Apex

by Ramez Naam

  The battlefield was an extension of their minds. Its map was their personal space. Their brothers were their phantom limbs, striking in concert, conjoined in ways more intimate and immediate than any enemy could achieve.

  The humans had engineered them to be the ultimate soldiers. Stronger, faster, more hardy.

  But this was what truly made them deadly. This was what truly made them posthuman. The ultimate soldier wasn’t the strongest. It was he or she who was most connected.

  Bai picked off a group of soldiers pressing Quang, then swapped in a fresh clip in the space while Liwei fired, perfectly in synch.

  There. A breakaway group of soldiers, rushing for the center of the square, seen from Lao’s perspective, on the other rooftop.

  Rushing for the leaders.

  Bai moved towards them, throwing himself into the press of protesters, putting himself on an intercept course. Humans were panicking everywhere, running to and fro, colliding into each other.

  No, not everywhere.

  A few were fighting with cunning and courage, taking shelter, loading bottles with fuel, popping up to hurl them. Others were holding aloft phones, recording what was happening, to let the rest of China and the world know.

  Bai saw the braves ones pay with their lives.

  We’re here, he thought at them. We’re with you.

  Then he was through the press, Liwei just behind him, in time to see the actress’s bodyguards die, as the soldiers moved in to execute the leaders.

  And then he was the maelstrom.

  “Qi!” Zhi Li screamed as her bodyguard, her loyal friend, was cut down by machine gun fire. She stumbled, suddenly realizing Lu Song’s hand wasn’t in her own. Then she was down on the ground, pain in her palms. She looked up and a soldier was bringing his rifle around to murder her.

  “China!” she screamed, screamed with all her rage, the word she wanted to be the last to leave her lips.

  A blur came out of nowhere, an impossible thing made of muzzle fire and fists and feet. The soldier fired and it went up into the sky and then he was gone. She looked and there were more soldiers bringing their guns around to shoot, the soldiers who’d meant to kill them. Their machine guns were firing but not at her, and they were dying, they were dying and she didn’t even understand it.

  Something struck near her in the dirt and she looked up and there was another soldier pointing his rifle down at her and firing and somehow he’d missed but she was still going to die.

  Then the metal pipe Lu Song held in his hands collided with the soldier’s helmet like a bat, rocking the man back. Somehow Lu Song was up above her, on his feet. He swung at the man again, the other way, clubbed him in the helmet again. Then the soldier got his rifle around, pointed at Lu Song.

  Shots burst out.

  The soldier fell to the ground. Lu Song stood there.

  He turned.

  Zhi Li followed his gaze.

  And there was Yuguo, a look of amazement on his face, Qi’s pistol in his hand, smoke still rising from it.

  And beyond him, there were two men in fatigues, standing over a dozen dead soldiers.

  Two men with identical faces.

  Bai came to a stop, the bodies falling around him and Liwei like toy soldiers. Blood was coming from his arm where he’d been hit. Liwei was cut across the shin.

  They were both breathing hard. Sweat was cooling on their brows. He let the rest of the thoughts of his brothers wash over him.

  The Army troops were pulling back. The Fist had killed hundreds in the last few minutes.

  But not without cost.

  Hong was dead. Liko was dead. Deming was dead. Donghai was dead. Minsheng was dead. Shirong was dead. Guotin was badly burned, lying on the ground, fighting the pain. Guozhi was gut-shot, repeatedly, bleeding, in need of urgent care. Others had cuts or trivial bullet wounds. And where was Chanming? Where was Aiguo? Where was Genghis? Hadn’t they deployed? There was a hole where their minds should be.

  Dead, most likely.

  “Who… who are you?”

  Bai turned. He was still breathing hard. It was the student. The boy they’d identified as one of the leaders. A high-value target worth protecting. He was looking back and forth between Bai and Liwei.

  Bai looked at Liwei, then looked back at the student. He was suddenly aware of phones around them, phones pointed at him, phones recording this.

