Apex: Nexus Arc Book 3 (30 page)

But it was too little, too late.

T
hursday 2040.12.06

It was Rangan?
Kade sent.
You’re sure of it.

Yes, Bo Tat,
the monk replied.
I’ve touched your thoughts when we merge in
metta
, I know to whom you send loving compassion, I’ve felt the feel of your friend’s mind. It is

Rangan. In the middle of all that.

Well where else would he be, dumbass? Kade asked himself. Where have you always been?

How long ago was this?
Kade sent.

Perhaps ten minutes ago,
the monk replied.
I would have reached out to you sooner, but it was all we could do to push back a bit of the tide of suffering all around us, and see a few to safety.

You did the right thing,
Kade assured the man
.
Now, please. Show me everything you saw and sensed about my friend.

The monk did.

And then Kade started searching.

R
angan held Cheyenne up
, stumbling forward through the chaos. Smoke rose, filling his lungs, driving him to cough. Cheyenne groaned in pain. Someone ran into them, running to or from a skirmish with the police, and Cheyenne toppled to the ground, dragging Rangan with her. They hit hard and she screamed in pain as her bad arm impacted below her.

Her pain washed out over him. Oh fuck, oh Jesus.

He reached out with his mind, groping blindly all around him, searching, searching for Angel or Tempest.

Nothing. There were hundreds of minds around him, people running by in every direction, but none were his friends.

“Come on, Cheyenne,” he said, pushing up to one knee, taking her good arm over his shoulder. “Not far now. Not far.”

K
ade tunneled
his NexusOS to computing clouds he’d hoped not to use, invoked passwords he’d hoped never to need.

Now, he hoped they still worked.

Shiva Prasad’s passwords, passwords he’d taken from the man’s mind, just before…

No, Sam, don’t do this. He tried to do the…

Before Sam blew Shiva Prasad’s brains out all over the rooftop of the man’s fortress mansion on Apyar Kyun. Before she splattered Shiva’s brains over Kade’s face.

Authentication layers accepted the passwords.

[Welcome Shiva Prasad]

Shiva’s research had overlapped with the work Kade was doing now. The billionaire had been fascinated by the Nexus-born children, fascinated by their collective intelligence, their ability to solve inordinately complex problems. He’d dreamt of integrating them into a far larger network, connecting millions of human minds, every Nexus user on the planet, a posthuman intelligence that would stagger anything that had come before it.

With Shiva himself in the driver’s seat. Controlling the individual minds. Directing them. Sifting through data coming back through them. All enabled by Kade’s back doors.

The back doors were gone, closed forever.

But the tools Shiva’s team had built still existed. They could be used to sift data voluntarily released.

Kade fired off requests from Shiva’s cloud to every mindstream aggregator he knew of, issuing searches for every publicly shared mindstream in the DC area, all data from the last ten minutes up to present. Hundreds of streams came back, annotated with tags. He re-queried on the top tags, got hundreds more, then piped the whole set into the neural data sifter Shiva’s engineers had built, fed it the patterns he was looking for: Rangan’s face as the monk had seen it, in wig and makeup; the unique signature of Rangan’s mind; Rangan’s voice; Rangan’s name.

Execute.

His mind started moving forward, thinking about the other tools he could use…

Hits came back.

Four streams had matches on Rangan’s costumed face in the last ten minutes.

Two had touched his mind in that time.

One had touched Rangan’s mind just an instant ago.

Kade fired up the stream immediately.

He was suddenly in the midst of chaos, coughing, despite the bandana around his face. His eyes burning despite his goggles, yellow and black smoke all around him, people running everywhere. There were minds bombarding his, angry minds, yelling, the sounds of fighting. Fire.

He didn’t see Rangan out of this person’s eyes. He didn’t feel Rangan’s mind. He couldn’t turn their head. He was just a passenger.

He popped out of the stream, looked at its metadata.

Please, he thought. Please have a contact address.

It did.

He reached out to the mind.

