(R)evolution (Phoenix Horizon Book 1)

by PJ Manney

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” yelled Peter. He was fed up with anything the government said on the subject. A White House spokesperson said the government had evidence China was supporting ATEAMO. “Who believes this crap?”

  Of course, he was responding to the radio while making mental packing lists he could not forget for the Phoenix Club Camp Week.

  At least the news didn’t mention the Prometheus connection, unlike earlier reports. Between Amanda’s press releases and Carter’s contacts, the media dropped the subject. Carter was already at camp for committee meetings to, as he put it, ‘prepare the way for Peter’—including multimedia display systems for the demonstration.

  In front of him, a Ford Taurus swerved suddenly. Peter slammed his brakes and with his new ability to slow down perceived time when his brain flooded with adrenaline, calculated the rapid deceleration on the freeway’s inside shoulder. But the Vette’s left wheel well clipped a bent guardrail. Veering to correct, he smashed into the Taurus. Luckily, he had slowed the car enough to avoid injury, and no one was behind to sandwich his rear. He leapt out to confront the Ford’s driver, passing his Vette’s hood. The front end was shattered, but that was fiberglass for you.

  A woman emerged wearing a white diaphanous top with a tiny white camisole underneath, tight blue jeans, high-heeled sandals, and a schoolboy’s cap that failed to completely contain her wild red hair stuffed into it. It was Angie Sternwood.

  Rage, confusion, and déjà vu swamped him. “Who the fuck are you?” He backed Angie against her opened door.

  She didn’t look threatened. She looked concerned. Pulling a business card from her back pocket and handing it to him, she said, “I’m sorry, but my name’s not Angie. It’s Talia Brooks. I’m a journalist. Go ahead and check me out. I’m sure you tried and failed already.”

  He grabbed the card, read it in a second, and threw it back at her.

  “I know this is an unconventional way to meet, but you’re under constant surveillance at your home and office. And we need to talk . . .”

  “Why not pick me up and try to fuck me? That was a pretty effective introduction. Who knows? I might even say yes this time.”

  She shook her head. Even she knew his bluster was bullshit. “Please. Listen to me. We don’t have much time. A traffic satellite’s going to pick us up any minute. You’re involved with a group of very dangerous people . . .”

  “You’re nuts . . .” he said.

  “Just hear me out! Then write me off. But hear me, first. You’re going to the Phoenix Club Camp tomorrow. I know what you’re going to do there, and it’s connected to why you don’t need to keep my card. You’ll remember it. And every word and sensation of this conversation.”

  Peter’s face betrayed his shock.

  “I know. And I’m telling you that you can’t go! Cancel the trip. Tell them this accident injured you. Tell them anything. Just don’t go. Or . . .”

  “Or what?” he sneered.

  “You might not come back.”

  He stepped away from the woman, as if from a bad smell. “You are crazy.”

  “I’m not. I promise.”

  “Why should I believe anything you say? You’re some fucking fatal attraction!”

  “I tried to meet you several times, but the locations were compromised. This was my last chance.”

  “I’m calling the FBI.”

  “Please don’t do that . . .” For the first time, she looked frightened.

  “Why?”

  She didn’t speak.

  “Sounds like the best reason why I should.”

  The little ball of redheaded energy exploded. “For such a smart guy, you really are a fuckin’ idiot! Trust me, you’re all being used.”

  It was time to humor the crazy lady and get away while he could. “Talia or Angie or Mrs. Claus or whoever the fuck you are, stay the fuck away from me!”

  “Idiots like you deserve to die!” she yelled as he climbed into his wreck and threw it into drive. He watched her watching him pull away.

  Was it déjà vu all over again if it wasn’t déjà vu?

  More than ever, he needed some mountain air to clear away the fantasy world he had just escaped.

  In the master bedroom of the Stanford Avenue house they borrowed from Carter, Amanda curled up, half sitting on pillows against the large upholstered headboard they brought from Patricia Drive. A big duffel bag for clothes and a small travel bag for papers and electronics lay unzipped, and his stuff spread out in piles all around her as Peter mentally checked them off.

