(R)evolution (Phoenix Horizon Book 1)

by PJ Manney

  Faintly, he heard her counterargument in his head, and repeated it aloud. “ ‘These augmentations . . . they’re brilliant as therapies, in isolation, but all at once and together, without testing, they’re too much, too fast . . .’ You really think I’m losing my mind.”

  Talia hiccupped in shock, eyes wide with fear. “You . . . read my mind? Noooo . . .” She dropped his towel and ran from the room.

  He didn’t ask why. Her thoughts sent the signal loud and clear. No love, no matter how strong, can withstand this pressure. This lack of privacy. I love you too much to watch you destroy yourself. And me.

  The garage door rumbled open and closed below him. He wanted to know where she was going, but she had no idea, so reading her mind was pointless. And her piece of the plan, the private army she had raised to fight alongside him, went with her. The farther she drove, the less he could hear her agonized thoughts, until she disappeared off his radar.

  It was Tom’s turn to cry. Didn’t she know he was terrified to be alone? He turned off the rain shower and grabbed the towel off the floor. As he dried himself, he couldn’t help but compare himself to another difficult character: the historic Thomas Paine. He, too, had alienated everyone around him in his single-minded obsession to succeed at his righteous revolution.

  His GO rang. It was Josiah.

  “Hello . . . son.” His strangled voice could not feign nonchalance. “Have ya heard from Bruce?”

  Josiah’s anguish meant he knew Tom’s identity. He knew everything and was trying to play it cool while cleaning up loose ends. His game was the only reason Tom was still alive.

  “I live nearby,” said Tom. “It’s chaos here.”

  “Damned shame . . . I’m sendin’ a copter at oh-six-hundred. We’re ready for you.”

  And Thomas Paine had to be ready for them.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  The Jet Ranger hovered over the Phoenix Camp tarmac. A soldier sat beside him in the second row, casting jittery looks out the window at the ground before returning his gaze to Tom. Private Jefferson was a huge black man—six foot seven and at least 275 pounds. He looked twenty-five and vibrated without the copter’s movement, like an amphetamine vet. Most soldiers preferred less reactive psychostimulants like modafinil to keep awake and alert, but Jefferson wasn’t on drugs at all. He was hopped up on experience, probably with an undiagnosed traumatic brain injury sustained in battle.

  Below them, summer camp was transformed into a military installation, thanks to the club’s private army securing the landing strip and perimeter, except, instead of C-130s and tanker trucks, it was personal jets and SUVs. No one needed traditional armaments or war vehicles to subdue a population anymore. Carter’s Boeing Super 27 was off to the side along with Josiah’s C-32, Air Force Two. There were ten other planes with registrations in club members’ names or corporations, with pallets of shrink-wrapped crates loading. These were not nanobots. They were drone aircraft, broken down for transport, to distribute bots.

  A computer backpack lay at Tom’s feet. He made it clear to Private Jefferson that Secretary Brant would want to see the contents, and he was happy to have it examined. It had been scanned for explosives before they boarded the craft.

  Before takeoff, he sent an encrypted e-mail to an anonymous address, apologizing to Ruth for ruining her life. He asked that she please let Talia know he loved her very much, if they were ever in contact again.

  As he and Private Jefferson exited the copter, they were joined by a nuggety-muscled, tough-as-titanium sergeant named Antonelli. He whipped out a pair of steel handcuffs, pulled Tom’s arms behind him, and quickly snapped them on his wrists. Then Antonelli grabbed the backpack from Jefferson. The pair of soldiers flanked Tom as they crossed the tarmac.

  The cabin door to Carter’s Boeing opened. Amanda ran down the stairs and across the tarmac, screaming, “Tom!” She looked unkempt, like she hadn’t slept since he last saw her.

  Before she could get near, Sergeant Antonelli yelled in a thick Chicago accent, “Ma’am, stop! Do not come any closer!” Jefferson pulled a gun, but neither stopped their march to the gate.

  Amanda chased them, keeping her distance. “What happened to Bruce?”

  “Amanda, get out of here,” said Tom.

  “Why won’t anyone tell me anything? Carter’s afraid . . . Is Bruce dead? Was it you?”

  “Listen to me. Go home. What was Carter thinking letting you come?”