My name’s Kaden Lane,
he sent, with every bit of urgency he could
.
I’m one of the inventors of Nexus 5. And I could really, really use a favor right now.

“
C
ome on
, Cheyenne,” Rangan said, pushing up to one knee. “Not far now. Not far.”

Rangan!

He nearly dropped Cheyenne in shock.

Kade?

He looked to his left, didn’t see his friend, looked to the right, not there either.

Holy shit, Rangan, it’s you!

He turned back to the left, saw what was maybe a fourteen year-old girl in front of him, dressed for a riot or a rave, a black and pink handkerchief over her mouth and nose, giant iridescent bug-eyed goggles covering her eyes. The girl came closer and crouched before him. He saw his own crazy clown face reflected in fun-house distorted insanity in those oversized lenses.

Kade?

Jesus, Rangan, what happened?

Cheyenne groaned. “What the fuck?”

Someone tried to kill me,
he sent to the teen girl with Kade’s mind.
The guy who launched the hate broadcast.

What?
Kade sounded appalled.
Show me.

Rangan opened his mind, flashed the memory up and out at his friend, the man looming out of the smoke, then Rangan on his back, the man’s face an inch away. Cheyenne’s attack, the disguise ripped half-free, the mystery woman who’d saved them and turned off the hate.

Oh god,
Kade sent. Dread came off him in waves.
I know who that is.

You do?
Rangan sent.

You’ve gotta get out of here,
Kade replied.
That guy goes by Breece. He’s PLF. He was behind the Houston bombing. And Chicago. And the assassination attempt on Stockton.

Rangan felt everything go cold

Here’s how you can contact me,
Kade sent. A net address followed
.
I have to give this girl her body back. And see if I can talk her into heading someplace safer.

Rangan nodded.
Here’s my address,
he replied.

“What the hell’s going on?” Cheyenne asked aloud. She was up on one knee now herself. Rangan could feel her arm throbbing with pain across the link. “Who is this? What are you two talking about?”

Rangan looked at her. “Cheyenne,” he said. “Meet my good buddy Kade.” He shook his head. “And now we’ve gotta get the fuck out of here.”

J
ohn Stockton watched
as the giant wall screen flipped through scenes of the riot on the Mall. There had been other protests, other riots, many of them bad. New York. LA. Detroit. But this… He shook his head.

The sun was setting over DC, now. The fire trucks had arrived. The flames on the Mall and the buildings around it were out. All but a few hundred of the most hard-core rioters had been forced out, and those that remained wouldn’t last long. Capitol Police and DHS had formed a perimeter around the entire Mall. No new protest would be allowed to start there.

Stockton shook his head.

Thousands of arrests.

Hundreds dead.

Dozens of
cops
dead, and hundreds wounded.

Greg Chase spoke from behind him.

“This hour’s polling numbers are in, Mr President,” his Press Secretary said. “Still rising. Between the Supreme Court legitimizing you and the protesters illegitimizing themselves, it’s been a good day.”

Stockton shook his head again.

“No,” he said. “It hasn’t.”

C
arolyn Pryce flipped
through riot imagery in her office, then leaned back, and rubbed her eyes.

What a disaster. How had things gone so wrong?

Questions kept rising.

Why hadn’t they deployed sonic cannons to quell the crowd from the very get go?

Why hadn’t they had fire trucks on the scene? Why had it taken so long to put out the flames? Why had the façade of one of the fucking Smithsonian buildings, of all places, been allowed to burn for so long?

Greg Chase’s words kept coming back to her. Something he’d told the President. “The more rope we give the protesters, the better.”

Was that was this was about? Had they let it get so out of hand for politics?

People had died out there.

People died in the assassination attempt on Stockton too, a little voice inside her head told her.

Pryce shook her head. She didn’t want to believe it.

T
hursday 2040.12.06

“This is your fucking fault, Axon!” Tempest nearly screamed it at him from across the Bunker’s workroom. Her mind gave off rage, fear. She was pacing back and forth.

