by Ramez Naam
Questions kept rising.
Why hadn’t they deployed sonic cannons to quell the crowd from the very get go?
Why hadn’t they had fire trucks on the scene? Why had it taken so long to put out the flames? Why had the façade of one of the fucking Smithsonian buildings, of all places, been allowed to burn for so long?
Greg Chase’s words kept coming back to her. Something he’d told the President. “The more rope we give the protesters, the better.”
Was that was this was about? Had they let it get so out of hand for politics?
People had died out there.
People died in the assassination attempt on Stockton too, a little voice inside her head told her.
Pryce shook her head. She didn’t want to believe it.
55
Reeling
Thursday 2040.12.06
“This is your fucking fault, Axon!” Tempest nearly screamed it at him from across the Bunker’s workroom. Her mind gave off rage, fear. She was pacing back and forth.
Rangan was slumped forward in an overstuffed chair, his head in his hands, his eyes and lungs still burning, his face covered in tears, coughs still wracking him every minute or two.
“It’s not his fault,” Cheyenne grunted through clenched teeth. She was stretched out on a cot, her arm immobilized in a make-shift splint, her body pumped full of someone’s left-over painkillers from a past injury. “Could’ve been you, Tempest. Could’ve been you on the ground. I would’ve done the same.”
Tempest kept pacing, agitated. “We’re in way over our heads. We should just send an anonymous tip to the cops. Fracking triple tunnel, from some other location, and send in what the guy looks like, and what we learned.”
“We should do that,” Angel said. “But we can’t stop there.”
Everyone looked at her.
“This isn’t going to end here,” she went on. “There’ll be more protests. They’ll try this again.”
She looked around the room, met their eyes.
Rangan could feel the passion coming off her mind. The protest was important to her. The whole idea of being able to protest – of people being able to come together, self-organize, exercise their right to assemble and speak in peace – that was a core belief of Angel’s. Fucking with that was an affront. She was angry.
He could understand that.
Angel spoke again. “Someone needs to stop whoever did this.”
“That doesn’t have to be us,” Tempest said, wearily now.
“Who better?” Angel asked.
Tempest pointed a finger at Cheyenne, “He almost killed Cheyenne.”
Cheyenne growled. “More reason to fuck homeboy’s plans up. I want in. Just gimme…” she clenched her teeth again. “…couple days…”
Tempest brought her hands to her face. “Let’s at least send in that tip. Did you get a good look at him?”
Cheyenne shook her head on the cot. “Disguised…”
They turned to look at Rangan.
He nodded. “Yeah. I know what he looks like,” he said. “More than that. I know who he is.”
And then he told them.
There was silence when Rangan finished.
“Wow, that’s heavy,” Angel said.
“Wish I’d… killed the bastard,” Cheyenne said between breaths.
“Axon,” Tempest said, calm now, “Can you put that together into one file? Shots of his face. His name. Anything else you know. Leave out the how. I’ll sanitize it, send it in.”
Rangan nodded. “I’ll get whatever more I need from Kade.”
Angel spoke up. “Cheyenne needs a doctor.”
Tempest frowned. “They’re cracking down on Nexus. There’s rumors of blood tests at the clinics. She can’t go there. Not unless she flushes Nexus and waits for the metabolites to clear… 72 hours.”
Cheyenne groaned at that.
“I’ll see if we can get a house call,” Angel said. Then she went off to send a message.
The doctor arrived a little after 1am. Angel’s phone buzzed.
Tempest turned to Rangan. “Time for you to hide.”
He nodded, slipped away to his room, closed the door.
He heard a bolt thrown in the main room. The sound of the heavy outer door opening and closing. Voices. Greetings.
Wait.
He knew that voice.
Shock shot through him.
More words were exchanged.
He was certain.
He acted on impulse, pulling open the door to his room, stepping into the hallway, striding down it into the main room.
The doctor was there, crouched over Cheyenne, in jeans, a sweatshirt, long blonde hair pulled back into a pony tail.
“Melanie,” Rangan said.
She looked up, surprise registering on her face. “Rangan?”
“What the hell?” Tempest said.
“Uhh, you two know each other?” Angel asked.
Cheyenne groaned.
Melanie looked back down at her patient.
“Later,” she said, glancing back at Rangan. Then she turned her attention back to her duties.
Two hours later Cheyenne’s right arm was in a cast, and Cheyenne was recovering from the intense agony of resetting the arm. Melanie announced she’d done all she could.
“The humerus is back in alignment. The bone growth accelerator will help. But you really need an X-ray, at least. And the intense shoulder pain…” She shook her head. “That worries me. Nothing’s broken. Maybe ligament damage. There’s only so much I can do here.”
Cheyenne nodded. “Thanks, doc. Check’s in the mail.”
Melanie snorted and gave a small smile at that.
“Thank you,” Angel said, sincerely.
Melanie smiled back. “Can’t have my friends going to jail.”
She turned to Rangan. “Can we talk somewhere?”