  “We’re brothers,” Bai said.

  “Are you… are you with the Army?” the student asked.

  Bai felt his breathing slow, finally catching up to the exertion of killing these soldiers before they could kill the protest leaders. He could see the actress watching now. And her partner, Lu Song.

  He’d always liked Lu Song’s films.

  “We’re Confucian Fist,” Bai said. He paused. “We serve the people.”

  Then Bai felt something that shocked him.

  A mind. A mind he hadn’t touched for most of a year.

  A mind he’d thought was dead.

  Here, now.

  Very much alive.

  117

  Confrontations

  Monday 2041.01.20

  John Stockton waited in the President’s Room off the US Senate Chambers.

  What a gaudy, tacky place this was. The gold and blue tile-work on the floor. The frescos on the ceiling. It looked more like a church in Italy than something that belonged in the US.

  Goddammit, he didn’t want to be here.

  He’d made this his first stop after his inauguration in 37, coming here to show the Congress that he was serious about working with them, that he was serious about signing bills right here, like Lincoln had, like Reagan had.

  After the inauguration. Not before.

  He hadn’t been back once, until now.

  He hated this. Hated having the inauguration indoors for fear of disruption. Hated the mistrust the American people had, when everything he’d done the last four years he’d done to make the country stronger.

  Stockton parted a heavy red curtain with his hand. He heard one of his Secret Service detail make a sound behind him. He ignored the man. The glass was bulletproof. If they wanted to fire a rocket at him, they were welcome to try.

  Somewhere out there, protesters were gathering. Maybe a million of them. Because they thought he’d lied. Because they thought he was a monster.

  I never lied to you, America, Stockton thought at those people. If I’m hard, it’s because you’re soft. It’s because you don’t see the danger.

  “Mr President,” he heard from behind him.

  He turned. Jerry Aiken, his Chief of Staff, had the door open.

  “President Jameson is here, sir.”

  Stockton nodded.

  They wheeled Jameson in. He was impeccably dressed in a grey suit and red tie, a prominent flag pin on his lapel. A man choosing to sit, not a cripple. Not an invalid. Not a man who’d been through three strokes.

  His chair was obviously self-drive, but he still had some aide push it in for him. His own Secret Service detail came in with him.

  “John,” Miles Jameson said with a smile. “About to start your second term!” He sounded proud. “And you still made time to chat with me?”

  John Stockton met the eyes of the man who’d chosen him as VP eight years ago, who’d all but handed him the White House when health precluded a second run.

  He didn’t smile back.

  “I need a few minutes with President Jameson,” he said, his eyes still on Jameson’s. “Please leave us.”

  Jameson cocked his head quizzically, kept smiling as people filed out.

  When they were gone, and the soundproof door was closed, Jameson spoke again.

  “John,” he started.

  “Tell me it’s not true,” Stockton cut him off.

  Jameson frowned. “What’s not true?”

  “Don’t play this game with me, Miles,” Stockton said. “The PLF. That we created it. That you created it.”

  Jameson’s face
grew grave. “Oh no. Don’t tell me she’s got you convinced. Carolyn needs help, John. The job’s gotten to her. The woman’s paranoid. She’s clinical.”

  “So you deny it?” Stockton asked.

  “Every bit of it!” James said. “Did you know she fabricated a story about an attempt to kill her? About some sort of covert escape with stealth gear and a helicopter?”

  “Fabricated?” Stockton asked.

  Jameson nodded. “She crashed her rental car, barely made it out with her life, made up some alternate story, has been telling people about it, some sort of James Bond story.”

  “But it’s not true?” Stockton asked.

  Jameson shook his head. “No. She might actually believe it, mind you, in some sort of paranoid delusion. But we interviewed the officers on the scene of the car crash. We talked to the flight crew she says flew her. She was in the car. She was driving. There was no helicopter.”