Rangan was slumped forward in an overstuffed chair, his head in his hands, his eyes and lungs still burning, his face covered in tears, coughs still wracking him every minute or two.

“It’s not his fault,” Cheyenne grunted through clenched teeth. She was stretched out on a cot, her arm immobilized in a make-shift splint, her body pumped full of someone’s left-over painkillers from a past injury. “Could’ve been you, Tempest. Could’ve been you on the ground. I would’ve done the same.”

Tempest kept pacing, agitated. “We’re in way over our heads. We should just send an anonymous tip to the cops. Fracking triple tunnel, from some other location, and send in what the guy looks like, and what we learned.”

“We should do that,” Angel said. “But we can’t stop there.”

Everyone looked at her.

“This isn’t going to end here,” she went on. “There’ll be more protests. They’ll try this
again
.”

She looked around the room, met their eyes.

Rangan could feel the passion coming off her mind. The protest was important to her. The whole idea of being able to protest – of people being able to come together, self-organize, exercise their right to assemble and speak in peace – that was a core belief of Angel’s. Fucking with that was an affront. She was angry.

He could understand that.

Angel spoke again. “Someone needs to stop whoever did this.”

“That doesn’t have to be us,” Tempest said, wearily now.

“Who better?” Angel asked.

Tempest pointed a finger at Cheyenne. “He almost
killed
Cheyenne.”

Cheyenne growled. “More reason to fuck homeboy’s plans up. I want in. Just gimme…” she clenched her teeth again, “… a couple days…”

Tempest brought her hands to her face. “Let’s at least send in that tip. Did you get a good look at him?”

Cheyenne shook her head on the cot. “Disguised…”

They turned to look at Rangan.

He nodded. “Yeah. I know what he looks like,” he said. “More than that. I know who he is.”

And then he told them.

T
here was
silence when Rangan finished.

“Wow, that’s heavy,” Angel said.

“Wish I’d… killed the bastard,” Cheyenne said between breaths.

“Axon,” Tempest said, calm now, “can you put that together into one file? Shots of his face. His name. Anything else you know. Leave out the how. I’ll sanitize it, send it in.”

Rangan nodded. “I’ll get whatever more I need from Kade.”

Angel spoke up. “Cheyenne needs a doctor.”

Tempest frowned. “They’re cracking down on Nexus. There’s rumors of blood tests at the clinics. She can’t go there. Not unless she flushes Nexus and waits for the metabolites to clear… seventy-two hours.”

Cheyenne groaned at that.

“I’ll see if we can get a house call,” Angel said. Then she went off to send a message.

T
he doctor arrived
a little after 1am. Angel’s phone buzzed.

Tempest turned to Rangan. “Time for you to hide.”

He nodded, slipped away to his room, closed the door.

He heard a bolt thrown in the main room. The sound of the heavy outer door opening and closing. Voices. Greetings.

Wait.

He knew that voice.

Shock shot through him.

More words were exchanged.

He was certain.

He acted on impulse, pulling open the door to his room, stepping into the hallway, striding down it into the main room.

The doctor was there, crouched over Cheyenne, in jeans, a sweatshirt, long blonde hair pulled back into a pony tail.

“Melanie,” Rangan said.

She looked up, surprise registering on her face. “Rangan?”

“What the hell?” Tempest said.

“Uhh, you two know each other?” Angel asked.

Cheyenne groaned.

Melanie looked back down at her patient.

“Later,” she said, glancing back at Rangan. Then she turned her attention back to her duties.

T
wo hours
later Cheyenne’s right arm was in a cast, and Cheyenne was recovering from the intense agony of resetting the arm. Melanie announced she’d done all she could.

“The humerus is back in alignment. The bone growth accelerator will help. But you really need an X-ray, at least. And the intense shoulder pain…” She shook her head. “That worries me. Nothing’s broken. Maybe ligament damage. There’s only so much I can do here.”

Cheyenne nodded. “Thanks, doc. Check’s in the mail.”

Melanie snorted and gave a small smile at that.

