by PJ Manney
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2015 PJ Manney
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by 47North, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781477828496
ISBN-10: 1477828494
Cover design by Megan Haggerty
Cover illustration by Adam Martinakis
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014955046
To Nathaniel and Hannah:
The future is yours to create.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
PART TWO
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
PART THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
CHAPTER SEVENTY
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
ABOUT THE MUSIC
(R)EVOLUTION PLAYLIST
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
Ready or not, revolution comes, thought Emma Lancaster.
Bodies flowed past a coffee shop in the grand lobby of the Las Vegas Convention Center. Emma sipped a tall cappuccino, watching them with resignation. She was small boned and slender, with long, honey-hued hair pulled back in a high ponytail that lent her the perky charisma of a cheerleader. Or class president. She’d been both in her short life. But this morning, she was subdued.
Next to her, a pale, wispy teen, with watery blue eyes open so wide a puff of reality might blow him away, nursed his soy chai latte. Donovan Katz had to brush his unruly ginger hair out of his cup every time he sipped from it. On Emma’s other side stood Brandon Tellmer, black buds firmly in ears. His brown buzz-cut head bobbed and his legs twitched in time with his personal soundtrack, aided by two extra shots in his café mocha. Green Day’s “American Idiot” leaked through his headphones, the headbanging polluting a Muzak version of Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer” that pumped through the ceiling speakers.
All three seemed no more than overgrown children: clean-cut collegiate types, dressed in their mall-bought clothes, armed with large, techno-friendly, solar-powered backpacks. They radiated competence, seriousness, and dedication. Had they worn suits, you might have mistaken them for Mormon missionaries.
The Las Vegas Convention Center was packed with over one hundred thousand people, distributed among its three main halls. They were there to attend IAM—the International Association of Media. Media shrunk the world into its common needs and goals regardless of nationality, and IAM provided everything that multicultural buyers and sellers needed, sharing the common language of money in the largest gathering of electronic companies on earth, a convergence of broadcast and cable television, motion pictures, radio, gaming, music, news, and mobile phones to feed the ever-hungry maw of the Internet.
The Smart Badges that hung from the three young people’s necks identified and linked them as collegiate casters from Brigham Young University in Provo. But their identities were forged. For instance, Emma posed as Sally Dunbuster of Mt. Pleasant, Utah. Each had come from a different college, a different background, and had only met six months earlier to train for their common goal.
Emma looked at her watch. It was five minutes to twelve. Discreetly, the boys also checked their watches. Then they stared a moment too long into each other’s eyes.
Emma offered her hand to shake. Donovan playfully knocked it away, smiled, and opened his arms. She stepped into his hug, then hugged Brandon. He was damp, trembling, but his expression remained stoic. Without a word, Emma stepped back from Brandon’s embrace, scooped up her backpack, and strode to the central hall.
Brandon headed for the north hall while Donovan took off at a jog, cutting quickly through the crowd, for the more distant south hall.
A herd of conventioneers crushed Emma in the chute of the central hall doors, offering a suited man in his forties the opportunity to brush his hand against her breast. She drew back, but before she had a chance to look at his face, his dangling Smart Badge buzzed in automated greet mode: “Hi, Sally Dunbuster! I’m Bob Grant—Network Sales. Let me tell you about product placement and promotion opportunities for your faith-based programming!” Bob’s bleached, toothy grin aimed to impress, suggesting, “I practically run the network”: whereas, in reality, he sold Still Keeping Up with the Kardashians to Kazakhstan. He glanced at his own badge for preprogrammed information to use as a conversation starter. Like many conventioneers away from home, he was desperate to get laid. Emma disappeared into the crowd, forgiving his clumsy come-on.
Once inside the central hall, she disabled the Smart Badge and stood on tiptoe to survey the enormous room. Its six hundred thousand square feet were filled with almost a thousand trade-show booths. They hawked hardware, software, services, and an endless variety of content, all aimed at the blessed convergence of multimedia information technologies to be delivered through the one-two punch of the GO/HOME, a handheld and wall-sized all-media system. In this brave new world of information technology, the GO/HOME was all people needed. Th
e choices made by owners of the systems reflected their passions and habits, and this valuable marketing information was sent back to the companies so they could provide what the public wanted. Of course, that presupposed the public knew what they wanted, or could favor nonexistent choices. It was hard to tell who believed this innovation was more heaven-sent: entertainment addicts, techno-geeks, or media conglomerates.
Emma cut quickly through the hall, past “Content Creation Village,” “Satellite Site,” and “Internet Services,” to the far corner where “Technologies for Worship” was housed.