  Her blue-green and brown eyes were glazed and her mouth slack, except for the occasional thumbnail chewed between incisors. Images flew by on the HOME monitor as she channel surfed.

  “Do you ever wonder if news was designed to keep us afraid?” She felt beyond his grasp, the antidepressants trapping her soul under pond ice.

  “When are you seeing Dr. Westover again?” he asked.

  “Soon.” He waited for more, but there was none.

  “I didn’t tell you everything about the Vette.”

  “Hmmm?” She was distracted by a cartoon dog.

  “The woman driving the Ford was the one I couldn’t identify in Washington. She gave me another name, and I looked it up.”

  Amanda finally took notice of him.

  “And she exists. She’s a journalist. I read some articles she wrote for the Wall Street Journal, the Economist, even Wired. I found pictures of her at press events.”

  “How could that be?” Something clicked behind her eyes. She was present for the first time that evening.

  “She tried to warn me about . . . everything that’s going on. That we might be in danger.”

  His wife sat away from the pillows and turned off the HOME. “No. Chang’s dead, everything will be all right. They got who they wanted. Carter’ll make it go away.”

  Peter sat down and took her hands to focus her. “Promise me. If anything happens to me, there’s fifty thousand in cash in the grocery bag in the safe.”

  “What?”

  “It’s been there for the last six months. You never bothered to look. Take it and run. Dump the credit cards and the checkbook and go to your folks and let them help you hide. Oregon’s a big, empty place. You can do it. Just disappear. I’ll find you . . . if I can.”

  Even through the icy pond, Amanda loosed warm tears. She shook her head, slowly slipping her hands out of his to turn away, curling tight against the pillows.

  He resumed packing.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  On a sultry Saturday in July, Peter pulled his rental car up to the legendary Phoenix Club Camp, three thousand acres on the shores of Twin Lakes in the Hoover Wilderness (named after former Phoenix Club president—and, not incidentally, US president—Herbert Hoover) outside of Yosemite National Park. Protected by the US government’s Bureau of Land Management, it had been the club’s secret retreat for 120 years.

  He was grateful for the detailed directions, since there were no signs or outward markings on the road into camp. He even Google Earthed his trip, but an empty wilderness came up on the satellite map. There were trees, streams, mountains, but no sign of human habitation or even roads for the supposed two thousand members and hundreds of staff on hand to serve them. No indication there was any “there” there at all.

  Peter found a small parking lot, but it wasn’t full. Attendees came from all over the country, and the local airstrip played host to their planes. Others came by limo, but the cars departed immediately. Carter told him it was best to be one of the last to arrive, calling it immersion therapy.

  As he hefted his luggage to the front gate, a Hummer limo pulled in front and disgorged a bona fide celebrity. Howard Berger was an action-film star known for his heroic roles on-screen and his hardcore politics off, and if the press was correct, with political aspirations. The driver grabbed Berger’s bags—all matched silver Halliburtons on wheels that looked like they never saw the brutal interior of a commercial airport’s
baggage handling system. Berger was whisked away by a man dressed like the rest of the staff in what looked like a ranger’s uniform. They were the Crichtons—named after the eponymous butler of the 1902 play The Admirable Crichton. They acted as bartender, valet, personal assistant, concierge, adventure guide; anything the members wanted for the length of their stay. A Crichton approached Peter and very subtly stood in his way.

  “Hi, I’m Phil. Your name, sir?”

  Peter gave it, and Phil typed at a computer on the check-in table. A file came up, with photo ID and all the information needed to place him properly in the camp.

  “Sir, what’s the password?”

  “Imperium.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Another Crichton stepped up to him. “Hi, I’m Barry. Do you mind if we examine your luggage?”

  “Go ahead . . .”

  And another. “Hi, I’m Mel. Do you mind stepping behind the screen?”

  Behind the screen sat a backscatter X-ray machine, much more powerful than the standard models at airports. It could see not only under his clothes, but fully inside his body, making cavity searches unnecessary. And that’s when Mel noticed some unusual things in Peter that didn’t come up as bodily tissues.

  “Sir, do you mind if I ask a personal question? Have you had any . . . surgery lately? In the vicinity of your . . . head?”