“Thank you,” Angel said, sincerely.

Melanie smiled back. “Can’t have my friends going to jail.”

She turned to Rangan. “Can we talk somewhere?”

I
n his tiny
cubicle of a room, with the door closed, Rangan was suddenly aware of being alone with her, of her long, honey-blonde hair, of the fine details of her face, of the lilt of her voice, of her smell.

“I’ve got something for you,” she said quietly.

He wanted to kiss her, to reach forward, and run his fingers through her hair, and pull her close. He’d felt so alone. Even in the midst of these women. He wasn’t one of them. He didn’t even know their names.

She brought her hand up with something in it. A pen. A slip of paper. She turned, held the paper against the wall, wrote something on it. He studied her profile, wanted to brush her hair back away from her face.

Then she turned back to him, held the slip of paper out for Rangan to take.

He took it, opened it. There was a net address on it.

“People have been looking for you,” she whispered. “No one knew if…”

He nodded, swallowing hard.

“Yeah. Oscar…”

Melanie nodded too.

“Call or message that address. Say you want to put in an order for Indian food, to go. They’ll set up your transport to… to where you were headed before.”

Cuba. It seemed so far away now. A dream. Someone else’s dream.

“Thank you,” he told her. He reached out and put a hand on her arm. “For everything.”

She smiled, a tired smile, a 3am smile.

“How’s…” he started. “How are…”

Levi, he wanted to say. Abigail. Your mom. Earl and Emma Miller. The people who risked their lives for me.

And Bobby. Tyrone…

Melanie nodded. “They’re fine. Everyone back home is safe. The… people looking for you moved on.” Then she shook her head. “I’m not sure about the boys. Sorry.”

Rangan nodded.

There was silence.

“I’m sorry,” he said, finally, “if I’ve put you at more risk… by being here… by coming out.”

She shook her head, still smiling. “I came for…” she paused, reaching for a name, “…for Angel. For Cheyenne. They’re friends of mine. But I’m glad to see you. I’m glad I could give you that.” Her eyes pointed at the slip of paper in his other hand. “I patched you up. I’m invested.”

He let his hand rise, then, from her arm, up to her neck, up to the side of her face, touching her softly.

She sighed, and placed her hand on his.

“Oh, Rangan.”

He leaned towards her, his lips parting.

And she pulled his hand away from her face.

“No,” she said, gently, clearly, her eyes searching his.

“I…” he said.

She smiled sadly at him.

“You’re hurting. You’re in shock and loss. You’re looking for something. You think I’m it, but you don’t know me.” She searched his eyes. “And to me… you’re just passing through. And I’m still going to be here.”

She squeezed his hand, held onto it for a moment, then took a half step back, and let both their hands fall before releasing his.

Rangan took a breath, his chest aching.

“I hope you get away,” Melanie said. “Be careful out there. It’s getting worse, not better.”

She moved forward then, put her arms around him in a hug, and Rangan hugged back, sinking his face into her hair, inhaling her scent.

“Thank you,” he said, “for everything.”

“Don’t make a habit of it,” she whispered.

Then she let go, looked one more time into his eyes, and turned and walked away.

R
angan waited
, alone in his tiny room. He heard the heavy outer door open and close. Finally, he ventured out into the common room.

Melanie was gone. Angel was gone. Cheyenne’s eyes were closed. She was breathing deeply.

Tempest sat alone on a couch, a flask in her hand. She looked up as Rangan entered.

He gave her a tiny, nervous nod, and turned to leave.

“Axon,” she said. He felt something from her mind. An invitation.

Rangan turned. She had the flask extended to him, her head cocked towards the open space next to her on the couch.

That looked like such a bad idea.

“Truce?” she said.

Well, shit, he thought.

Rangan walked over slowly, took the offered flask, still standing, tipped it back.

Whatever it was burned as it hit his throat, brought tears to his eyes.

Jesus. She liked that stuff?

She plucked the flask from his fingers, took another swallow.

“My mom’s in prison,” Tempest said.