  “And these witnesses will swear to this?” Stockton asked.

  Jameson shrugged. “I don’t see why they wouldn’t.”

  “Because you’re a damn liar!” Stockton yelled, exploding with rage, thrusting an accusing finger at Jameson. “Aiken interviewed those people. Two of them say they were offered bribes, in the millions to lie!”

  Shock registered on Jameson’s face. Disbelief.

  “CALVINIST,” Stockton said. “HARBINGER. SENTINEL.”

  He threw the names at Jameson like slaps, every one an insult.

  Jameson’s face grew enraged.

  “You don’t get to lecture me, John!” Jameson growled. “You opted out of the hard calls.”

  “Bullshit!” Stockton said. “I was there! I was ready!”

  “No,” Jameson spat. “You weren’t. You’re still not.”

  “We don’t fucking lie!” Stockton shot back. “Not like that! Not on that scale!”

  “We lie all the time!” Jameson leaned forward, staring at Stockton, punctuating each word with a sharp small movement of his head, with an extended finger jabbing down at the floor, like a school master teaching a thick-headed student. “We do whatever it takes to keep this country strong. You better fucking learn that, before it’s too late!”

  “You can’t build a country on lies,” Stockton said. He strode for the door.

  “John!” Jameson reached out, grabbed Stockton’s forearm with one outstretched hand.

  Stockton pried it off.

  “You’re going down, Miles.”

  Bo Jintao looked up as General Ouyang re-entered the room.

  “We were repelled,” Ouyang said. His voice was grave.

  Bo Jintao’s eyes grew wide. “At Jiao Tong?”

  Ouyang nodded. “They had anti-tank weapons. Cyber weapons.” He paused. “And the clone soldiers were there. I fear the Indians are correct.”

  Bo Jintao felt fear crawl up his spine. He was suddenly aware of the other six members of the Politburo Standing Committee staring at him.

  He’d warned them of this! He’d come to power on this basis! He’d told them that the progressives would lead them to a catastrophe, a loss of control, even a world where posthumans overturned the rule of humans.

  But he hadn’t thought it would happen so soon!

  “Hit them harder!” he told Ouyang .

  The General nodded. “Already in progress. We’re moving military assets from the assault on People’s Square. Pulling up other resources.” He paused. “If conventional assault should fail…”

  “It cannot fail!” Bo Jintao said. “Spare nothing!”

  Ouyang bowed his head briefly. Then he looked up again.

  “There is another issue. The deadline we gave to the American fleet expires soon. This is now a distraction. We should postpone it, give them another 24 hours while we deal with this more pressing domestic issue.”

  Across the table he saw Bao Zhuang nod, open his mouth to agree.

  Wang Wei spoke faster. “No!” the elder Standing Committee member said. “We don’t know that the Americans aren’t involved! They may be working with her! And we’ve told them to vacate our territory. We must follow through on our threats or they lose all power!”

  Around the table, Bo Jintao saw other Standing Committee members agreeing with Wang Wei. He swiveled his head, and there were near universal nods of enthusiasm. All except Bao Zhuang and Fu Ping. One of whom he’d stripped of all power. The other had been humiliated by failure.

  Fine.

  Ouyang shook his head. “I strongly urge the Standing Committee to…”

  Bo Jintao cut him off. There were only so many fights that could be fought at once. “We’re done. The Standing Committee has decided, General.”

  Ouyang scowled.

  Bo Jintao pressed on. “The warning shot goes forward,” he said. “But first and foremost, get to that cluster, and destroy it!”

  At Dachang People’s Liberation Army Air Force Base, just west of Shanghai, the Avatar’s thoughts touched her servants, and klaxons sounded.

  Unmanned Wuzhen-40s ignited their engines, propelled themselves down their runways, and lifted off into the night sky, loaded with ammunitions. Their operators, brains infused with nanites, instructions strongly imprinted on their minds, steered them towards Jiao Tong.

