Nexus 02 - Crux (29 page)

The car drove him to Montrose Park in a languid dream. Trees and buildings moved by in a blurring, surreal molasses. His pulse thrummed slow and low through his veins. Haltingly he told the car to park and to darken the windows. Somewhere in the Caribbean, the radio told him, a tropical storm called Zoe had thrashed Cuba, leaving buildings destroyed, fields flooded, and hundreds dead. Here, in the park beyond his car windows, it was a gorgeous hot sunny day. Thought and memory returned as the opiate surge faded. He and Anne had come here, when they were younger. They’d brought the boys here to splash around in the pool. He had hazy, happy memories of it. Heat and crowds of parents and children. Cool water on a hot day. Hot dogs bought from the snack bar.

From the parking lot he could see that pool, where he and Anne had brought the boys. Mothers and toddlers and a few young people splashed about there now. Inside his car, Holtzmann was in his own private cocoon.

He stayed there for hours. Every so often the opiates would start to wear off and the chasm would yawn wide open beneath his feet again and he’d start to panic, his breath coming fast and his heart pounding and his stomach feeling sick, and he’d dose himself once more to push it away. The doses he was giving himself were large, now, but there was no bliss in them. His tolerance was growing. At best the doses made him care less, care less that his life was reduced to this, a choice between imprisonment and something akin to genocide.

There’s another way, he thought. I could end my own life.

He pushed that idea away with another opiate surge, larger than the last.

His phone buzzed, again and again, calls from the office, video messages, text messages. He refused to answer, refused to check his messages on phone or slate.

Dusk came. Teenagers – released from the prisons that masqueraded as schools – joined the mothers and small children at the pool. He was hungry. He had to piss. He should be home soon. He was tempted to stay here forever, to just lay in his car taking dose after dose after dose of opiates until his neurons were squeezed dry of them or until he accidentally killed himself.

But something else prevailed. Habit, perhaps. Some shred of dignity. He forced a jolt of norepinephrine through his system, pushed himself up, and shambled on his cane to the restroom by the pool. Children and parents stared at him. A mother pulled her toddler aside, protectively. He had some vague notion that he was a mess, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

He pissed in a room that smelled of chlorine, and struggled back to his car, limping on his cane. He ordered the car to take him home, and did the best he could to clear his head with more norepinephrine, with acetylcholine, with more dopamine. His brain was a neurochemical witch’s brew. Some part of him whispered that he couldn’t go on like this, that he’d push himself too hard soon, push himself into another opiate overdose or serotonin syndrome or a deadly seizure or some other cataclysmic neurochemical collapse.

Despite that, his brain tinkering worked. He reached his own home in some semblance of order. He could pass his state off as fatigue from a long day, perhaps. Maybe. Above all else, he wouldn’t tell Anne where he’d been, or why.

He came in through the door. Anne was home already, files in her lap. She looked up. “Martin!”

Holtzmann smiled, and then shots rang out from the screen. He looked over in time to see a video of his nightmare – two Secret Service agents clobbering Steve Travers. He caught his breath, reflexively waiting for the moment when the screen exploded with chaos, when the explosion hurled him through the air, took the life of Joe Duran standing just
inches
from him.

The screen went blank instead, as Anne clicked it off.

“I’m sorry, Martin,” she said. “Didn’t mean to make you watch that again.” She was up and had her arms around him, was kissing him on the side of his face.

Holtzmann was frozen stiff, his whole body suddenly racing with adrenaline.

Anne frowned.

“You know what frustrates me?” she asked.

Holtzmann shook his head, mutely, his mind trapped in that endless moment six months past.

The Secret Service man’s gun came out out out, and fired, and fired. Human missiles leveled the shooter, and Holtzmann turned, looking for the President. Joe Duran screaming in his ear, “How did you know, Martin? How did you know?”

Anne was speaking, saying something. “Stockton was
losing
until the PLF tried to kill him,” she said. “He’s going to win
because of
the assassination attempt, and now Chicago.” She shook her head. “They could’ve at least been better shots.”