  “Please . . . Spare Carter.”

  He lifted his handcuffed arms behind him, but Antonelli yanked them back down. “As you can see, it’s probably not my call.”

  “I think it is. I don’t know what they’ve done, but . . .” She unconsciously held her belly.

  “If you want him to be born at all, you have to leave.” Didn’t she know he fought against the tentacles of love and kinship that grew from the baby and wrapped around every part of him? Did she have any idea how much he wanted to be a part of this child’s life? A part of hers? “Remember what I told you: I’m doing this for the best reasons.”

  “I could call Carter and tell him what I know.”

  “But you don’t know.”

  “I won’t let you leave me alone like this!”

  “You’re not alone. And if you value our child’s life, you’ll take the jet and leave.” Her eyes teared up, but she kept shadowing them. “I can’t save you, Amanda. You need to save yourself.”

  They were near the front gates. She ran up to kiss him, but soldiers dragged him harder.

  “Go!” Tom yelled at Amanda.

  She bit her quivering lip, unsure what to do, then turned and ran for her plane.

  A sentry at the gate took the backpack from Antonelli and handed it off to five different, specially trained antiterrorist personnel. The first soldier, with a jagged scar that bisected his face, visually and mechanically scanned the contents and passed the bag down the line for examination. The clueless overkill was amusing. Five men wearing rubber gloves opened, turned over, swiped, wiped, and mechanically sniffed many objects: a GO-B, a water bottle, a seven-day pill organizer filled with supplements, a copy of Shibumi in Braille, an extra set of clothing, including underwear and socks. Two remote control cars were the oddest items.

  “Why do you have these?” asked Scarface.

  Tom felt Amanda and his unborn child retreating from his consciousness. He told the boy he loved him one last time as the tentacles slid away. “I hoped I’d see my son today.”

  The toys passed through an X-ray machine and were examined under a magnifier for tampering. Scarface got chemical analysis readings he didn’t understand. “We’ll have to keep these with us. This may take a while.”

  “Fine with me,” said Tom.

  “Send them in when you’re done,” said Sergeant Antonelli.

  The club knew his identity, and the closer he came to those who knew, the more certain he was of their knowing. Like he knew Private Jefferson would sneak up behind to stab a pressurized injector full of dantrolene, a powerful muscle relaxant, into his buttocks. His legs buckled under him, and the two men hefted Tom under each arm and dragged him into the mines. It made him sad. The only reason he was in conflict with these brave, obedient young men was that both sides loved their country with equal passion. They just didn’t realize what side they were on.

  Before the steel doors closed behind them, he sent several messages to satellites overhead.

  The soldiers dumped Tom onto a sofa against a wall near Josiah’s dining table and stood on either side with hands on weapons.

  Josiah stiffened. “As my Mama used to say, boy, you were too much sugar for a dime. You only fooled us ’cause we were desperate for somethin’ sweet.”

  “The Potsdams’ pilot is requesting permission to take off. Mrs. Potsdam’s on board,” interrupted Josiah’s aide-de-camp, a geeky young man with round glasses who sat at the next table, working a small HOME screen and satellite hookup.

  “Permission granted.” Josia
h shook his head at Tom. “I learned the hard way Carter’s best handled by holdin’ a light leash on somethin’ he’s not willin’ to lose. Too tight a leash and he panics to the other side.”

  “Affirmative tower. Permission granted,” repeated the aide-de-camp.

  “Guess he was willing to lose me,” Tom mumbled, his lips and tongue loose and numb.

  “Now he knows you’re Peter Bernhardt,” Josiah spit the name with disgust, “he sure is.”

  “And how long can he still be your boy?”

  “Who knows? Protégés come and go. And they never live up to expectations. Sometimes, they’re just plain ol’ idiots! Or dissemblers. Like you. Like all children, I guess.” His sigh rumbled in his chest. “Son, you break an old man’s heart.”

  “You know, it’s tough being the smartest guy in the room.”

  “I don’t feel smart. I feel old. And used up. And you will pay.” He thrust out his hand to his aide-de-camp. “Cyrus? Those updates?”