Shucking her backpack, she propped it against the wall between “Event-gelicals” and “VC Cubed: Viewer Content for Virtual Catering of Virtual Communion.” Again, she checked her watch: 12:00:17. With smooth, swift moves born of countless practice runs, Emma knelt and pulled a nylon bag from inside the backpack. Quickly removing some plastic and ceramic pieces, she fitted them like a K’nex set, until the object in her hands was recognizable as a drone aircraft, about a meter long. A tiny video camera peeked from beneath its nose, and a miniature directed-thrust engine with four nozzles was cradled inside the skeletal fuselage. Emma skinned the frame with tightly fitted black fabric. Finally, she clipped a preassembled pod resembling the passenger cabin beneath a dirigible to the bottom of the craft. Together, the belly and pod created a sign in bright, cheerful letters: “Smile! GOD’S Watching!”
Emma placed the tiny craft on the floor and powered up the remote, pressing “Collect,” which initiated a collection of spatial information from two scanning laser sensors on its belly and dorsal. When her remote’s light turned green, she pressed “Start.” The miniature Harrier jet rose into the air. Several exhibitors and attendees clapped as it climbed above their heads to the ceiling and away.
She tossed the remote into the backpack and slipped into the crowd to find the nearest ladies’ room.
Inside the restroom, two leggy spokesmodels complained about frequent costume changes as they washed their hands and reapplied makeup. Emma locked herself in a stall and unzipped her backpack on the toilet seat, quickly removing three clear ziplock bags. One contained nonpermeable polymer nose- and earplugs, rimmed with a nano-superadhesive protected by pull strips. She ripped off the strips and shoved the plugs up her nostrils, high enough not to be seen, and squeezed her nose around them, forming a tight, gap-free seal. Then she stuffed the other pair in her ears. She pulled off her ponytail band and fluffed her thick hair around her ears to obscure the plugs.
The second bag held a nonpermeable polymer mouthpiece connected by a tube to a small steel container. She yanked off the strip and bit down hard, locking her inner lips around the adhesive seal. Two small tubes emerged from the left side of her mouth. She took small breaths, keeping her mouth shut to conceal the mouthpiece, and stuffed the container and extra tubing into an inner pocket of her jacket. Ripping open the last bag, she removed a pair of adhesive-rimmed plastic goggles designed to look like wraparound sunglasses and fitted them around her eyes.
Entering the hall again, Emma looked up. The drone skimmed one meter below the ceiling, almost thirty-five feet above the crowd, maintaining a precise distance from the rigging, its laser guidance enabling it to avoid displays, signs, banners, and lighting equipment that hung from the rafters and catwalks.
Emma permitted herself a satisfied smile as she strolled past a display for super high-definition cameras, and tossed the remote beneath the display’s large skirted table. No one noticed. And there would be no fingerprints. All three of them had dipped their hands in clear, fast-drying acrylic that created an invisible glove, preventing incriminating fingerprints or sloughed skin cells.
Just ahead of her, a man in his sixties with a huge gut stopped to catch his breath. He had the pallor of someone about to pass out. Or worse.
Emma quickened her pace. With fourteen acres under this roof alone, she still had serious ground to cover. As she breathed more deeply, the tiny tank under her jacket struggled to provide her with sufficient air.
At the Panasonic booth, a twentyish intern with black spiky hair suddenly fell to the floor in what appeared to be an epileptic fit. Concerned patrons immediately surrounded him, dialing GOs for medical aid.
A burst of adrenalized panic overwhelmed her. Sprinting down the aisles, she dodged attendees like a football running back. High above, the plane flew ahead of her, reaching the front doors, only to turn around in an ever-widening loop.
More people looked ill. A few squatted in the aisle, head between the knees, to prevent passing out. An elderly woman in a motorized chair stopped by a squatting teenage podcaster and offered him her oxygen mask.
Sucking limited air through the regulator made Emma woozy. She burst through the glass doors of the grand lobby onto the sidewalk, trying not to faint, convincing herself she just needed more oxygen. She scanned the parking lot. They had parked their getaway cars in different areas, all within a block of their buildings. Her car was the farthest from the halls, beyond the lot and across Paradise Road at the Courtyard by Marriott.
Cold sweat made her shiver in the sweltering heat. A shuttle bus pulled up to take conventioneers from the center to surrounding halls and hotels. Two people got off, but a crowd was lined up, ready to board. As Emma got on, the itinerary taped to the dashboard listed the Courtyard by Marriott as the first hotel stop. She found a seat in back.
