by Naam, Ramez
But in his nightmares Travers fired first, and then the other agents hit him. In his nightmares, the man never flinched.
He was wide awake, suddenly. His head felt free of opiate buzz, free of the awful feeling of anxiety and craving. His stomach was knotted but his head was clear.
He brought up a window in his mind, navigated his file system. He’d saved the memories of that morning. He’d archived them. There. That was the folder. There were the files.
He pulled the memory up. Sensations engulfed him. He was back in that sweltering July day. Sweat beaded on his brow. Daydreaming as the President droned on. He wanted to yell at his old self, scream at his younger self to get up, to cry out about what was going to happen, but there was no going back, no way to stop it. The past was read-only.
He moved the slider along, fast-forwarded through his own memory, and there. The encrypted radio traffic. He’d craned his head. Spotted Travers, just another nameless Secret Service man to him then, and the awful intuition had come to him. In the memory he was up on his feet now. His heart was pounding, in the memory and in the present.
His past self was shouting now that that man had a gun. Holtzmann cranked down the play speed, and as he watched, Travers pulled the huge pistol out of his jacket in a long, slow motion, no expression on his face. It arced around at a quarter speed and snapped into place, perfectly steadily, and hung there as still as the man’s face for a fraction of a second. Then its muzzle flared and a huge boom filled Holtzmann’s ears. The muzzle of the gun jerked up, came down again in slow motion, and then its muzzle flared again and a second boom exploded in his ears. And only then did a twin blur slam into Travers and take him away. Throughout it all, the man’s expression never changed.
Holtzmann’s heart was pounding. Travers had fired calmly and coolly. He’d fired before he was hit. And his expression never betrayed a single flinch, a single hesitation. And why should it? The man had been turned into a Nexus robot, after all. His arm was controlled by software, not human instinct. His aim was controlled by software.
So why had he missed?
Nakamura’s voice answered him. “To find the cause of an event… who had the most to gain?”
There was a hand on Holtzmann’s chest. Anne was shaking him. “Martin. Martin. You were screaming. Are you OK? Another nightmare?”
Holtzmann opened his eyes, looked over at his wife. And now he was terribly afraid, not just for himself, but for her as well.
“A nightmare,” he said. “A nightmare.”
Anne Holtzmann rolled back over in the bed she shared with her husband, troubled. What was wrong with Martin? Why was he acting so strangely?
She lay there, thinking, finding no answers, until she heard his breath change as he fell back into sleep. Then sleep took her as well.
32
SEPARATION ANXIETY
Saturday October 27th
Sam watched as the two vehicles from the Mira Foundation made their way up the winding road to the place she’d called home these last three months. The children around her felt anxious, sad and frightened to be leaving Sam, uncertain about what lay ahead, but happy that Jake was coming with them.
Sam smiled, did her best to project calm resolve. This would be a wonderful new adventure. They’d meet new friends. They’d have a larger home. Jake would be with them. Sam would rejoin them soon.
But inside she felt a gaping loss.
Jake took her hand, squeezed it, gratitude and longing coming through their connection. She squeezed back, grateful for the contact.
Khun Mae and her two girls stood with them, silent. What were they thinking, Sam wondered. Were they sad to see their wards go? Were they relieved? Their faces were masks. No tears were being shed there.
The vehicles pulled through the open gate. They’d brought two – a van big enough for all the children, and a closed-top jeep driving behind.
Sam’s practiced eye picked up subtleties of the vehicles. The way the thickness of the windows distorted light a bit more. The distinctive shape of run-flat tires. The ruggedness of the chassis. These were armored vehicles, designed to blend in with normal traffic, to arouse no suspicions, but also to stand up to small arms fire. To take fire and keep on moving.
They’re careful, she thought. Can I blame them?
The vehicles stopped and four Mira Foundation staff emerged. Two men from the jeep. A man and a woman from the van. The woman moved like a model. The men moved like soldiers. Nexus emanations radiated from all four of their minds.