He grabbed hold of her, suddenly panicked. “Don’t say that, Anne! Don’t ever say that!” They were watching him. A stranger in the car. Nakamura raising his hand for the killing blow…

She looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “It was a
joke,
Martin! It’s still OK to make
jokes
in this country!”

“Just please,” he pleaded. “Please don’t ever say that.”

They slept on opposite sides of the bed. Anne seemed annoyed, put off by his behavior. She drifted off to sleep without their customary “I love you.”

Holtzmann lay there on his back. He was close to something. Some realization was working its way through his mind. He’d been close to it that night after Nakamura had surprised him, and then he’d been distracted, had dropped it. Bits of memories and conversations went through his head.

The Secret Service man’s gun came out out out, and fired, and fired. Human missiles leveled the shooter. The gun flew from his hand.

Anne talking to him. “They could’ve at least been better shots.”

Wait. Wait. That made no sense. Travers had missed because the other Secret Service agents had hit him
before
he could fire. They’d thrown off his aim. Or he’d flinched as they approached. That was why.

But in his nightmares Travers fired first, and then the other agents hit him. In his nightmares, the man never flinched.

He was wide awake, suddenly. His head felt free of opiate buzz, free of the awful feeling of anxiety and craving. His stomach was knotted but his head was clear.

He brought up a window in his mind, navigated his file system. He’d saved the memories of that morning. He’d archived them. There. That was the folder. There were the files.

He pulled the memory up. Sensations engulfed him. He was back in that sweltering July day. Sweat beaded on his brow. Daydreaming as the President droned on. He wanted to
yell
at his old self, scream at his younger self to get up, to cry out about what was going to happen, but there was no going back, no way to stop it. The past was read-only.

He moved the slider along, fast-forwarded through his own memory, and there. The encrypted radio traffic. He’d craned his head. Spotted Travers, just another nameless Secret Service man to him then, and the awful intuition had come to him. In the memory he was up on his feet now. His heart was pounding, in the memory and in the present.

His past self was shouting now that that man had a gun. Holtzmann cranked down the play speed, and as he watched, Travers pulled the huge pistol out of his jacket in a long, slow motion, no expression on his face. It arced around at a quarter speed and snapped into place, perfectly steadily, and hung there as still as the man’s face for a fraction of a second. Then its muzzle flared and a huge boom filled Holtzmann’s ears. The muzzle of the gun jerked up, came down again in slow motion, and then its muzzle flared again and a second boom exploded in his ears. And only then did a twin blur slam into Travers and take him away. Throughout it all, the man’s expression never changed.

Holtzmann’s heart was pounding. Travers had fired calmly and coolly. He’d fired
before
he was hit. And his expression never betrayed a single flinch, a single hesitation. And why should it? The man had been turned into a Nexus robot, after all. His arm was controlled by software, not human instinct. His
aim
was controlled by software.

So why had he missed?

Nakamura’s voice answered him.
“To find the cause of an event… who had the most to gain?”

There was a hand on Holtzmann’s chest. Anne was shaking him. “Martin. Martin. You were screaming. Are you OK? Another nightmare?”

Holtzmann opened his eyes, looked over at his wife. And now he was terribly afraid, not just for himself, but for her as well.

“A nightmare,” he said. “A nightmare.”

Anne Holtzmann rolled back over in the bed she shared with her husband, troubled. What was wrong with Martin? Why was he acting so strangely?

She lay there, thinking, finding no answers, until she heard his breath change as he fell back into sleep. Then sleep took her as well.

32

SEPARATION ANXIETY

Saturday October 27th

Sam watched as the two vehicles from the Mira Foundation made their way up the winding road to the place she’d called home these last three months. The children around her felt anxious, sad and frightened to be leaving Sam, uncertain about what lay ahead, but happy that Jake was coming with them.

Sam smiled, did her best to project calm resolve. This would be a wonderful new adventure. They’d meet new friends. They’d have a larger home. Jake would be with them. Sam would rejoin them soon.

But inside she felt a gaping loss.

Jake took her hand, squeezed it, gratitude and longing coming through their connection. She squeezed back, grateful for the contact.

