(R)evolution (Phoenix Horizon Book 1)

by PJ Manney

  Lobo snickered indulgently. Peter realized he had never seen the tycoon laugh at himself, or let anyone get the better of him.

  “If we’re getting all ‘Oprah,’ I felt bad for you back there,” admitted Bruce.

  Vera’s deep laugh erupted from the bowels of the earth and struck Peter as the most genuine thing about her. “Well, that’s a first!”

  “Hey, don’t get carried away!” he shot back. “And, by the way,” he said to Peter, “I don’t apologize for blowing you out of the water at Biogineers. No one knew what the fuck was going on, and anyone who isn’t my ally is my enemy. And I destroy my enemies.” Lobo smiled. “But that’s all over now. You accomplished what I thought would take another decade. Congratulations.”

  Peter relaxed. Maybe Bruce wasn’t bad, unless you did business with him. “Thanks. You get how difficult it was and what it means. The rest of them . . . I understand their concerns, but . . .”

  “But they’re irrelevant. The future happens whether they like it or not. Life isn’t some creationist bedtime story—this is the way life’s always been and will always be. It’s Darwinian. Life changes. Adapt or perish.”

  “Exactly!” said Peter.

  “By the way,” Bruce continued, “now that you’ve met the lovely Vera . . . she’s the best fuck in the whole world. Crazy good. Give her a try. It’ll cheer you up.”

  Vera was completely unfazed.

  “Uh . . . thank you, but no. I’m not . . . interested . . .” he stammered.

  “Bullshit. Your wife’s hot, but Vera . . . Jesus, she’s a fucking artist and artwork rolled into one!”

  “Too bad.” said Vera. “We could have a great time.”

  Carter was right. Scotch was wonderful. The retox-velvet burn of forty-year-old Glenfiddich cascading down his throat was a cozy amber blanket tucked in around his depression. He didn’t care if it made one cortex loopy and the other a critical scold. He had disappointed a lot of people today. People who had invested money in his dream, and having seen it, were unhappy.

  Josiah Brant sat between the Prometheus partners on their cabin porch, draining a couple of bottles between them. Owls hooted in the darkness. An enormous shadow, more apparition than bird, swooped past their cabin to scoop up a rodent scurrying for cover from nocturnal food gathering. Peter felt like one of those pathetic mice.

  He swirled the scotch in his glass. Tiny amber rivulets ran down the sides, streams flowing to the ocean of gold. Would his Hippo 2.0 and Cortex 2.0 keep recording if he was blind drunk? And how much would he need to swill to pass out?

  “Why do I think I’ll be the subject of Kenilworth’s next sermon?”

  Josiah chuckled and sucked deeply on his cigar. “That was the most demandin’ audience anywhere. Men who have achieved the highest positions in the most powerful nation on earth. And you told them their time on top of the greasy pole wouldn’t be much longer. I think you did well, considerin’.”

  Peter asked quietly, “What about the FDA? Will they give us the go-ahead for human trials?”

  “Doubtful right now,” said Carter. “You extrapolated the technology. They don’t want to hear that the Alzheimer’s cure they approve is going to radically change all of society. That’s terrifying.”

  “And the investors?”

  “Who knows? You were preaching revolution. This turns the current power structure upside down.”

  “It’s not preaching,” said Peter defensively. “I told the truth. You and I know it. Isn’t it time they did?”

  Josiah guffawed. “You think they don’t, son? They know it better than you. They just don’t like it.”

  “And why should they?” asked Carter. “Haven’t you figured out the smart money always keeps the status quo for as long as possible, milking it dry while quietly investing in agents of change, but holding change off, until they’re damned good and ready to exploit it? So come the revolution, they’re still in the catbird seat. But if you think preparing for that contingency is pain-free, you’re nuts. No one likes change. Especially not these guys.”

  “That’s ’cause change hurts. Always has. Always will,” said Josiah. “No one likes to have their plans and dreams disappointed. We invest so much in our dreams . . .” Josiah looked far out into the darkness and pulled long on his cigar.

  “And yet that’s all we’ve ever done as a species. We change the world around us,” said Peter.