She stood paralyzed as they loaded the children’s things into the van, paralyzed by jealousy and loss and fear. Khun Mae and one of the men stepped back inside the house. She could see the other two men watching her now. She forced a smile, forced happy thoughts, and stepped forward to hug the children goodbye, to kiss Jake for the last time…
They were still watching her. One of the men turned to the side, focusing on the back of the van, but his body language gave him away. His attention was on her. She must be hiding her fear and loss more poorly than she’d imagined.
But he was wound up so tight… They both were… As if…
Sarai threw herself into Sam’s arms and Sam held her tight, kissed her on the brow, told her she loved her. Then she kissed and hugged each of the children as they filed into the van and took their seats.
“Panda!” Kit said, and she felt it from his mind at the same time. His beloved Panda wasn’t in the small pile of belongings in the back of the van.
Jake turned, but Sam smiled and spoke first. “I’ll get it!” she told them, grateful for something to do.
She turned and she felt the men tense up more. Maybe they were worried she’d make a scene. But she wouldn’t. She’d bide her time. And she’d be with her new family again.
Sam strode into the house and towards the room Kit and the other four boys shared. It was far enough that she couldn’t feel the minds of the children any more, could just feel one mind in here, of one of the men. And he was far enough away that she doubted he could feel her in return. It was a relief to have that privacy.
She didn’t see Panda on any of the beds in the boys’ room or on the floor. She ducked her head down to the floor and, sure enough, there the toy was, under Kit’s bed. She reached under, pulled it up, and stood to take it outside.
Then she heard the voices. Khun Mae and the man from the Mira foundation she hadn’t met. Low. Conspiratorial. Why?
She stepped towards the door softly, reeled her Nexus in and put it into receive-only mode, then closed her eyes, and let her superhuman hearing do the work.
They were speaking in Thai. She heard snippets: “Ten thousand baht… in the American girl’s food… make her unconscious… come collect her.”
What?
She stepped out of the room, into the hallway. They were at the other end, just inside the kitchen. The light lit them from behind, rendering them black silhouettes.
They froze into silence when Sam emerged. The man’s mind radiated alarm. Khun Mae’s posture radiated fright.
“Khun Mae…” Sam started.
Then the man pulled out his gun and started firing.
33
CONFRONTATION
Saturday October 27th
Jake smiled, rubbed the children’s heads, and did his best to exude calm and love. Leaving Sunee, leaving Sam, was hitting him already. He could feel it tugging at him, the sense of separation, the fear that he wouldn’t be able to get her into Mira’s good graces, that she’d disappear before he could find her again.
Something came from the house. Sounds like soft pops, and then the sound of something crashing, falling, things breaking. He turned in concern. The minds around him radiated alarm. Then the two men from Mira had guns in their hands.
Fear burst through him. The children!
He grabbed the hand of the man nearest him. “There are kids here!” he yelled.
The man shrugged Jake away with one arm, almost casually, and Jake fe
lt himself hurled through the air. His feet left the ground and for a moment he was in free flight. Then his back struck the van and it knocked the wind out of him. His world dimmed for a moment, and fear coursed through him. The kids! He forced himself to look, forced himself to see. The man still had the gun out, was spinning, looking around. Jake was on his knees. He acted without thinking, hauled himself up, threw himself at the man, grabbing at his gun arm again, with both hands, whirling him around.
Then the gun went off, and a freight train punched Jake in the chest.
Sam dove through the doorway into the boys’ room as the man opened fire. Something grazed her side as she did. She came down in a roll, back up to her feat, her mind working overtime.
“I’m not your enemy!” she yelled out through the door.
No response. The man’s mind was gone. He’d gone into receive-only mode so she couldn’t sense him.
She stepped behind the door, nearest the shooter, then looked around. She could dive out through the window, run towards Jake and the children. But the other men must be armed too. She needed a weapon. She needed to know what the fuck was going on.