  Phil was typing furiously. “Sir, we don’t have you down for surgical provisions . . .”

  “Why would you have me down for . . . ?”

  Barry radioed for backup. He turned away, whispering.

  Peter waved for any ranger’s attention. “Excuse me? Hello! Would you please call Carter Potsdam? He’s my sponsor. He’ll vouch for the surgery.”

  Crichtons murmured the magical name. “Potsdam . . .”

  Within minutes, the cavalry arrived, with his best friend in the back of a small open jeep, driven by a Crichton.

  Carter looked disappointed. “You’re nothing but trouble. You do know that, don’t you?”

  Now with his validation, Peter’s luggage was whisked away, and Carter gave him a lift to their cabin. As they drove, Peter could see the camp was either based on, or the basis for, every summer-camp fantasy any boy ever imagined. The towering trees and pine needle–covered forest floors in vast groves surrounded hundreds of Lincoln Log–style cabins.

  Based on the cabin map, they were halfway between the center of camp, with the choicest accommodations, and Siberia. Carter explained they didn’t yet rate one of the really desirable central cabins that heads of state, multinational CEOs, and Decemviri stayed in. But they didn’t get stuck out in the hinterlands like the Hollywood types, either.

  They arrived at their perfect little cabin, made up of two double bedrooms, a living room, and a bathroom. The cabinmates were already inside, unpacked, and ready to party. Dan Halprin, an attorney from Atlanta, was obese, topping four hundred pounds. Justin Dardanelles, a New York financial analyst, was one of those men so chiseled and steroidally pumped up, he needed all his clothes custom-made, unless they were T-shirts and gym shorts—which is what he wore most of the time. Peter wasn’t sure who would drop from a heart attack first, and he prayed it wasn’t on his watch. Both drank beer as a warm-up for the night’s festivities and seemed pleased to meet him.

  It was just a couple of hours before the first ceremony, so Carter asked the Crichton to unpack and took Peter aside, holding him by the shoulders like an older brother.

  “Have you taken any mind-altering substances since you had the implants?”

  “Nothing since the post-op painkillers . . .”

  “Then I’d tell you to listen carefully, but I know you can’t do anything but that now. Don’t touch them. We don’t know your reaction to anything since the implants. Avoid the fountain: It’s fruit punch, but it’s spiked with Ecstasy, and I know you. You’re such a control freak, I’m assuming you’ve never taken it. If you hate being the only sober person in a fifty-mile radius, just pretend you’re high. If you indulge in the other . . . offerings, which I’m sure you won’t, use protection. You’ve got your presentation tomorrow afternoon, so don’t stay up too late. We’ll go to sleep early tomorrow night, because we’ve got some ungodly early wake-up call for our fishing trip the next morning. The yacht owner has real pull with the FDA. Might be the pressure point we need to get our tech through approvals.”

  “Jesus, you sound like Pop. Where are you going?”

  “You’ll see. I’ve got a part in our opening night festivities, so I’ve got to get ready. Dan and Justin will make sure you get there. It’s called the Bacchanalia.” Carter’s knowing smile made Peter’s stomach churn. He had worn the same smile before Peter’s initiation.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Seated on a split-log bench in a natural, open-air amphitheater between Dan and Justin, Peter was excited to see so many famous faces, surrounded by the towering redwoods and pines of the high Sierras, all with the same air of juvenile anticipation.

  Night had fallen, and the amphitheater was dramatically lit by torches along the periphery, making the underlit trees tower like dark sentinels watching over the crowd. Suddenly, the torches extinguished. A few men flicked open lighters, and more pulled out lit-up GOs and waved them in the air as if at a rock concert, hooting and whistling for the show.

  “Silence in the presence of the Praetor Maximus!” boomed a voice over a loudspeaker.

  And instantly, the lighters and GOs went dark, and the amphitheater fell silent.

  A single arc of light cut through the inky night to reveal Josiah Brant, commanding in his toga, but unlike the last time Peter saw him dressed so, the hood was thrown back so every member could see his aged, impish face.

