen suddenly came alive, and Stan Kim was there, in black suit and blue tie, an American Flag pin at his lapel. Not looking the slightest bit fatigued, despite the late hour.

  “Senator Kim,” Stockton said.

  “Mr President,” Kim replied.

  They both knew this was being recorded. That this would ultimately go down in history.

  “Senator Kim, our campaign’s numbers, as well as those of every major network and independent analyst, show that I’ve won an overwhelming majority of both the electoral and popular vote. I’m calling to commend you for an excellent race, to tell you that I look forward to working with you in your capacity as the senior Senator from the great state of California over the next four years, and to ask you to publicly concede
the race for President. Will you do that, Senator?”

  Stan Kim stared back at him. Then the man said the words Stockton had dreaded.

  “Mr President, I do not concede. America wants me as its President. My campaign has filed suit in thirty-seven states on behalf of voters who were illegally and unconstitutionally prevented from voting with the benefit of the most up-to-date knowledge about your true character and criminal, perhaps even treasonous, actions. I understand that a number of independent suits have been filed, contesting your fitness for the presidency. I do not concede, Mr President. And on Inauguration Day, I’m fully confident that I’ll be the one entering the White House.”

  Stockton kept his face calm. Thirty-seven states? His fitness for the presidency?

  He felt his face going hot.

  They’re baiting me, he told himself. Ignore it.

  “Senator,” he said, his voice under tight control, keeping to the script they’d prepared. “Let’s not tear America apart. I’m sure if we work together, we can find some way…”

  “I don’t negotiate with terrorists,” Kim said.

  The screen went dead.

  “Asshole!” Stockton yelled. His fist crashed into the wall screen.

  He went on stage twenty minutes later, after the local anesthetic had time to numb his bruised and maybe broken hand. He wore his biggest grin. The crowd erupted into cheers of “Four more years!”

  “Today!” he began, “In the great city of Houston, in the greatest country on Earth!”

  Stan Kim stepped out onto his own stage at the Moscone center in San Francisco, to equally thunderous applause, his hands outstretched.