In his tiny cubicle of a room, with the door closed, Rangan was suddenly aware of being alone with her, of her long, honey-blonde hair, of the fine details of her face, of the lilt of her voice, of her smell.
“I’ve got something for you,” she said quietly.
He wanted to kiss her, to reach forward, and run his fingers through her hair, and pull her close. He’d felt so alone. Even in the midst of these women. He wasn’t one of them. He didn’t even know their names.
She brought her hand up with something in it. A pen. A slip of paper. She turned, held the paper against the wall, wrote something on it. He studied her profile, wanted to brush her hair back away from her face.
Then she turned back to him, held the slip of paper out for Rangan to take.
He took it, opened it. There was a net address on it.
“People have been looking for you,” she whispered. “No one knew if…”
He nodded, swallowing hard.
“Yeah. Oscar…”
Melanie nodded too.
“Call or message that address. Say you want to put in an order for Indian food, to go. They’ll set up your transport to… to where you were headed before.”
Cuba. It seemed so far away now. A dream. Someone else’s dream.
“Thank you,” he told her. He reached out and put a hand on her arm. “For everything.”
She smiled, a tired smile, a 3am smile.
“How’s…” he started. “How are…”
Levi, he wanted to say. Abigail. Your mom. Earl and Emma Miller. The people who risked their lives for me.
And Bobby. Tyrone…
Melanie nodded. “They’re fine. Everyone back home is safe. The… people looking for you moved on.” Then she shook her head. “I’m not sure about the boys. Sorry.”
Rangan nodded.
There was silence.
“I’m sorry,” he said, finally, “If I’ve put you at more risk… by being here… by coming out”
She shook her head, still smiling. “I came for…” she paused, reaching for a name. “for Angel. For Cheyenne. They’re friends of mine. B
ut I’m glad to see you. I’m glad I could give you that.” Her eyes pointed at the slip of paper in his other hand. “I patched you up. I’m invested.”
He let his hand rise, then, from her arm, up to her neck, up to the side of her face, touching her softly.
She sighed, and placed her hand on his.
“Oh, Rangan.”
He leaned towards her, his lips parting.
And she pulled his hand away from her face.
“No,” she said, gently, clearly, her eyes searching his.
“I…” he said.
She smiled sadly at him.
“You’re hurting. You’re in shock and loss. You’re looking for something. You think I’m it, but you don’t know me.” She searched his eyes. “And to me… you’re just passing through. And I’m still going to be here.”
She squeezed his hand, held onto it for a moment, then took a half step back, and let both their hands fall before releasing his.
Rangan took a breath, his chest aching.
“I hope you get away,” Melanie said. “Be careful out there. It’s getting worse, not better.”
She moved forward then, put her arms around him in a hug, and Rangan hugged back, sinking his face into her hair, inhaling her scent.
“Thank you,” he said, “for everything.”
“Don’t make a habit of it,” she whispered.
Then she let go, looked one more time into his eyes, and turned and walked away.
Rangan waited, alone in his tiny room. He heard the heavy outer door open and close. Finally, he ventured out into the common room.
Melanie was gone. Angel was gone. Cheyenne’s eyes were closed. She was breathing deeply.
Tempest sat alone on a couch, a flask in her hand. She looked up as Rangan entered.
He gave her a tiny, nervous nod, and turned to leave.
“Axon,” she said. He felt something from her mind. An invitation.
Rangan turned. She had the flask extended to him, her head cocked towards the open space next to her on the couch.
That looked like such a bad idea.
“Truce?” she said.
Well, shit, he though.
Rangan walked over slowly, took the offered flask, still standing, tipped it back.
Whatever it was burned as it hit his throat, brought tears to his eyes.
Jesus. She liked that stuff?
She plucked the flask from his fingers, took another swallow.
“My mom’s in prison,” Tempest said.
Rangan blinked. “I’m sorry.”
He didn’t want to ask. Speculation still ran through his thoughts, ideas, possibilities.
Tempest picked up on them.
“Release of classified information,” she said. “She’s a crypto researcher. Was a crypto researcher, I should say. She’ll never touch it again, even after she gets out.”
“What…” Rangan started. “What did she do?”
“She found a security hole in a public protocol. She was about to publish it. NSA hit her with a gag order, so they could keep the hole, use it for themselves. She published anyway.”
“They sent her to jail for that?” Rangan was surprised, despite himself, despite everything he’d been through.
Tempest took another swallow from the flask, then another. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then handed the flask to Rangan.
“No. They nailed her on something else. Audited all her net activity. Said she’d been hacking. Said one of her scans of public routers for vulnerabilities broke the law.” She shook her head. “Charged her with one count for every router she scanned.”
“How many routers?” Rangan asked.
“Eighty seven thousand,” Tempest said. “Give or take.”
Oh god. Rangan raised the flask to his lips, and downed another swallow. It burned just as much as the first.