  “Who said these assholes were any more rational than the rest of humanity?” Carter sighed. “Look, forget about the investment. What happens, happens. You did what you needed to do . . .”

  “But you think I’ve changed,” said Peter.

  Carter downed the rest of his drink and grabbed a bottle to pour another and top up Peter’s and Josiah’s glasses. “Did the implants answer those questions you had yet?”

  “A couple. Not all of them by a long shot. But a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do . . .”

  “You said it, boy.” Josiah hoisted his scotch.

  They clinked glasses, slung the blessed nectar back, and sat quietly to listen to the night. The wilderness’s activity after dark never ceased to amaze Peter. Humans assumed that because they slept, the rest of life on earth slept. So much went on under their very noses that they had no idea about . . .

  “You younguns don’t know how lucky you got it,” blurted Josiah. “Most don’t have any grit. Damn it . . .” His cigar was smoked to the end and his holder was empty. Josiah sighed. “You invest so much in children. Teach ’em they need grit and decisiveness and loyalty and passion to succeed. Hope they see the advantages you lay out before them. But do they? No sir, they don’t . . . They throw it back in your face. Sure hope neither ’a you boys throw it back in my face . . .” His expression grew dark.

  “Sir . . .?” said Peter. Carter subtly shook his head at Peter, but Josiah didn’t notice.

  “I gave my son the planet on a platter,” Josiah continued. “Told him I’d make him anythin’ he wanted. Even president. Blindness didn’t matter. We had technology to help him. Anything he needed. Only technology he wanted was one he could escape with. Became an addict. Rather live inside a violent computer game than control a violent world. What a waste!” Josiah realized he was talking out loud. “Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure, but I have had too much to drink! Goodnight.” The old man waddled unsteadily off the porch and into the night.

  Peter waited until Josiah was out of earshot, whispering, “What was that about?”

  “His son’s a blind gaming addict in a recovery facility somewhere in Nevada. Said he’d rather be a nutcase than Brant’s heir apparent. He’s been in there for years.”

  “Brant would lock up his son for not wanting to be the next Praetor Maximus? And there are blind gamers?”

  “Yeah and yeah. I told you. Don’t cross Josiah. Poor bastard . . . I know how it feels . . .”

  “What feels?”

  “To be a disappointment.”

  “Because you’re gay?”

  “Not my father. Nick . . .” Carter suddenly lurched up. “I need some sleep.” And he stumbled into the cabin.

  Carter had disappointed Nick Chaikin? To the extent he’d exile Carter? Peter tried to stand, but the porch pitched him over. He grabbed the railing. “Shit . . . Tomorrow . . . I hope I’m not sick on that rich guy’s fucking boat.” The yacht owner could be the key to getting Prometheus Industries’ technologies out of the FDA’s clutches.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Pete, come on. Get up.”

  He opened his eyes. Carter’s face hovered above his, concerned. “You’re talking in your sleep again. You’ve got to learn to stop that.”

  Ripped from his dream, the length of memory’s fabric his mind wove each night from information’s disparate threads was ragged. Peter’s thoughts were incomplete and he felt mentally naked. He stared at Carter, unseeing for a moment, then confronted by his friend’s worried expression, he yawned, stretched, and scratched himself. “Sorry if
I kept you up, man.” He checked his watch. It was 3:15 a.m.

  But Carter didn’t reply. He left to use the bathroom.

  They flew toward the California coastline in a Bell Jet Ranger. It was still the middle of the night. Outside their copter, it was hard to tell the land from the sea from the night sky. There was no moon and a marine layer drifted along the coastline. With their headsets on to dampen the rotors’ sound, Carter told him about the yacht and who was on board already. He mentioned names Peter didn’t know. The group had slept there last night, but there hadn’t been enough beds to include Carter and Peter in the party the night before. Peter didn’t care about the guest lists. He hoped that the yacht’s owner, Anthony Dulles, might help get the Hippo 2.0 and Cortex 2.0 out of FDA purgatory and into patients. Soon.

  Small lights shone ahead in a circle with an X shape. A portable landing pad lit up the beach where they set down. He guessed it must be on the barely inhabited central coast north of Hearst Castle, but south of Big Sur. There were no houselights or streetlights nearby.

