(R)evolution (Phoenix Horizon Book 1)

by PJ Manney

  Feverishly fishing out keys from her pocket, Emma paused. Could Brandon have triggered something? If she unlocked the door, would she die, too?

  The sirens were getting louder. And her options fewer.

  Her trainers were adamant: don’t deviate from the plan. Slowly, she slipped the key into the lock. It turned easily. The door opened . . . Nothing happened. Maybe it was the ignition. She got behind the wheel, fastened her seat belt and gently put the key in the ignition. The car turned over, and the engine hummed. No white light came to extinguish her existence. She breathed a constrained sigh of relief through her mouthpiece and carefully backed out of the space, following the arrows to a far exit, turning right onto Paradise Road and immediately crossing over two lanes to make a left onto East Desert Inn Road, tires squealing below the suspended corridor created by the hulking convention center above her.

  The sirens were close.

  The authorities would close the largest arteries first, so Emma avoided Interstate 15—the usual route through Las Vegas—to escape on surface streets and back roads. The plan was to meet up 150 miles away. Only she and Donovan would make it now.

  Within ten blocks, traffic slowed. As the overpass for the 515/95/93 loomed before her, she saw it. A smoking hole in the asphalt at a stoplight, blocking a lane. People surrounded it, staring into its wet, inky blackness.

  Emma began to cry.

  Traffic freed up after the overpass. Word of what happened had not yet reached the local drivers. She careened right, turning the corner of the first street she saw, Backstage Boulevard, and made a quick left on Florrie Avenue. She was in a residential neighborhood, full of one-story, 1960s ranch–style homes. She parked in front of a gray house with white trim peeling in large flakes from the relentless Las Vegas sun and left the keys in the ignition, in case removing the keys might trigger an explosion.

  She bolted down the street, gasping for air. There wasn’t enough. It could have been her weeping, or maybe her air filters had failed and she, too, was infected, but she couldn’t stop. Through the fogged lenses of her goggles, she searched for an escape route. In one direction there was a dead end into railroad tracks. She dashed right into a cul-de-sac.

  Suddenly, Emma felt as if her head might explode. Her ears rang and she experienced a sensation of her body being peeled inside out . . .

  After the burst of blinding white light faded away, the center of the cul-de-sac had an oozing, tarry hole in it. Emma was gone.

  It would be over six hours before a cruiser from the Las Vegas Police Department came to examine the hole after receiving a housewife’s hysterical 911 call.

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  It hadn’t sunk in yet.

  Peter Bernhardt caught sight of his reflection in the glass of a framed photograph: a scarecrow sagged over the Biogineers conference room table, raking fingers through unbrushed shoulder-length brown hair, staring back with blue bloodshot eyes, chalky pale skin taut with stress. Was that him? Or was a ghost floating in front of the photo of California’s governor shaking hands with a different Peter Bernhardt: six foot, broad shouldered, crooked nosed, cleft chin paired with a single cheek dimple in a smile that was a little too eager to please, dressed in his daily uniform of a black T-shirt and jacket, blue jeans, and black running shoes? Other specters bounced off framed articles about Bernhardt and Biogineers in Wired (“Is Peter Bernhardt Going to Change Neuromedicine Forever?”); the Economist (“Biogineers: The Super Small Will Soon Be Super Big!”); the Wall Street Journal (“Conquistador Capital Explores Brave New World of Nanomedicine with Biogineers”); and the New York Times (“While My Guitar Gently Reaps,” about how he came up with a nanorobotic structure while playing “Mother’s Little Helper” by the Rolling Stones on a Gibson Firebird, and the idea for Biogineers while playing “Bad Brain” by the Ramones on a Fender Stratocaster).

  He had thought these mementos represented a level of success that could never be taken away. Would he burn them now? Peter was in shock, obsessing about bullshit, having just been axed from the nanobiotech firm he created. Because of Biogineers, he was being blamed for the biggest mass murder in history. And he didn’t even know why.

  Bruce Lobo stared unblinking across the table, pale gray eyes devoid of emotion. Short, muscular, he looked like any number of wealthy Latino businessmen in Silicon Valley. But he wasn’t just anybody. Lobo was the most powerful man in the biotech business. For two days, he had been Peter’s boss. Now, he was Peter’s enemy.