Her augmented hearing picked up the footfalls in the hallway. He was stalking her, coming this way, quietly.
She closed her eyes, gave her hearing her full attention. The man’s footfalls gave him away. He was almost to the door, hugging the opposite wall of the hallway to give himself space, keep the advantage of his gun.
He was just across the thin wall from her now.
Sam made up her mind. She backed away from the wall, then hurled herself forward, turning her shoulder into it at the last instant.
Her augmented muscles and organic carbon-fiber bones crashed her through the thin wall. Wood splintered and gave. Drywall exploded. Then she was through, and her momentum drove her into the surprised soldier as he tried to turn, to bring his gun around.
The blow knocked him back, even as the gun boomed again in the small space. He kicked out from her, lightning fast, trying to create room, and she caught the foot with both hands, used it to spin him around like a plank. He hit the ground hard, face first, but rolled like a pro, faster than any normal human, clearly enhanced, the gun still in his hand, rising around to get a shot.
Then her foot stomped down on the forearm of his gun hand, pinning it as she stepped over him. He kept fighting, lashed out with a vicious, inhumanly fast fist towards her exposed groin. She brought her knee up faster, blocked his fist with her shin, then dropped all her weight on him with that knee, knocking the wind from him. Still he struggled, boosted muscles straining at her. So Sam took the gun from his hand and slammed it grip-first into the side of his head, below his ear. Once, twice, three times. And finally the man went limp.
Sam rose, the gun in her hand. Silenced. At least four rounds left. She turned towards the front of the house, kicked the door open in time to see one of the men put a bullet into Jake’s chest.
“NO!” Sam screamed. Distantly she heard the man who’d shot Jake cursing.
Sam raised her gun to fire but Sarai was there, in the line of sight, screaming now. She’d was trying to exit the van but the Mira woman had her by the arm. The other Mira soldier fired towards the house, and Sam dropped and rolled, her heart pounding in her chest.
She heard gravel crunch outside. They were coming towards her. She forced herself to visualize the courtyard. She had to shoot low, aim for the soldiers’ legs, stay clear of Sarai and the van and any other kids that had managed to break free.
Sam popped up in the window of the girls’ room, forced herself to take stock of the situation before she fired, to be sure that no children were in the way.
Her hesitation almost killed her. The Mira soldier who’d shot Jake fired on her and she felt a bullet punch into her left tricep. She fired back twice, ignored the burning pain, and saw the man go down as her bullets took him in the left leg.
Then she dropped below the window, rolled to another spot in the room. The wall would offer only scant protection.
She could hear the woman yelling now. “The children are the top priority! We have to get them out of here.”
Sam popped up again and the soldiers were under cover, on the other side of the van, climbing into it on the passenger side. One slid across to the driver’s side and then the van was moving. Sam took careful aim at his head and fired once, twice, thrice, four times, until the gun clicked empty. The shots hit the armored windshield, spiderwebbed it but didn’t break through. The van rushed forward and out the gate.
Sam threw herself through the window, shattering the remaining glass, feeling it cut into her in a dozen places, rolled, and came up sprinting at the retreating rear of the van. It disappeared out the gate as she crossed the courtyard. She could feel Jake’s pain and fear but she ignored it, pushed herself harder. Her left tricep groaned with the pain of the bullet wound, but Sam ignored that too. She made the gate at a full sprint and could see the van ahead, reaching the turn in the road. She ran harder, putting every ounce of effort into her legs, feeling her lungs burning, willing the van to slow down at the turn.
The van hit the turn at speed, skidded as it came around, its tires biting into the gravel, its driver expertly navigating the road.
She threw herself forward with all she had, sent her body into a horizontal leap, arms extended. One finger brushed the bumper, and for a moment she knew she had it, knew she would stop these men, whoever they were, knew she would have her children back.
Then her finger slipped off, and she crashed, rolling and skidding into the gravel as the van sped away.
