The Essential Sam Jameson / Peter Kittredge Box Set: SEVEN bestsellers from international sensation Lars Emmerich

by Lars Emmerich

  “Second,” Archive continued, “we rather frown on fibbing. We all understand the occasional necessity of engineering a message for public consumption, but you’re not out in public this weekend, and we only want the genuine you. If you don’t care to share the details of your sex life or your balance sheet, merely say so. Few will ask, of course, without relatively good reason, but there’s no need for a white lie in this crowd.

  “Third,” Archive said after pausing for a sip of coffee, “not only do we tend to address each other by our first names alone, but many of us don’t know last names at all. That’s actually quite helpful, for reasons that will become fairly obvious, and it’s a practice that we’ve kept up over the years.

  “So avoid the temptation to fill your Rolodex. You now have reliable and unfettered access to everyone here, though not via conventional means. There is no need to collect names, phone numbers, addresses, and the like, so set those urges aside.

  “Also, you may hear some people called by rather strange-sounding nicknames. That is a bit of an extra precaution for their protection and ours, so please play along, even if it may seem a bit silly.

  “Those are the big three. I trust I haven’t misrepresented our little code of conduct?” Archive paused to survey the row of faces situated in the semicircle in front of the podium.

  Observing head movements in the right direction, he continued. “Terrific, thank you. Now, without further ado, let’s get to it.”

  Archive drew a breath before continuing. “Motley assortment that we are, there is yet a tie that binds us. Most of us have become convinced, via avenues unique to each of us, of a simple truth: all forms of government follow roughly the same trajectory.

  “I won’t bore you with the details at this point, but we all tend to share another assessment, which is that we are currently perched rather precariously at a particular spot along that trajectory. I won’t insult anyone with an exposition, and in fact I think I speak for most of us when I say that I’m also quite open to other interpretations, but I haven’t yet found one that matches the facts quite so perfectly.

  “Anyway, nations rise and fall all the time, so it likely comes as no surprise that several of them seem to sit on a precipice as we speak.

  “But there are two aspects that we all find worthy of focused attention. First, the nations, or, more accurately, the semi-discrete networks of multi-national corporations, and the politicians and political systems those corporations own and operate”—Archive’s eyes twinkled with sarcasm—“that happen to be in jeopardy of collapse at this particular moment, are of a scale unprecedented in human history.

  “Second, all of the vulnerable multi-national systems are linked together. They all share the same circulatory system, if you will. When one dies, they will all die together.”

  Seated at the edge of the semicircle, Protégé looked around slowly to assess the distinguished crowd’s reaction to the old man’s words. Several nodded in somber assent, others remained impassive, but none of their facial expressions registered surprise or disagreement.

  Protégé wasn’t positive that he shared this assessment of the arrangement of the world, and he began to feel slightly uncomfortable.

  Archive addressed him directly. “Don’t worry, dear Robert, I don’t have any Kool-Aid waiting in the wings for us to drink, and we’re not about to begin worshipping any comets.”

  Light laughter came from the semicircle, and Protégé smiled.

  “I’m merely summarizing what we tend to believe,” the old man went on, “and inviting you to make up your own very capable mind, which of course you will do anyway—you wouldn’t be here if that were not the case.”

  “At any rate,” Archive continued, “if our general hypothesis is true, it brings with it a set of consequences. The latter part of the imperial cycle tends to be rather brutish and ugly, and the various infrastructures that support each of us tend to reveal their fragility.

  “Society is a complex and interdependent system, just like the human body, and a catastrophic failure in one element can easily bring about the destruction of the entire arrangement.”

  Protégé rolled his eyes a bit. The old man was smart, for sure, but Protégé wasn’t certain that the ancient tycoon hadn’t been sold a bill of goods in his old age. He feared his friend was suddenly and inexplicably taken with all of the apocalyptic hysteria that substituted for actual news in the media.

  Still, he thought, this was not a crowd of sheeple. These people had each created vast empires of their own. Archive’s earlier disclaimer notwithstanding, this was not an ordinary gathering. With the exception of the heir to the Middle Eastern throne, none of the wealth was inherited—it had all been created, nurtured, grown, and protected over decades.

  These were among the brightest and most accomplished people Protégé had ever met, and they all seemed to agree with what Archive was saying.

  Protégé exhaled slowly. He recalled the many conversations in the old man’s opulent study in Washington, DC. He had never felt that he was being convinced of anything, but at the same time, he could recall very few times when he ultimately disagreed with the wizened oldster.

  And Protégé had drawn many of the same conclusions himself, though he hadn’t yet connected all the dots.

  Despite the stereotype of crackpot doomsday prophets and high-pitched housewives digging underground shelters, there was something to the notion that things weren’t nearly as stable as they seemed on the outside.

  Protégé tuned back in to Archive’s voice. “While we have all become somewhat atomized, living lives of relative isolation in the various boxes we’ve constructed to house and convey us, we have become less and less self-sufficient in the process. There is almost nothing that we need for our daily survival that isn’t provided by someone else, and transported from someplace else.