“She bargained down to fifteen years. Twelve left. Parole in five, maybe. Not so bad.”
Rangan coughed a little. His eyes watered.
“So I hate the fuckers,” Tempest said. “But I also know just how much power they have. And just how easily they can nail you. It leaves me a little edgy sometimes.”
Rangan nodded uneasily, not sure what to say.
She looked over at him. “Finish that. I’ll get us some more.”
Rangan woke sometime later, his head pounding like someone had taken a jackhammer to it, his stomach doing flips. It was still dark outside, not yet morning. Oh god, why had he let Tempest feed him so much booze. All he could remember was more drinking, more talking, about software, politics, prison, revolution. And then more drinking on top of that. Until he couldn’t keep his eyes open.
She was shaking him awake, leaning over him. He was still on the couch where he’d collapsed, still in his jester clothes from the day before.
“It’s the phones,” Tempest was saying, her face looming over his.
“That’s how they had so many transmitters, without us finding any. They hacked an awful lot of phones.”
How was she awake? How could she think?
“There’s no way we can build enough transmitters to fight that,” she went on, “So we do it in software – inside NexusOS. We use brains as the active countermeasures. What we need is a way to coordinate those minds to identify the hostile signals. And you and Angel are already working on it.”
She stared at him, as if waiting for him to get it.
Rangan lay there. He brought his hand to his aching head, tried to will his stomach to stay down.
Tempest just shook her head at him and spelled it out. “The Mesh.”
Kade stood at the small balcony outside his bedroom, looking out at the darkened research park. The breeze ruffled the palm trees, cooled him pleasantly.
Rangan was alive. They’d spoken again later, merged minds, shared memories, tried to catch up on six months in too little time.
His hands clenched around the wrought iron railing.
Rangan had been through too much.
Connecting with him had been painful. It brought back so much.
Wats was dead.
Ilya was dead.
And Breece. Breece had killed a lot of people. And he’d killed more today. Hundreds more.
By using Nexus. Using Nexus to cause chaos. To overpower people’s minds. To manipulate.
Getting India out of Copenhagen wasn’t enough. Breece had to be stopped.
How the hell was he going to do that from India?
Breece slumped in a chair in the darkened room of his new safe house, a tumbler of cheap whiskey and ice in one hand.
Across the room, the bottle of whiskey was half empty. It took a lot of booze to overcome his genetically-boosted alcohol dehydrogenase levels. Shit.
Kate. Fucking Kate. God that hurt. It hurt like shooting Hiroshi had hurt. Losing a friend. Losing a lover.
Breece took another swallow of the whiskey, felt it burn on the way down, and sat there, images of her floating through his mind. Kate, her long black hair undone, floating down in a cloud above him as they made love. Kate, jumping into his arms after they’d been apart. Kate, so easily charming Miranda Shepherd in Houston, giving them a way into the greatest operational success yet.
Breece brought a hand up to his face. How could she falter now? What was wrong with her?
He shook his head, brought the glass to his lips, downed the rest of the whiskey in one long swallow. It didn’t matter. He had work to do.
He’d managed to slip free of her in the chaos of the protest when a clash between police and rioters had surged in their direction, forcing her to lower the gun. He had no idea what she would have done otherwise.
Was she planning to kill me? Breece wondered. He shook his head and got up to pour himself another drink.
The last identity he’d been using was burned now, but he had others. He’d spent the last few hours spinning one of them up, securing replacements for the equipment he’d been forced to leave behind at the old
flat, remotely wiping the data he had there.
And warning the Nigerian.
Breece was safe, at the moment. Now he wanted to know who he’d been dealing with out there. Who had tried to stop his op?
He sank back into the chair with his fresh drink, then blinked, used his eyes to navigate menus painted in his field of view by his tactical contacts, paired them with the slate next to the chair, started downloading video and audio they’d captured to the device.
He’d been nose to nose with one of his opponents. He pulled up that one’s face now, moved it from the slate to the wall screen, blown up ten times larger than life.
Dark eyes. Face paint in black and white. Were those strong contrast lines meant to confuse facial recognition?
He took the image, and a sample of others he had of this man, and fired them off to a facial recognition service.
As he’d feared, there were no high-confidence matches. The low confidence matches numbered in the millions. He downloaded the data set, with biographical information, just in case. He could analyze that later. But another approach presented itself now.
What he was looking at right now, after all, was just a single, flat frame. But Breece had been recording from both tactical contacts.
“Load stereo vision,” Breece said to his slate. “Augment this face. Loop all frames.”
His slate obeyed, found the matching frames.
Now the face’s features grew more distinct, as image processing algorithms used the stereo vision to amplify depth, bringing the sharp nose and chin forward, enhancing the large lips, highlighting the cheekbones, indenting the area around the eyes. The face came alive, jogging towards him through the smoke, reacting in pain and fear as Breece clenched a hand around his throat. And then again, showing fear, opening his 3D mouth to speak, as Breece stood above him, his gun pointed down at the man.