  Cyrus handed Josiah a GO. He cursored quickly through it. “We were fortunate to interview Jake Hirano regardin’ the theft of our money. Even though it’s a pittance, did ya think a billion dollars could go missin’ and no one would notice? But don’t worry. We know where it is. And we have no more concerns about Mr. Hirano and his unorthodox methods of bankin’. Apparently”—he looked down at the screen to read—“he died while surfin’. We’ll have our remainin’ money back soon—Switzerland always cooperates when it comes to cash—and we’ll confiscate your physical assets and set our books right . . . I’ve always wanted to sail on that boat of yours.”

  His fingers tapped the GO keys. “Let’s see . . . Dr. Ruth Chaikin. If you’re the next step beyond Prometheus’s research, I’ll assume her suicide was staged and not a coincidence. Apparently, someone fittin’ her unusual description is on their way to China, but we’ll get her eventually. Chinese’ll have to play ball after this week. This here’s the new A-Bomb, and they don’t have it.

  “And we finally know where the real Marisol Gonzales is, and I can stop sendin’ morons to chase her through every flea-bitten Latin American hellhole. She’ll be dead by tomorrow. Shoulda figured it out as soon as I met you. You do so look like her father.”

  “People only see what they want to see.”

  The old man nodded sadly. “That’s the God’s honest truth. Well, I know there’s more helpers. But don’t you fear. We’ll find ’em. Cyrus? The decoder?”

  “He’s wireless, Mr. Secretary. I’m hooked up already.”

  Josiah shook his head in chagrin. “And I bet we share the same addiction—information—right? Worse’n nicotine. Never get enough.”

  “There’s a limit. Trust me.”

  “But I’d love to get that far, like hittin’ rock bottom, so I could get scared straight and sober up. Maybe when I get to know what’s inside you, I’ll feel satiated.”

  “I am today what you will be tomorrow.”

  “You will be dead today, and who knows? I might die tomorrow. But we’re not the same.”

  “When you know what I know, you’ll understand. It’s a rush at first. You’re Homo excelsior. But I also did horrible things, because of what I knew. Perhaps you understand the guilt, the pain of that?”

  “What do you know about pain? Ah. . . .” Josiah snorted at his realization. “You may be right. We might have more in common than I’d like to admit.”

  “My memories, my thoughts, are a torture I hope I can share with you,” said Tom.

  Josiah noticed giant Jefferson staring at the floor, biting his lip, and quivering more than usual. “Private? You got a problem?”

  It took a moment for the question to register. The soldier looked up in surprise. “Uh, no, sir.”

  Loud voices erupted in the hall. A young corporal burst in, all wide-eyed and fresh faced; too much so to have ever seen action. His badge said, “Cpl. Santiago.” “Sir, all the ground vehicles are dead. And some of the men seem to be acting . . . weird.”

  Josiah swiveled. “Cyrus?”

  But the aide-de-camp wasn’t listening. He was counting the fingers on his left hand, over and over. Except he kept getting different answers. He giggled.

  Josiah’s gaze turned to the soldiers. Jefferson knelt on the ground and patted the carpet, crying softly. Antonelli swung his head in wide, paranoiac arcs, both Glock 17s in his hands and deep in enemy territory. He spotted a threat, shooting ten rounds into an artificial ficus tree.

  The boy was too confused by the bizarre scene to understand.

  Antonelli’s shaky aim swung toward the corporal, and Tom rose in a flash from his couch. In a fluid motion, he bent over, dropping his hands to the ground, and stepped behind them, putting his cuffed hands in front of his body. Then he stepped behind the sergeant and, while kick-sweeping the legs out from under Antonelli, wrapped handcuffed arms around his torso and yanked upward, while thrusting his knee into the sergeant’s back. There was a mighty crack. Spasms gripped the soldier’s hands, guns firing into the carpet. He dropped them as his body twitched.

  Microbivores had consumed the muscle relaxant the moment it hit Tom’s bloodstream. He had not been incapacitated.

  Tom tossed the sergeant to the carpet, but the soldier tried to rise, even with a broken back. A swift kick to the temple stilled him. Tom snatched up his gun. No one but wide-eyed Santiago noticed. Trying to be heroic, he pulled his sidearm and aimed at Tom, but a moment later, his handgun lay on the floor. Tom had shot it out of the young man’s hand.

  “Bug out!” bellowed Tom.