Sam lay there panting for a moment. The jeep. They’d abandoned the jeep.
She pushed herself to her feet. There was gravel in the skin of her face. The palms of her hands were lacerated from her fall. A dozen cuts covered her from the glass of the window. Dust was matting blood into her hair, onto her face, everywhere. She ran hard, back uphill, got in view of the gate in time to see the jeep go up in a fireball that hit her with its searing heat from here.
She kept running, her mind refusing to believe, willing herself to find a fire extinguisher, put out the flames, chase them down.
And then she saw Jake.
34
MOST TO GAIN
Saturday October 27th
Holtzmann forced himself to sleep via Nexus. He had to rest. He had to clear his head. He had to get perspective.
He woke too soon, his heart pounding in his chest. The clock in his mind read 1.16am.
He couldn’t shake this dread. Couldn’t shake this fear that he’d been so wrong. That he’d misunderstood everything. That the world was an even darker place than he’d suspected.
He slipped out of bed, as silently as he could. Anne murmured something. He looked at her and his heart ached. What had happened that he’d decided to lie to her? To hide what was going on? What would happen now? If he was right… If he was right… Her life was in danger too.
Let me be wrong, he prayed to a God he hadn’t believed in since his teens. Please, Lord, let me be wrong.
Holtzmann padded into his home office, closed the door behind him, and turned on the secure terminal. He swiped his finger across the print reader, held still for the retinal scan, and then spoke his passphrase.
The terminal came alive, the Department of Homeland Security’s eagle-and-shield logo emblazoned on the screen, the ERD’s smaller atom-double-helix-and-shield sigil superimposed on its bottom right corner.
He navigated through the system, into Project November. Cooper’s team had built this, under his supervision. He’d hated that they’d made this, but it had been a miniscule crime compared to the ones he faced now.
He ignored the source code, pulled up the specifications instead. There, the on-the-wire protocol definition. He took snapshots of the data on the screen with his mind’s eye, forced his Nexus OS to commit them to storage. Then one more thing. The encryption key. Where did it live? He trawled through config options. There i
t was. The key itself was obscured. He had to re-enter his passphrase, his voice shaking so much he was surprised that the system took it, then answer three challenges, and then and only then the system revealed the key to him. It was a long string of hexadecimal that would make no sense to a human, but which would unlock the communication between November node and November controller. He took a snapshot of the key, verified that it was saved, then disconnected himself from the system.
His heart was pounding now. He was sweating. His breath came short. He was wrong. He was sure he was wrong. He must be wrong. But what if he was right?
He wanted another opiate surge. He wanted to make it all go away. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t. This was too big. He had to know.
Holtzmann darkened the terminal screen, leaned back in his chair, his eyes closed, and went back to his memories of that horrible day in July. The comms log. There. The encrypted traffic he’d picked up.
Encrypted data. On a Nexus frequency. Joe Duran scowling as Holtzmann looked back and forth, looked for the source behind him.
?RU5L8PP0hLarBNxfoQM23wG6+KTCEBhOIAAQyPPc76+TWhj+X/
He took the encrypted transmissions, opened them in a decryption app, and applied the private key.
The key matched.
The assassins hadn’t just used Nexus from his lab. They’d used his code. That was how they’d pulled off an attack so sophisticated, so far beyond what the PLF had done in years. They’d used his work.
His heart wanted to burst out of his chest now. His face was flushed. He wanted to scream and to weep.
One last thing to check. He pulled the on-the-wire protocol definition up in his mind’s eye, let it fill the top half of his vision while the decrypted communication filled the bottom half.
The protocol definition was a key, a legend. It let him turn the binary language of the decrypted signals into something that made sense.
He moved slowly, carefully. There in the protocol definition was the command for “fire”, the arguments that it took. He searched through the decrypted signals, looking, looking. Was it there? Could there be some mistake? Could he be wrong?