  “Because the government believes nanorobots were used to perpetrate the attacks,” said Bruce, “you and Biogineers are under suspicion. To protect ourselves, Lobo Industries’ board of directors has decided to terminate your contract—with cause—for gross negligence, or willful misconduct, or terrorism, or any other damned thing we can prove. Biogineers and Lobo Industries will distance themselves from you personally, using any means necessary. Amanda will tender her resignation immediately by signing this resignation letter written on her behalf.” The letter lay in the middle of the table. Bruce rocked back in his seat. Silent. His stare penetrating Peter’s skull like a bone drill bit.

  No amount of homework could have prepared Peter for this morning. Lobo was a challenging business colleague with a ruthless and monopolistic reputation. But Peter had thought that two poor-but-smart Catholic boys who had made good in the same industry might have a lot in common and be able to bond. They had both used intelligence and ambition to climb to the top of the biotech field. A field that daily changed how humanity dealt with illness. Peter’s technology was on the brink of making Alzheimer’s obsolete. Depression a thing of the past. Brain diseases something that only happened to those who didn’t receive treatment. People would live longer and healthier lives than ever before. He’d thought he was creating happiness for millions, if not billions, of people.

  By teaming with Lobo, Peter had hoped to synergistically work with other Lobo enterprises to create something bigger than the sum of their parts. He had thought the buyout would be the best thing for everyone. But apparently, everything he knew about Lobo was wrong.

  Just two days ago was no ordinary workday. A welcome-to-the-evil-empire party was in full swing as Biogineers’s team celebrated their big payday. By 10:00 a.m., Dom and Raging Bulls flowed and everyone was having a great time. Amanda even pulled Peter into a storeroom for a congratulatory drunken make-out session, her long limbs wrapped around him.

  Even after eleven years, Peter marveled how this woman could be his wife. He kissed her impossibly high cheekbones that slashed across copper-colored skin. Glossy black lashes and thick eyebrows framed almond-shaped eyes—the right, blue-green; the left, brown. Her long, straight black hair fell over her face, stroking his cheek, and she absentmindedly pushed it back up behind her ear, where gravity would prevail again in a minute. He often fantasized she was descended from a famous Indian chief. His own Pocahontas. Her family history included a sizable chunk of Cherokee, so it was possible.

  The only thing that stopped them from having sex right there was a few equally drunk coworkers who opened the door screaming “Surprise!” moments before they were in flagrante delicto. Everyone thought it was hilariously funny. At the time.

  Just two days ago, Peter was glad-handing employees, telling them this was the beginning of great things. He hunted down the chief engineer, Chang Eng, surrounded by his exuberant team down in the manufacturing lab. Chang quietly nursed a beer as the jokes flew around him. Everything about Chang was condensed to its essence, from his slim physique to his perfectly fit chinos and oxford shirt that allowed for no more fabric than was absolutely necessary, to his hair buzzed weekly at a number two. Biogineers would never have achieved half its success without Chang’s extraordinary engineering and problem-solving skills.

  Peter pulled him aside. “You know this is all because of you. And it’s just the beginning . . .”

  Chang’s head bowed. “It wasn’t me. It was our team. They allowed
me to do all the hard work.”

  Peter slapped him on the back. “Stop being so Chinese! You’re now part of the Microsoft of biotech! You have unbelievable benefit and stock packages. Just say, ‘Thank you.’ ”

  Chang shyly stared down the barrel of an empty beer bottle. “Thank you.”

  Just two days ago, they had been on top of the world. Then the bad news arrived from Las Vegas.

  By 12:04 p.m., reports spread to Biogineers. Employees’ GOs demanded attention like a gaggle of screaming toddlers, since every modern communications device and self-aware brain paired with an opposable thumb was marshaled to spread the news. Employees ran for cubicles, looking at monitors. Someone in the bullpen screamed, “Turn on the big screen!” and the 3-D 156-inch was fired up.