  Josiah threw his hands in the air and exclaimed, “Welcome to the Bacchanalia!”

  The crowd cheered and stamped their feet and Peter found himself whistling along with Dan and Justin. As quickly, they were cut off as their conductor dropped his hands.

  In his most Praetor-like voice, Josiah intoned, “I call upon loud-roarin’ and revellin’ Dionysus, primeval, double-natured, thrice-born Bacchic lord. Wild, ineffable, secretive, two-horned and two-shaped. Ivy-covered, bull-faced, warlike, howlin’, pure. You take raw flesh, you have feasts, wrapped in foliage, decked with grape clusters. Resourceful Eubouleus, immortal god sired by Zeus when he mated with Persephone in unspeakable union. Hearken to my voice, O blessed one, and with your fair-girdled nymphs breathe on us, your worshipers, in a spirit of perfect brotherly love!”

  The stage fell dark, and in the ominous blackness, a sound arose like a million indistinct voices, whispering unknown secrets carried on the breeze. It was perfectly synced with a real wind, whipping through the treetops, and it set Peter’s body tingling and hair on edge. The sound came from all directions, and the crowd instinctively searched the dark for the source. Using both cortexes to analyze the sounds, he pinpointed at least three-dozen multidirectional speakers, but guessed there were more.

  Suddenly, on stage, a single figure was lit as though from within, behind, underneath, and all around. It had to be some unusual stage lighting effect, but Peter wasn’t sure how they did it, except perhaps wirelessly with remote microlamps or mirrors.

  Carter was the sun. His blond hair was spun from gold and wreathed in grape leaves. He wore only a mountain lion skin, barely draped over one shoulder and down his front and back to midthigh, exposing most of his long, lean, muscular body. Carter looked more gilded panther than man. And every inch the god of wine, pleasure, and festivity, Dionysus. His festival was the Bacchanalia, a time for civilization’s rules and social order to be cast aside, to revel with alcohol, sex, and music. His mythic story represented the cycle of life, death, and rebirth, like the phoenix, and embodied the manifold contradictions of Dionysus: purity and dissipation, animal and human, law and anarchy, ecstasy and savagery, freedom and bondage. Ambivalence. Androgyny. The living and the dead.

  Dan’s fleshy elbow nudg
ed Peter in the ribs. He whispered, “Some Halloween getup, huh?”

  Peter could only nod, jaw slack, leaving Justin and Dan to cackle at his shock.

  The god gazed at the source of the insolent laughter and his unblinking, preternatural stare cut the two jokesters’ guffaws off dead.

  Voice booming, the god spoke. “I am Dionysus. Known to Romans as Bacchus. A god most terrible and yet most mild to men. It is I who guide you. It is I who protect you and I who save you. I am Alpha and Omega!” He strode the stage, larger than life, demanding attention and obedience. And he got it.

  “Let us be merry and drink wine and sing of me, the inventor of the dance, the lover of all songs, the darling of Aphrodite; thanks to me, drunkenness was brought forth, grace was born, pain takes a rest, and trouble goes to sleep. In our revelry, I alone make the humble feel proud, persuade the scowler to laugh, the weak to be brave, and the cowardly to be bold.

  “I, Dionysus, release you from your cares and worries. Cast off the civilized masks you wear and realize your true nature! Human and animal! Citizen and anarchist! Alive and dead! Here, in this sacred grove, you are born again, to live how you wish to live, to be how you wish to be!

  “Go forth from this place and rejoice! You are free!” he roared, outstretched arms raised high to encompass the entire audience. The crowd rose to its feet in a frenzy of cheering, stomping, clapping, hooting, wolf whistling, and howling at the hidden moon. The sun was extinguished, and when the torches were lit once more, the god was gone.

  Thoughts crashed and banged through Peter’s head. The most obvious was: Carter was a star. The performance may have been short, but it was the most intense he had ever seen. Carter held that audience rapt in the palm of his hand, and he could feel the spectators’ energy changed from expectation to determined anarchy, all at his whim. The feelings of unworthiness that plagued Peter’s life were pricked more sharply. Carter was still in another league, one he could never hope to attain no matter how many clubs he joined.