Adrenaline coursed through her body, so to slow her racing heart, she practiced the controlled, deep breathing her trainers taught her. As seats filled up, a ruddy-faced blond man in his fifties paused by her seat and politely gestured “Do you mind?” before settling in. His Smart Badge read, “Anders Sandberg—Satellite System Technician.” He tried to maintain a polite distance between them, but the bodies crushed together in the aisle shoved him closer. Soon, over seventy people filled every available standing or sitting space on a forty-seat bus. The babble of many languages—Hebrew and Arabic, Mandarin and Spanish, Hindi and German—created a polyglot white noise. The Smart Badges’ proximity sensors went into overdrive. “Hello Japendu! I’m Benicio—Segment Producer. Let me tell you about geriatric media opportunities for healthcare providers!”
Peering out the window, Emma saw Brandon dash outside the north hall for the nearest parking area, his loping stride revealing a long-distance runner. Reaching his anonymous Ford Escort, he fumbled for the keys. They hit the ground and he dived out of sight behind the car to find them. When he popped back up to unlock his door, he caught a glimpse of Emma in her shuttle as it pulled away. They traded a relieved look. He jumped into the driver’s seat, turned the key . . .
. . . and a white light enveloped the parking lot, burning the retinas of all who witnessed it. A high-pitched hum became a whooshing sound that sucked all other sounds up and away.
The shuttle driver slammed the brakes. Passengers shrieked, and a few lost their balance, falling into seated laps in confusion.
Emma froze, hands pressed against the hot window glass, the screams around her muffled by the earplugs. Satellite Man burst out, “Herre Gud! Did you see that . . . that . . . What the hell was that?” His accent was Swedish.
As eyesight and hearing slowly returned, everything looked washed out, overexposed. The blinding light was gone. Along with the car. And Brandon. All that remained in their place was a hole in liquefied tar, strewn with chunks of molten metal and a sprinkling of ash.
This was not the plan. None of the team was supposed to die.
The stunned driver came to life. Grabbing the microphone, he yelled over the passengers’ babble, “What do you want me to do?”
“Go! Go! Go!” was the unanimous reply. If the center was under attack, no one wanted to stick around. He hit the gas pedal, sending more standers off balance. Terrified now, they clutched at each other. A few cried.
Emma stared fixedly at the south hall doors, willing Donovan to come out. Moments later, he emerged. His casual but purposeful saunter told her that he hadn’t seen Brandon
wiped off the earth. Intent on his goal, he paid no attention to the gathering witnesses.
Trapped on the bus, with the regulator glued into her mouth, Emma couldn’t scream a warning to him. The bus rapidly pulled away. She twisted in her seat and tried to wave at him, but it was impossible for him to see her.
Anxiously, she glanced around at the rest of the passengers. The din had quieted. Several people looked ill. Two men, an Indian at the back and a German at the front, began to shake uncontrollably. A new, higher-pitched babble broke out.
An Israeli-accented voice screamed from beside an Indian, “Stop the bus! He is ill!” It took only seconds for other passengers to look around and realize many were sick.
Another accented voice shouted, “Out! Everybody out!” prompting more panicked entreaties to the driver.
The bus driver flicked terrified glances in his rearview mirror and quickly turned into the driveway of the Marriott.
Satellite Man wheezed, left hand clutching his chest, his shaky right fumbling madly for an asthma inhaler in his front trouser pocket.
The moment the shuttle stopped and the doors flew open, the stampede began. No one was more desperate to escape than Emma. Unable to rise, Satellite Man gasped like a landed fish and clutched her arm. She tore his clammy, grasping hands off her as she crawled over his lap to plunge into the mass of passengers in the aisle. She forced her way through the twisted, convulsing bodies to the bus’s front steps. Those who realized she was unaffected clawed at her to carry them to safety. But she slapped them off fiercely, helping no one. Bursting out of the open door, she half stumbled, half ran down the steps and onto the pavement. Fixated on reaching her white Ford Escort, she shut out the sights and sounds of her dying bus mates.
The few who made it out of the bus and collapsed set off their Smart Badges’ reoriented proximity sensors. In virtual conversation, the same dispassionate, female compu-voice kept repeating on dozens of badges, “Hi Gunther! I’m Mingmei . . .” “Hi Jorge! I’m François . . .” “Let me tell you about . . .” “. . . writing the . . .” “. . . shooting with . . .” “. . . starring as your own . . .” They would be the last words the badge wearers would ever hear.