  Every media feed switched to the Las Vegas Convention Center halls. All unfiltered. All live. In all its empathetic horror. No censoring the gruesome or graphic by fearful news producers. Even though September 11 had been more spectacular, with its fires, collapsing buildings, and ash-covered survivors, this was far more horrifying. The intimacy of their deaths destroyed denial, with only the screen preventing you from sharing their last breath.

  On the screen, a tanned, buff marketing exec sat on the ground, confounded by his inability to stand because his legs flopped like dying fish beneath him.

  A leprechaun-like ISP exec grabbed on to his Amazonesque display designer and, unable to unclench his fingers from her arms, shook them both with convulsions so violent, the designer screamed in panic.

  A fat, jowly DJ staggered like a cartoon drunk on a bender. He grabbed the flimsy booth of porn provider “Hot Pockets” to buoy him up, but toppled through the cheap, homemade display of foam core and flat screens. Images of moaning naked men and women crashed down with him in a tangled orgy of men and machines.

  Saint Vitus’s dance brought Saint Anthony’s fire. Hundreds of digital camera–screen systems aimed down aisles to grab the egocentric attention of strolling attendees instead captured images of helplessness. As the first victims fell, spokesmodels grabbed the cameras and began filming, each their own Robert Capa, if only for minutes. The big screens, 3-D screens, laptops, and GOs revealed different parts of the action. It was the biggest multicamera shoot in human history, recording the largest unscripted drama of all time, and the horror was multiplied by video’s virtual reality. Footage was both evidence and media clips, delivered electronically to our stunned world. Although hysteria gripped the crowd, it would not be for long. Most exposed to the high-tech plague were too busy dying.

  Mediacasters like Apple, Univision, and NarcisCity went live to their portals. The webmasters and editors knew extraordinary footage when they saw it and shared the moment in a way every news department dreams of. “Breaking News,” which came of age chasing white Broncos and watching Twin Towers fall, reached its apotheosis.

  Peter shivered before the big screen, holding Amanda protectively.

  She bit her fingernail. “My God,” she whispered. “The whole world is watching.”

  Many of Biogineers’s employees wept, alone or huddled together. Several rocked, arms wrapped around their ribs. Others froze in silence, unable to comprehend the enormity of the vision. But none could tear themselves away.

  On the NBC feed, north hall exit doors were hidden by a cresting tsunami of bodies. As people tried to escape and failed, they piled high, with the swell diminishing back down the aisle toward the cameras. Beyond the horror, it indicated a repeated behavior of the dying: a panicked run, loss of control of limbs, convulsions, inability to breathe, sudden death.

  Peter had the sickest thought of all: What if it was a nanoagent, like Biogineers’s nanoviruses or nanobots? Refusing to make assumptions, he asked loud enough for the room to hear, “What could have killed those people in that way, based on what we can see right now?”

  A tiny Korean personal assistant named Jae choked back a sob and asked, “A biological weapon?”

  “Of what sort?”

  “Bacteria?” she continued.

  “They died too fast.”

  “Virus?” yelled out a nanoengineer.

  “If it’s a classical virus, same problem. Not enough time to replicate,” said Peter.

  “Chemical?” said Amanda’s right hand, Ernesto.

  “But what kind?” asked Amanda. “Each person goes haywire in a similar, yet personal way, then dies.”

  “And there’s no sign of the bodies’ rejection of the agent,” Peter added, “like blood from the eyes, nose, lungs, even vomit. They just shudder, like a machine, then stop.”

  “Attacked the brain directly?” said the nanoengineer.

  Everyone stopped talking. No one wished to voice the next logical step: it took nanoparticles to pass the blood-brain barrier that fast.

  Chang stood next to Peter. His look of appalled recognition, paired with something else—an irrational sense of responsibility, perhaps?—reflected Peter’s feelings. Maybe their technology, created to help mankind, was responsible for this.

  Jesse Steinberg, a giant, shambling, shaggy bear of a code jockey, spoke their thoughts aloud in his basso profundo to get everyone’s attention. “What about bots?”

  Someone shouted, “Shut the fuck up, asshole!” Another sobbed loudly. Amanda’s fingernails dug a hole in Peter’s arm. If Jesse could come up with that assumption so quickly . . . Peter’s stomach did a flip-flop and settled somewhere near his larynx.