  Relieved to be on solid ground, he reluctantly followed Carter into a speedboat. Peter noticed the dark-haired pilot’s biceps bulge as he was helped into the watercraft. Crewing on a ship probably kept guys like Big Biceps pretty fit. The pilot steered them out into the Pacific, toward the distant lights of a superyacht.

  The speedboat was impressive. Silver and sleek as a needle, the four-seater looked like a Porsche and cut through the water like one, too. The speedboat’s headlights showed a group of lumps floating in the water. They made an evasive maneuver around it.

  “What was that?” Peter shouted over the engine noise to Big Biceps.

  “Dolphins. Sleeping,” the pilot yelled back.

  Within minutes, they approached a state-of-the-art motor-yacht, over two hundred feet long, anchored serenely. On the stern was its name: American Dream II.

  The launch pulled alongside the stern boarding area at water level. The pilot threw a line to a blond, curly-haired crewman, who secured the line to a cleat. Big Biceps jumped off the bow onto the yacht deck and Angel Hair gave Peter and Carter a hand climbing aboard.

  The stern deck was about three hundred square feet and hovered a foot above the sea. It functioned like a beach area on which to sunbathe and jump directly into the ocean. There were large doors flush at the back and below their feet that hid all the toys a superyacht would need: Jet Skis, mini-launches, portable helicopter pads, and more. The two men got a sense of the yacht’s lavish size as they made their way from the lower stern, up four floors, to the public rooms on the main deck. Even though it was not to his taste, the ship was extremely impressive from both an engineering and design point of view. But from the moment he stepped aboard, it didn’t feel like a boat full of partying Phoenicians. Or even sleeping Phoenicians. The feeling that something wasn’t right was particularly powerful.

  Peter gently tugged on Carter’s arm, halting their progress. “Something’s . . . up . . .”

  Carter shrugged him off and kept going. “Nothing’s wrong. They’re all still asleep.”

  But Peter hadn’t said “wrong.” He grabbed Carter. “What the hell’s going on?”

  Carter yanked his arm back. “Stop it, Pete. You’re overreacting again.”

  But Peter wouldn’t move. “This is no fishing trip.”

  Frustrated, his friend circled back. “Would you just calm down? Look, every year the club has a couple of . . . field trips . . . to accomplish certain objectives the club thinks need doing and can’t be exposed to public discussion. This year, it’s questioning a man on this boat—in a way, it is a fishing trip, except we’re fishing for information. Your role in all this will become clear very soon. Think of it as part two of your initiation. Just play your part, and you’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

  “The more you tell me not to worry, the faster I want to get outta here.” He turned to go.

  “Sorry, Pete. You can’t,” replied Carter. The two shipmates came from behind, grabbing Peter’s arms and dragging him forward, while training guns on him. Crushed between the two, Peter noted that neither looked particularly crew-like. More like career soldiers. Angel Hair had a long keloid scar down his right cheek.

  Peter struggled in their grasp. “What are you doing?”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Carter’s bellow shattered the silence, and from then on, he ceased pretending it mattered. “And put the guns down!” he barked at the shipmates as he led them along a corridor.

  Hustled through a doorway, the three men thrust Peter into the yacht’s opulent dining room, done in a Federalist decor that befitted an inaugural ball.

  In the center of the room, under a crystal chandelier and two portable surgical lights, an operating table from an Army field hospital stood where the dining table would have been and surrounding it, surgical suction machines, EKG and EEG monitors, and the rest of the bare essentials necessary for modern surgery. An adult male, surgically draped around the head, lay still as two surgeons finished their work. An unmistakable smell filled the air. Peter knew it from experience: bone dust. This was brain surgery.

  But it couldn’t have been further from Peter’s own. There was no stereotactic head frame, no robot, no fMRI, no computer-referenced check to see if they were operating in the right place. There was no team of a dozen medical specialists hovering around the patient. The second surgeon functioned as assistant surgeon, nurse, anesthesiologist, and chief cook and bottle washer for the lead surgeon. But without imaging equipment, there was no way to see if the surgery was in precisely the right place, no less successful. They used basic bone “perforator” drills, and even with irrigation and suction, bone dust and blood covered their scrubs, the surgical drapes, and the expensive Persian rug underfoot. The elegant dining salon looked like a slaughterhouse. The patient was awake, but strapped down, a prisoner of medical torture. It was as primitive and barbaric as anything Dr. Mengele might have dreamed up.