  “Before we wring our hands over that observation, though, we should reflect that that is precisely how our own bodies are organized. Each individual cell has enough of its own oxygen to survive for three to five seconds. If it is not replenished after that time, it begins to die.

  “The system only works if every part of the system works. When one vital mechanism fails, the life of the entire system expires, and we die.

  “It’s a perfectly efficient arrangement, until the moment of catastrophic failure. Then what?”

  The old man paused for effect. “Well, that is precisely the question we’ve set out to answer, from a purely pragmatic perspective. We are interested in preserving the lives of individual cells—we individual humans, in this case—after the system ceases delivering the means of survival to us in the fashion we’ve become accustomed to.”

  Sir Randolph chimed in. “No mean feat, I’m afraid.”

  “Quite not,” Archive said. “Fortunately, we’re in a better position than most to implement agreeable solutions, though regrettably only on a local scale. With that as a convenient segue, I’d like to ask Suzanne to the podium to update us all on her progress, which I’m sure you’ll find beyond impressive.”

  From the back of the room, a tall, poised, and attractive middle-aged woman moved toward the podium. “Thanks, boss. I’m Suzanne, for those whom I haven’t yet had the pleasure of meeting. Archive’s generous employment offer lured me away from the National Renewable Energy Lab in Boulder. It didn’t take much luring, to be honest, as my role was far more bureaucratic than scientific, and I was thankful to leave. So you might say that Archive rescued me from civilization and whisked me away to the wilderness.”

  “It’s been a real treat, and I’ve had all sorts of fun cherry-picking the best of the available technologies to get the Lost Man Lake Ranch facility up and running. And, barring major setbacks, I think we’re within a couple of weeks of being completely off the grid.

  “Without further ado, I’ll throw the obligatory slide presentation at you. Lights please.”

  Suzanne showed photos of the hydroelectric generator that exploited g
ravity and water flow to produce electricity.

  “We get about twelve kilowatts in the summer, and roughly zero when the stream freezes solid. Which means that I was able to enjoy another project or two,” Suzanne said.

  Protégé liked her style. Smart, funny, pretty, fit, and no ring on her finger. He wasn’t exactly a Casanova, yesterday’s interlude with Allison notwithstanding, but he appreciated beauty and brains when he saw them.

  She advanced the slide, and images of large solar panels filled the screen. “The sun will melt your face up here at this altitude, so it didn’t take much imagination to realize that solar would be a big part of the Ranch. We do both kinds: photovoltaic and thermal. Excess PV production in the day charges batteries for nighttime and cloudy weather. To keep showers hot at night, we augment the solar thermal system with natural gas.

  “We are ‘lucky’ enough to have one of the few active natural gas wells in the mountains right down the road from us, and Archive flexed a little muscle to get the owners to sell. Running the pipeline was a bear, but we got it done.”

  Next came the lodge itself, which was designed from the ground up to be extremely energy efficient. Rather than normal residential construction, which was as flimsy as builders could get away with, Suzanne had brought in an expert on high thermal mass construction.

  Using heavy materials such as thick concrete blocks and clay bricks, which naturally accumulate heat during the day and redistribute it during the cold mountain nights, they were able to cut heating and cooling costs down to a third of normal requirements for the region.

  Smart ventilation took advantage of natural air circulation to remove the need for a large forced-air furnace.

  “We do the aquaponic food production thing, too,” Suzanne continued. “All the vegetables, eggs, and poultry you’ve eaten so far have come from our greenhouse, just upslope from the main lodge.

  “We don’t yet have our own beef, and probably won’t be able to work that out due to the scrawny grass this high up, but we’re looking at a ranch or two a bit lower in elevation to fill that gap. Yeah, there’s transportation involved, which adds complexity and dependencies, but nothing’s perfect.”

  Protégé was impressed. The place was a showcase of energy efficiency and renewable energy technology, with natural gas to fill in gaps on bitter cold mountain nights. The Ranch received its fresh water from the lake, generated and stored its own electricity, grew much of its own food, and recycled most of its waste.

  It was also isolated. The only road he’d seen was a narrow, winding affair just barely wide enough for two cars to pass. Perfect, he thought, for surviving a catastrophe while avoiding the raving masses in starving cities.

  Something gnawed at him. He wasn’t quite sure what it was, but he felt unsettled. He made a mental note to keep his senses sharp as the weekend progressed.

  41

  Las Vegas, NV. Saturday, 11:58 a.m. PT.

  Jonathan Cooper’s phone rang around noon on Saturday. It was a number that he didn’t recognize, so he let it go to voicemail.

  He rarely answered his phone anyway, but never for unfamiliar numbers. He was still in a dispute with DirecTV—he had canceled his service after they kept overcharging him, and he refused to pay the $200 cancellation fee. They had sent his file to collections, so he received three to five calls per day hassling him over the fee.

  He had almost stopped listening to his voicemails as well, but something made him listen to this one. He was instantly glad he did.

  “Mr. Cooper,” said a familiar male voice. “We have your dry cleaning ready, and we found some items in your pocket that we’ve saved for you. Please stop by when you get a chance today.”

  Cooper wasn’t terribly excited about the dry cleaning, or anything he might have left in his pockets.