Rangan blinked. “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t want to ask. Speculation still ran through his thoughts, ideas, possibilities.

Tempest picked up on them.

“Release of classified information,” she said. “She’s a crypto researcher.
Was
a crypto researcher, I should say. She’ll never touch it again, even after she gets out.”

“What…” Rangan started. “What did she do?”

“She found a security hole in a public protocol. She was about to publish it. NSA hit her with a gag order, so they could keep the hole, use it for themselves. She published anyway.”

“They sent her to jail for that?” Rangan was surprised, despite himself, despite everything he’d been through.

Tempest took another swallow from the flask, then another. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then handed the flask to Rangan.

“No. They nailed her on something else. Audited all her net activity. Said she’d been hacking. Said one of her scans of public routers for vulnerabilities broke the law.” She shook her head. “Charged her with one count for every router she scanned.”

“How many routers?” Rangan asked.

“Eighty-seven thousand,” Tempest said. “Give or take.”

Oh god. Rangan raised the flask to his lips, and downed another swallow. It burned just as much as the first.

“She bargained down to fifteen years. Twelve left. Parole in five, maybe. Not so bad.”

Rangan coughed a little. His eyes watered.

“So I hate the fuckers,” Tempest said. “But I also know just how much power they have. And just how easily they can nail you. It leaves me a little edgy sometimes.”

Rangan nodded uneasily, not sure what to say.

She looked over at him. “Finish that. I’ll get us some more.”

R
angan woke sometime later
, his head pounding like someone had taken a jackhammer to it, his stomach doing flips. It was still dark outside, not yet morning. Oh god, why had he let Tempest feed him so much booze. All he could remember was more drinking, more talking, about software, politics, prison, revolution. And then more drinking on top of that. Until he couldn’t keep his eyes open.

She was shaking him awake, leaning over him. He was still on the couch where he’d collapsed, still in his jester clothes from the day before.

“It’s the phones,” Tempest was saying, her face looming over his.

“That’s how they had so many transmitters, without us finding any. They hacked an awful lot of phones.”

How was she awake? How could she think?

“There’s no way we can build enough transmitters to fight that,” she went on. “So we do it in software – inside NexusOS. We use brains as the active countermeasures. What we need is a way to coordinate those minds to identify the hostile signals. And you and Angel are already working on it.”

She stared at him, as if waiting for him to get it.

Rangan lay there. He brought his hand to his aching head, tried to will his stomach to stay down.

Tempest just shook her head at him and spelled it out. “The mesh.”

K
ade stood
at the small balcony outside his bedroom, looking out at the darkened research park. The breeze ruffled the palm trees, cooled him pleasantly.

Rangan was alive. They’d spoken again later, merged minds, shared memories, tried to catch up on six months in too little time.

His hands clenched around the wrought iron railing.

Rangan had been through too much.

Connecting with him had been painful. It brought back so much.

Wats was dead.

Ilya was dead.

And Breece. Breece had killed a lot of people. And he’d killed more today. Hundreds more.

By using Nexus. Using Nexus to cause chaos. To overpower people’s minds. To manipulate.

Getting India out of Copenhagen wasn’t enough. Breece had to be stopped.

How the hell was he going to do that from India?

B
reece slumped
in a chair in the darkened room of his new safe house, a tumbler of cheap whiskey and ice in one hand.

Across the room, the bottle of whiskey was half empty. It took a lot of booze to overcome his genetically-boosted alcohol dehydrogenase levels. Shit.

Kate. Fucking Kate. God that hurt. It hurt like shooting Hiroshi had hurt. Losing a friend. Losing a lover.

Breece took another swallow of the whiskey, felt it burn on the way down, and sat there, images of her floating through his mind. Kate, her long black hair undone, floating down in a cloud above him as they made love. Kate, jumping into his arms after they’d been apart. Kate, so easily charming Miranda Shepherd in Houston, giving them a way into the greatest operational success yet.

Breece brought a hand up to his face. How could she falter now? What was wrong with her?