Khun Mae and her two girls stood with them, silent. What were they thinking, Sam wondered. Were they sad to see their wards go? Were they relieved? Their faces were masks. No tears were being shed there.

The vehicles pulled through the open gate. They’d brought two – a van big enough for all the children, and a closed-top jeep driving behind.

Sam’s practiced eye picked up subtleties of the vehicles. The way the thickness of the windows distorted light a bit more. The distinctive shape of run-flat tires. The ruggedness of the chassis. These were armored vehicles, designed to blend in with normal traffic, to arouse no suspicions, but also to stand up to small arms fire. To take fire and keep on moving.

They’re careful
,
she thought.
Can I blame them?

The vehicles stopped and four Mira Foundation staff emerged. Two men from the jeep. A man and a woman from the van. The woman moved like a model. The men moved like soldiers. Nexus emanations radiated from all four of their minds.

She stood paralyzed as they loaded the children’s things into the van, paralyzed by jealousy and loss and fear. Khun Mae and one of the men stepped back inside the house. She could see the other two men watching her now. She forced a smile, forced happy thoughts, and stepped forward to hug the children goodbye, to kiss Jake for the last time…

They were still watching her. One of the men turned to the side, focusing on the back of the van, but his body language gave him away. His attention was on her. She must be hiding her fear and loss more poorly than she’d imagined.

But he was wound up so tight… They both were… As if…

Sarai threw herself into Sam’s arms and Sam held her tight, kissed her on the brow, told her she loved her. Then she kissed and hugged each of the children as they filed into the van and took their seats.

“Panda!” Kit said, and she felt it from his mind at the same time. His beloved Panda wasn’t in the small pile of belongings in the back of the van.

Jake turned, but Sam smiled and spoke first. “I’ll get it!” she told them, grateful for something to do.

She turned and she felt the men tense up more. Maybe they were worried she’d make a scene. But she wouldn’t. She’d bide her time. And she’d be with her new family again.

Sam strode into the house and towards the room Kit and the other four boys shared. It was far enough that she couldn’t feel the minds of the children any more, could just feel one mind in here, of one of the men. And he was far enough away that she doubted he could feel her in return. It was a relief to have that privacy.

She didn’t see Panda on any of the beds in the boys’ room or on the floor. She ducked her head down to the floor and, sure enough, there the toy was, under Kit’s bed. She reached under, pulled it up, and stood to take it outside.

Then she heard the voices. Khun Mae and the man from the Mira foundation she hadn’t met. Low. Conspiratorial. Why?

She stepped towards the door softly, reeled her Nexus in and put it into receive-only mode, then closed her eyes, and let her superhuman hearing do the work.

They were speaking in Thai. She heard snippets: “Ten thousand baht… in the American girl’s food… make her unconscious… come collect her.”

What?

She stepped out of the room, into the hallway. They were at the other end, just inside the kitchen. The light lit them from behind, rendering them black silhouettes.

They froze into silence when Sam emerged. The man’s mind radiated alarm. Khun Mae’s posture radiated fright.

“Khun Mae…” Sam started.

Then the man pulled out his gun and started firing.

33

CONFRONTATION

Saturday October 27th

Jake smiled, rubbed the children’s heads, and did his best to exude calm and love. Leaving Sunee, leaving
Sam,
was hitting him already. He could feel it tugging at him, the sense of separation, the fear that he wouldn’t be able to get her into Mira’s good graces, that she’d disappear before he could find her again.

Something came from the house. Sounds like soft pops, and then the sound of something crashing, falling, things breaking. He turned in concern. The minds around him radiated alarm. Then the two men from Mira had guns in their hands.

Fear burst through him. The children!

He grabbed the hand of the man nearest him. “There are kids here!” he yelled.

The man shrugged Jake away with one arm, almost casually, and Jake felt himself hurled through the air. His feet left the ground and for a moment he was in free flight. Then his back struck the van and it knocked the wind out of him. His world dimmed for a moment, and fear coursed through him. The kids! He forced himself to look, forced himself to see. The man still had the gun out, was spinning, looking around. Jake was on his knees. He acted without thinking, hauled himself up, threw himself at the man, grabbing at his gun arm again, with both hands, whirling him around.