  Behind the table stood two more security guards, each beefier than the other and squeezed into navy suits. One had a shiny brown bald head and looked like a brick wall, and the other a black square buzz cut and big square jaw that gave him a blockhead.

  Guns pointing at him from all sides, Peter cautiously crept to the patient. The surgeons sloppily closed up, as though technique or aesthetics didn’t matter. He knew by the opening’s location what procedure they performed. Walking slowly around the drape, he thought he recognized the elder statesman who had briefly spoken to Angie/Talia at the inaugural ball. But since that memory was preimplants, he couldn’t be one hundred percent sure. The patient was awake, but gagged so he couldn’t speak. His face was wet from tears.

  From an armchair in a shadowy corner, a figure rose to greet Peter. It was Josiah Brant. “Let me present to you Mr. Anthony Dulles, Phoenician, owner of this yacht, and traitor to both club and country. We are certain that Mr. Dulles knows a great many things about 10/26 that we need to ascertain to protect national security, so he’s been given the gift of a Hippo 2.0 and a Cortex 2.0 by our brothers here.”

  Anthony Dulles was in no condition to help Peter or Prometheus Industries. He couldn’t help himself.

  Peter thought he might vomit, and the slowing of time didn’t help. “How could you do this and call yourselves doctors?” Neither surgeon would look him in the eye.

  “Tony’s a spy by trainin’, a bureaucrat by necessity, an entrepreneur by inclination, and secretive by nature,” said Josiah. “He invented the Cold War interrogation protocols as a young man in the early days of the CIA. Lie detectors are meanin’less on him. And as you know, sodium pentothal is highly overrated as a truth serum, and its anesthetic properties might interfere with any cybernetic information transfer if we required it. And torture takes too long, with unreliable results.”

  The old man’s plaintive face begged Peter to save him. But how?

  “That’s ridiculous. He’s probably brain damaged already,” Peter insisted.

 
; “It’s a risk we have to take. Could you imagine if the terrorist plot had come from within our own ranks? We need to know what he knows, so we can root out the remainin’ traitors to the United States.”

  “It won’t work. Even with the devices, you can’t get them to work without the processor synced to his brain and the programs back in Palo . . .” In a flash, Peter understood his role and turned on his partner. “You fucking bastard . . .” he hissed.

  Guilty, Carter looked away.

  “Yes. You have a workin’ processor,” confirmed Josiah.

  They needed Peter’s processor to make the extraction work. While it wasn’t synced to Dulles’s brain, it was synced to a brain. And even if they couldn’t upload Dulles’s thoughts, per se, their plan to interrogate him with the chip’s and processor’s assistance made a sick kind of sense. If it worked at all, it would record Dulles’s brain activity, like the processor recorded Peter’s. Dulles couldn’t suppress his neurons’ firing and they would eventually learn the algorithm to properly decode the information at a later date. It was only yesterday Peter had boasted they’d decipher thought within the year.

  Josiah turned to the surgeons. “Thank you, gentlemen. That’s all for now.”

  The two doctors shared a look of concern, but they weren’t going to argue. Angel Hair and Big Biceps escorted them out. Baldy and Blockhead remained.

  Dulles continued to stare at Peter as though he knew him. And even a trussed-up patient had body language. The longer Peter watched, the more signals emerged from Dulles, a twitch whenever the subject of his memories came up or Dulles’s periodic appraisal of Carter. He also noticed Carter avoided Dulles’s gaze. Dulles was afraid of what his mind contained. But did that prove his guilt?

  “It still doesn’t make sense,” insisted Peter. “Even if you extract information, you won’t be sure what you’ve got for at least . . . six to twelve months. And what happens to Dulles in the meantime? This was . . . butchery, not neurosurgery.”

  “Oh, there’s no problem. He’ll be dead. You’ll have killed him, with this gun,” said Josiah, as he displayed a 9mm. “This is the second part of your initiation. To prove your loyalty to the Phoenix Club.”