  He couldn’t watch anymore. “Everyone?” he shouted. “We’re closing the offices for the rest of the week. If any of you have friends or family . . . involved . . . Amanda and I give you our deepest sympathies, and please let us know what we can do to help.” Chang turned to go, and Peter grabbed his arm.

  “Get your team,” said Peter. “We need to find out who did this. And how to stop another one like it.”

  Chang nodded.

  In the days that followed, the media force-fed the images until viewers vomited up terror with chunks of guilt and revenge. News anchors wept on cue behind their desks as they rewatched their dying friends and colleagues. The images were society’s collective consciousness made digital. Memories preserved forever, byte by byte, so not only could we never forget, but we would be reminded when we least expected it, like the visceral, knee-jerk PTSD horror that gripped New Yorkers when they unexpectedly saw an image of the Twin Towers. The media flashed them with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Only after death might there be peace, because the memories lodged in their brains would be gone, finally and forever.

  Or would they?

  No one yet grasped that everyone was a victim of the newly dubbed “10/26.” Some died. Some didn’t. Some wished they did. Peter Bernhardt would soon discover which type of victim he was.

  “So now what?” Peter asked.

  Lobo sighed. “Only three companies in the world have technology like this, and Biogineers is the only US manufacturer. The FBI assumes the nanobots came from here. You are a suspect. Is that simple enough for you?” He rocked back in his chair. “As of now, you and Amanda will leave immediately and be barred from entering any Lobo facility, unless requested to do so by either me or the federal government. You may not take anything with you. You may not delete or destroy anything. The authorities have demanded everything be left as potential evidence. Biogineers will comply with all government requests and cooperate to the fullest extent possible, including Congressional, DHS, and DOJ’s criminal investigations. If you resist, Biogineers will be obligated to remove you by force.”

  Peter flushed in rage and tried to still his shaking hands.

  Lobo’s eyebrow cocked in amazement. “I’m offering a dignified exit. What more do you want?”

  Peter pounded the tabletop. “This is my company!”

  “No! It’s my company! And you sold me a worthless, murderous piece of shit! And I’m going to make sure you rot in jail, pal.”

  “We didn’t kill anyone! How could you think that? Why isn’t anyone ac
cusing the Koreans? Or Singapore? Why aren’t we finding out who did this?”

  Lobo rose, a smirk spreading across his lips. “Are you that stupid? The whole world is investigating this.” He headed for the door with his trademark limp, where two security guards in black suits and ties loomed. The meeting was over.

  Peter leapt from his chair and grabbed his arm. “Bruce! This is insanity. We should be working together to vindicate ourselves! Why are we even fighting?” Peter stood a head taller and had forty pounds on Bruce.

  The guards instantly spun, ready to fight, but Lobo raised his free hand to heel them and glared at Peter’s white-knuckled grip on his French-cuffed shirt with disdain. “Because it doesn’t matter who did it. There’s always a fall guy. And since it’s never me or Lobo Industries, it might as well be you.”

  Peter hadn’t hit anyone in twenty years. The last time, his teenaged opponent broke his nose, but Peter had done much worse to him.

  His straight punch to Lobo’s head was deflected as the smaller man grabbed Peter’s arm and twisted it, along with Peter, to the ground, following with a powerful uppercut. Peter dropped. Lobo kicked his face, and blood spewed from Peter’s nose. As a parting gesture, a boot to the ribs, complete with audible crunch, was executed with the same economy and practiced ease as the rest of Lobo’s dealings.

  “Wrong league, fuckwit.” Lobo limped out the conference room doors, security murmuring in their mouthpieces in his wake. Down the hall, he yelled over his shoulder, “Hey Católico, you got fifteen minutes. I’d start praying to the Holy Virgin if I were you!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Peter staggered to his office and grabbed handfuls of tissues to stem the nosebleed. Then he grabbed a 1972 Gibson Les Paul from the row of vintage and contemporary guitars that rimmed the room. It was the first guitar Amanda bought him when they were still Stanford undergraduates. Many guitars followed, but this one had special meaning. It was when they realized they loved each other and there would never be anyone else. He refused to leave it behind and wanted her to remember its meaning while he told her what happened.