Marcus Sakey: Brilliance

“What’s the bad news?”

“Vasquez wouldn’t have been able to use it. It would have to get past military security protocols. Those are designed by our best twists.”

Cooper shot him a look.

“No offense. Anyway, Luisa said that to work, it would have to be introduced inside the firewall.”

“So Alex Vasquez had a contact. Someone inside the military.”

“It would need to be someone with serious juice. Think that’s why she took her final bow? So she wouldn’t give up the name?”

“Maybe.” The fear of betraying a friend or lover might have given her the strength. Cooper wasn’t the suicidal type, but he imagined that if you were going to go by jumping, you’d want somewhere high and certain, a place where the ground was an abstraction. Vasquez would have been able to see every mark on the concrete, every piece of gum trod black, every bit of broken bottle sparkling up. It must have taken tremendous will to tuck her hands in her pockets and hurl her head at the concrete.

The jet touched the runway, bounced once, and then settled in, the roar of air and engine growing as they braked to a taxi.

“Got word from the office, too. Something’s brewing.”

“What?”

“No specifics yet. Just a lot of chatter at this point. But it’s got everybody keyed up.”

What a surprise. Everybody’s been keyed up since 1986.

That was the year Dr. Eugene Bryce had published a study in the science journal Nature formally identifying the brilliants, the oldest of whom were six. At that point, they were a curiosity, a weird phenomenon that people expected would likely be linked to pesticides or vaccinations or the deterioration of the ozone layer. An evolutionary blip.

It had been twenty-seven years since that study, and though thousands more had followed, the world was no closer to understanding the causes.

What was known was that slightly under one percent of children were born brilliant. The vast majority had fourth- and fifth-tier gifts: calendar identification, speed-reading, eidetic memory, high-digit calculation. Incredible abilities, but not problematic ones.

Then there were tier ones like Erik Epstein.

To Epstein, the movements of the stock market were as obvious as code had been to Vasquez. He’d racked up a net worth of $300 billion before the government had shut down the New York Stock Exchange in 2011. Most nations had followed suit. Global markets remained shuttered to this day. Debt holders had gone crazy. Property rights lawsuits were on the docket in every country. Entrepreneurialism had vanished overnight; small caps had folded; the Third World had gotten even more screwed up than usual.

All because of one man.

Normal humanity could see the writing on the wall. What had once been a curiosity was now a threat. Whatever you called them—brilliants, gifted, abnorms, twists—they changed everything.

Hence the Department of Analysis and Response, an attempt to deal with a radically shifting world. Though only fifteen years old, the DAR already had unspecified funding greater than the NSA. The agency handled testing, monitoring, research; it advised lawmakers and occupied a cabinet post. And every time a gifted engineer jumped technology forward a decade, the DAR got another half a billion. Still, as long as abnorms were productive members of society, good citizens who obeyed the laws, they were afforded the same rights and protections as everyone else.

It was the ones who didn’t play nice that Equitable Services was concerned with.

“Anyway, sounds like it’s all hands on deck to find the signal in the noise. No rest for the virtuous.” Bobby Quinn spoke through a yawn. “You drive here, or should I call for a ride?”

“Call a ride.” He pulled his bag down and then dug out his keys.

“Umm, Cooper?”

“Yeah?”

“Aren’t those car keys?”

“Looks like.”

Quinn rolled his eyes. “Must be nice to be Drew Peters’s fair-haired boy.”

“Let me know if you find anything.” Cooper walked down the aisle, toward the open door. The flight attendant smiled as he passed. He smiled back, then walked down the stairs to the runway.

The weather had driven DC indoors, and he made good time. Del Ray was at the north end of Alexandria, a cozy neighborhood of single-family homes nuzzling close against one another. The houses were well maintained and solidly middle class, with a sodden flag dangling from every fourth porch.

Natalie’s was a tidy Folk Victorian, two stories, bright blue, and dotted with windows. A picket fence framed a postage-stamp yard, within which a black dirt bike lay on its side under a maple. Cooper pulled into the drive and killed the engine. He slid the Beretta and holster off his belt and locked both in the case beneath the passenger seat. The downstairs lights were on; he might not be too late after all.

The rain had picked up, and Cooper hurried up the walk-way, still wishing for a jacket. As he approached the front door, he heard footsteps behind it. There was the click of a deadbolt, and then the door swung inward. His ex-wife wore striped pajama bottoms and a worn T-shirt with a Greenpeace logo. Natalie’s feet were bare, her hair pulled into a ponytail. She smiled at him. “Nick.”

“Hey,” he said as he stepped inside. He gave her a hug and was briefly enveloped in her familiar smell. “I’m sorry it’s late. I wanted to see them.”

“They’re asleep.”

“Can I pop in anyway?”

“Sure,” she said. “I just opened some red. Want a glass?”

“Bless you. Yes.” He bent over to untie his shoes, left them on the mat next to a jumble of sneakers. “I won’t be long.”

The hall light was off, but Cooper had climbed these stairs ten thousand times. He padded up, skipping the squeaky step at the top. Gently, he opened the door to their room and stepped in. Pale light filtered in the windows, and he paused to let his eyes adjust.

The room smelled of children, that sunlight smell over socks and sweat. The left side had posters of dinosaurs and nebulae, a big framed image of the earth rising from the moon. There were toys in heaps, robots and knights and cowboys.

His son was curled on his side, hair in disarray, mouth open. A thin trail of spit ran from his lips to the pillow. His comforter was a bundle at his feet. Cooper eased the blanket up to cover Todd’s Spider-Man pajamas. The boy stirred, made a soft sound, and then rolled to his other side. Cooper bent over to kiss his forehead. Nine years old already. Won’t be long before he’ll stop letting me kiss him. The thought was a bittersweet spike through his chest.

Kate’s side of the room was neater. Even in sleep she looked composed, lying on her back, her features calm. He sat on the edge of her bed and stroked her hair, feeling the warmth of her, the unbelievable softness of her four-year-old forehead. Skin as fresh and new as a May morning. She slept with the zombie depth of a child, and he watched the easy rhythm of her inhales and exhales. Something in him was refreshed at the sight, as if she slept for them both. He lifted Fuzzy Bear from the floor and tucked him against her side.

Walking back downstairs, he heard music playing softly, one of the obscure female folk groups Natalie liked. He followed it to the living room, found her on the couch, feet tucked girlishly beneath her, a magazine on her lap. She looked up as he walked in and gestured to a syrah on the coffee table. “The kids good?”

He nodded, poured, sat down at the other end of the couch. “Sometimes I can’t believe we made them.”

“Our best work.” She held up her glass, and he clinked it. The wine was full and rich. He sighed, rolled his head back, and closed his eyes.