  Protect the university campus.

  Protect it against the Army.

  On the ground, humans and robots fueled more aircraft, prepped them for takeoff.

  General Ouyang sat in the helicopter he was using as a mobile command center, grounded on the pad at Zhongnanhai, thinking.

  He’d given the order for the attack on Jiao Tong.

  Beyond that?

  “Patch me through to General Quan Huyan,” he told his radio operator. “Strategic Missile Command.”

  The radio operator in the co-pilot seat nodded.

  An analog radio signal was bounced from the helicopter to an aircraft flying lazy circles above Beijing, from there to a high-altitude aerostat filled with helium, then down a string of similar aircraft, until it reached his destination.

  An old friend, now a subordinate.

  “General Ouyang,” came the brisk voice. “What are your orders?”

  Ouyang took a breath. “Quan,” he said, addressing the man as a friend. “My orders are quite irregular. But they may be vital to our future. Cut your base off from all digital input, immediately. Activate electronic warfare defense protocols. Assume all digital signals are attacks. Then place two Dongfeng-6s on standby. Target them for the following coordinates…”

  There was silence after he’d read off the coordinates. He could see the tension in the postures of his pilot, his radio-man, his aide. He could hear the shock in Quan Huyan’s breathing.

  “General,” Quan Huyan said. Ouyang heard his old friend swallow. “Those coordinates appear to be…”

  “Shanghai,” Ouyang said. “Jiao Tong University. Ten megatons.”

  Ouyang could hear Quan Huyan breathing heavily on the other side, in disbelief.

  “General,” Quan said. “I cannot fire these missiles without authorization from…”

  “Old friend,” Ouyang interrupted. “I hope I never get that authorization.”

  118

  The Only Way

  Monday 2041.01.20

  Kade lay on his belly in the darkness, atop the roof, his visor illuminating and magnifying the scene in Jiao Tong’s central square.

  The scene of bloodshed.

  Around him were Feng and Sam and the Indian Commandos. Getting here had been a grueling ordeal. The streets were a nightmare of angry citizens and nervous, twitchy soldiers. They’d traveled cloaked in chameleonware, winding their way between and through crowds where possible, being stalled more than once by impossible throngs, pushing their way through at times, creating distractions where they could, backtracking when necessary.

  All the while their body heat was building up, being trapped in the suits’ heat capacitors very finite capacity.

  Three times Kade had been forced
to talk Captain Garud down via satellite from trying to slip into the Secure Computing Center without him.

  “You’ll need my help or Feng’s to operate the elevator. You’ll need the tools Shu gave us.”

  “We’re here now!” Garud had sent back. “Transfer the tools to us!”

  “No,” Kade refused.

  The truth was, he didn’t trust the commandos to go in without him. Not one bit.

  Now, Kade and Sam and Feng were re-united with the Indian team. Minus one. A commando named Srini hadn’t made it. The one who’d collided with the flock of birds ahead of Kade.

  The remaining eleven were spread out on this rooftop, chameleonware active, visible to Kade only via the green wire-frames painted into his mind of each figure and the impressive array of gear with them.

  Kade had dropped with almost nothing. The rest had dropped with thrity to forty kilo loads of weapons, comms gear, and emergency supplies. The visor used its link to his Nexus OS to fill his mind’s eye with the outlines of guns and grenades and micromissile launchers, of rappelling gear and climbing gear, of backpacks on all the commandos, laden with more.

  Somewhere in that gear, Kade imagined, there were two very special packages hidden. Packages they didn’t want him to know about.

  “At least a hundred Confucian Fist out in the open,” Garud whispered over their suit-to-suit laser links. “A handful visible guarding the building itself. Now is our best chance to enter.”

  “No,” Feng transmitted. “At least thirty, forty of my brothers not accounted for. Could be inside. No way to fight through that.”

  “We attack with missiles and grenades then,” Aarthi transmitted.

  “No,” Feng repeated.