  The boy tore out as fast as he could.

  Tom searched Antonelli’s pockets until he found handcuff keys and freed his hands to grab the other gun.

  Fixating on the empty chair next to him, Josiah swatted the air in a panic. “Get away from me! Get away . . . ! It wasn’t my fault, Tony! I had to neutralize you!”

  Typhoid Tom walked among them. Having filled his pockets, backpack, and possessions with the invisible powder of macrosensors, all who came in contact breathed them in. The tiny robots played havoc on unprepared brains, triggering hallucinations. The two remote control cars confiscated by security were plague-carrying rats, programmed to accelerate off the table once he entered the mines to race around the compound, spreading their psychedelic bounty. As each infected person came upon the uninfected, they spread the bots.

  Tom opened his mind and let the macrosensors’ tiny voices in. What a din of insanity they shared! Josiah thought Anthony Dulles was coming to get him. Since the tortured part of Dulles resided inside Tom’s processor, maybe he was.

  Fingers still a delight, Cyrus didn’t notice Tom take his console. Searching the site menu of building commands, he cut off the system from outside contact, shut down sprinklers, deactivated security systems, closed doors, turned off sirens, but made sure the fresh-air ventilation system remained fully functional. Then he shut down all elevator shafts, except one.

  “No, Bruce! . . . No!” Josiah cowered, trying to crawl under the table. “What’s happening?” In Josiah’s thoughts, a Lobo apparition stalked him from behind the blasted ficus tree. Maybe that was Antonelli’s target.

  “Reality bites, doesn’t it?” Dragging the old man by the collar to his feet, Tom whispered into his ear, “Welcome to the club, Mr. Secretary.” He hefted Josiah over his shoulder. The squirming, kicking weight felt annoying, but not heavy. Tom carried him into the hallway, heading directly to the door marked “Armory.” Digging around Josiah’s pockets, he found a lighter and cigar cutter, which he pocketed, and a large set of keys. One of them unlocked the closet filled with firearms and ammunition, incendiary and fragmentation grenades, and communications devices. With his free hand, he grabbed gun magazines and a couple dozen incendiary grenades to stuff into pockets and hang off his clothing like Christmas tree ornaments.

  One element could disassemble a nanobot’s diamondoid nanostructure at an atomic level and change it back to harmless carbon atoms: fire. How convenien
t he had so much practice with it now. And fire rises as it burns, looking for fuel, so the building had to be consumed from the bottom, where the labs were located, and up.

  When they reached the elevator, he stuffed the old man’s head and hands against the biometric readers.

  “Say your name.”

  Josiah babbled, “. . . fucked up . . . Who do you think . . . ? I’m not bailing . . . What kind of child . . . ? What did I do . . . ? You embarrass me!” Davy Brant wasn’t happy with his father, either.

  “Say your name or I’ll give you to Bruce and Tony!”

  Terror snapped him to momentary lucidity. “J-j-josiah B-brant.”

  It was good enough for the machines. The doors closed and Tom pressed every button, all the way down to the lowest floor, “9.”

  As they descended, Tom focused on Josiah’s frequency. He wanted his mental and vocal message to get through. “The real tragedy is the old saw—‘If you think you’re going insane, you’re not’—just isn’t true. We’re both proof of self-aware insanity. Sucks, doesn’t it? Much worse than physical pain or even death to men like us, who rely on mental control for everything.”

  The elevator opened at “2.” Tom dumped Josiah, bracing a door with his writhing body and holding him there with his hiking boot on the old man’s chest. Brant was reimagining his battle with JFK . . . Well, he was an idiot with the Soviets and the Mafia, wasn’t he? Too busy listenin’ to the wrong fellas and chasin’ skirts . . . what a hullaballoo that was . . .

  Pulling the grenade pin, Tom wound up and pitched the explosive as far down the hall and as close to the emergency stairwell as possible. It was a good throw, over eighty feet and just under one hundred miles an hour. Who needed steroids if you had nanobots? He dragged Josiah in, punching “Door Close” before the explosion rattled the building. Josiah screamed, curling up in a duck-and-cover pose. His terror made Tom want to scream, too.

  The car continued its descent until the doors shuddered open at “3.” Fire burned around the edges of a ceiling hole down the corridor.