  He was, however, quite anxious to see what his handler had in store for him.

  “Hon, I’m going to go snag the dry cleaning,” he yelled up the stairs. “Need anything while I’m out?”

  He should have expected the reply: diapers. That little girl of theirs soiled her pants twice an hour. “I’m on it,” he yelled in response.

  As the garage door opened, Cooper noted the white utility service van parked across the street, several houses down from his own. It had been there yesterday as well, though he hadn’t seen anyone working.

  Why would they be watching me?

  Secrets bred paranoia. It colored everything.

  He studiously ignored the van as he drove past, but couldn’t help looking in the rearview mirror. The van didn’t move, of course. That would have been ridiculously obvious, and Cooper laughed softly at himself and his paranoid silliness.

  The strip mall containing the dry cleaners was just a few blocks away from his home in Aliante, a formerly posh suburb of North Las Vegas. The real estate boom and bust had left entire neighborhoods full of mostly vacant investor homes. Many had sold prior to the crash, but many more were caught up in short sales or foreclosures, so the neighborhood had taken a bit of a turn.

  Cooper had scooped up his house for little more than a song. It was bigger than he hoped for, and Margot absolutely loved it, but all the vacant houses made him nervous.

  He parked his minivan in front of the cleaners and went inside. He repeated a familiar ritual of small talk with the friendly Asian lady who ran the counter, and he emerged seconds later with his dry cleaning.

  He opened the door behind the driver’s seat and hooked the freshly pressed shirts and slacks onto the hanger. He briefly eyed the front of the receipt, then turned it over.

  There was a single word scrawled on the blank side of the receipt: “Tuesday.”

  Shit, this is really going to happen.

  Half an hour later, with diapers, a six-pack of beer, and roses for Margot in the passenger seat next to him, he drove back home.

  The van was still there, parked across the street.

  42

  Alexandria, VA. Saturday, 10:32 a.m. ET.

  Sam’s hand turned the large wheel that ran the video forward and back. She stared at the large-screen monitor in her panic room.

  Giant man, blue jeans, black long-sleeve shirt. Carrying a police-issue battering ram, which he set down on the porch.

  He stared right at the hidden camera in the light fixture as he unscrewed the light bulb. Long scar under his right eye. Freakish eyes. One bluish-gray, the other green-brown, like a wild dog.

  I know you, mongrel. Where have I seen you?

  The porch light went out.

  Entryway camera now. The door flying open triggered the motion-sensitive entryway light. The light visibly startled the man. Only one man, a behemoth, all muscle.

  Sam seethed as she watched the man step into her house. I will kill you with my bare hands, mongrel, I promise you.

  The man looked abruptly to his left, up the stairs, and dropped the battering ram.

  He drew a gun from the back of his waist.

  Sam’s heart began to pound at the sight of the silenced pistol.

  The man pointed the gun to his left, up the stairs, and shot once. He bounded up the stairs.

  Switch to hallway camera.

  Brock.

  My Brock. I’m coming, I’m coming, and all hell with me, please baby, please hang on!

  Brock was completely naked, brandishing their custom Kimber .45 semiautomatic. He doubled over and fell to the floor. She couldn’t see where he was shot.

  Sam wiped away tears with shaking hands. Focus.

  Mongrel was up the stairs almost instantly. He kicked the pistol from Brock’s hand, and in a flash had Brock’s hands zip-tied behind his back.

  Pro.

  Brock’s muscular legs kicked hard, connecting once on the side of mongrel’s knee, but the man was big—freakishly big. The blow didn’t register.

  The man lifted Brock up by the zip-tie holding his hands together behind his back, then dropped him on his face and chest. Sam gasped. You will suffer, I swear to you
.

  Brock stopped kicking long enough for Mongrel to zip-tie his ankles together.

  More movement. Mongrel’s body blocked the camera, but when he moved away, Brock’s hands and feet were tied together behind his back by a rope. He was hogtied.

  Mongrel left Brock in the upstairs hallway while he ransacked the house. It took three minutes.

  The man returned for Brock, picked him up by the rope between his wrists and ankles, placed the rope over his shoulder, and carried Brock out the front door like luggage.

  The entryway camera caught Brock’s face, contorted with pain. Tears streamed down Sam’s cheeks as she watched her lover being carried out of their house, wounded, naked, and tied up. I will end you, mongrel. Your life is over.

  Driveway camera now. Mongrel put Brock in the trunk of a white sedan, then sat in the driver’s seat.

  The car pulled away. Sam froze the video and zoomed in on the license plate, writing down the number. Fleet vehicle plates. A rental. It would have GPS tracking. Sloppy, mongrel.

  She returned to the close-up image of the man’s face, captured by the front porch camera. She converted the camera frame into a digital photo, and dropped it into the facial recognition software on her Mac.

  Seconds later, over two hundred biometric identification fields filled with data, producing a numerical characterization of the man’s face that was as unique and specific as a fingerprint.

  You fucked up, mongrel. You’re mine. I will kill you in a gruesome way and I will enjoy it.

  Hang on, Brock. I’m coming for you.

  43

  En route to Washington, DC. Saturday, 3:32 p.m. ET.