Ramez Naam - Apex

He heard Stan Kim next to him, yelling to one of the cops.

“Get on the horn to your commander,” Kim was saying. “Tell him he needs to cease fire! The crowd’s calming down!”

“Senator, we have orders to clear the protest and get you out of here,” the cop replied.

“Officer, that crowd is being pacified by this young man right here! Shooting more tear gas and rubber bullets is just going to make it harder. Now goddammit, put me in touch with your commander.”

Rangan just closed his eyes, tuned in to the peace coming off this monk, this man he didn’t even know.

Two hundred and ninety thousand.

Two hundred and ninety-five thousand.

Someone jostled him, and he opened his eyes. He looked over and the monk was half-collapsed on him, still smiling, still serene, his mind still giving off a deep tranquility.

There was red all over his robes.

“He’s been shot!” Rangan said.

Suddenly there were riot cops all around him, shields held high. Radios were crackling.

He felt other minds, protesters all around, climbing onto the stage from the sides, crowding around, shielding him with their bodies.

And this man. Rangan lowered him to the wood floor of the stage, surrounded by cops and protesters both.

The monk was still smiling, eyes closed.

A cop pushed Rangan out of the way, ripped at the monk’s robes. There was bright arterial red in the center of his chest. Rangan stared in horror.

The monk still smiled. His mind reached out. The tranquility was changing somehow. The peace growing more ethereal.

Turning to white.

Everything turning to white.

Beautiful, beautiful white.

It took Rangan’s breath away.

He felt hundreds of thousands of people gasp with it. Felt them all lose themselves in the complete absorption of this man’s mind.

Everything was this. This moment. This breath. There was no past. No future. Complete Samadhi. Complete absorption.

All white.

All peace.

All compassion.

Rangan lost himself in it. He wasn’t even sure how long it lasted.

And then it was fading.

And fading.

Dissipating.

Gone.

And all around him he felt stillness. Stillness everywhere.

Peace.

He opened his eyes, stood upright, craned his head over the forest of police shields and protesters who’d climbed up here to protect him, and looked out over the crowd.

Everywhere, people had stopped. The protesters had stopped. The cops had stopped.

They’d won. The riot was over.

Stan Kim put a hand on Rangan’s shoulder.

“Well done,” the senator said quietly. “Now, get the hell out of here.”

Rangan nodded.

Time to get the hell out. Before the cops realized who they had here.

Then he heard a radio crackle, saw a police officer’s eyes go wide, the cop step back to create room, his gun fly out of its holster, aimed straight at Rangan.

“Down on the ground!”

Carolyn Pryce stared at the message, at the data in the attached file.

She couldn’t breathe. A fake? So detailed.

“Dr Pryce,” someone was saying. “Dr Pryce!”

She looked up. People were staring at her. She focused on Admiral McWilliams, ignored everyone else.

“I need a secure line to the National Terror Response Center.”

McWilliams stared at her, like he didn’t understand what language she was speaking.

“Now!”

123

Inauguration

Monday 2041.01.20

John Stockton watched as Ben Fuhrman finished the Oath of Office as Vice President. Fuhrman looked over at him, his hand still on the Bible, and gave him a tight grin.

It was amazing they’d made it this far.

Stockton responded with a proud nod.

Ben Fuhrman stepped away from the podium, and so did Justice Rodriguez.

The musicians played. Musicians he loved. The program said five minutes. It lasted forever.

Then they were done, and it was his turn.

Chief Justice Aaron Klein stepped forward, with the Bible that George Washington had sworn his oath on.

Stockton stepped up in front of the Chief Justice, and put one hand on George Washington’s Bible.

And suddenly he was aware of the silence of the vast House Chamber all around and above him, of him nearly alone here in the center and the bottom of it, of the hundreds of representatives, senators, cabinet members, family, friends, and guests crammed into this place to watch. Of the cameras all around. Of the millions who might be watching.

Suddenly this wasn’t just a formality. Suddenly this wasn’t just another public event.

He looked to the side, and there in the front row was Cindy. She was smiling at him, her eyes full of love. She was smiling and crying, crying just as hard as she had the first time he was inaugurated. And next to her was Julie, his gorgeous daughter, his grandson Liam on her lap, her husband at her side.

Julie grinned widely at him, flashed him a covert thumbs up.

And then Stockton smiled, and knew everything was going to be OK.

Aaron Klein spoke.

“Mr President, please repeat after me.”

John Stockton looked the Chief Justice in the eye, and repeated the words of the Presidential Oath of Office, written into the Constitution two and a half centuries ago.

“I, John Harrison Stockton,” he said. “Do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of the President of the United States.”

Stockton took a breath, and repeated the next line. “… And will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States.”

Aaron Klein stopped.

Stockton looked the Chief Justice in the eye and added the words not in the oath, not in the Constitution. “So help me God.”

The Chief Justice smiled at him.

Applause rose from the crammed-in House Chamber.

Miles Jameson stared down from the gallery as John Stockton was sworn in.

I made this man, Jameson thought. And now he betrays me.

Good luck, John, he thought bitterly.

Jameson reached into a pocket, and pulled out a tiny pill case. He held it in his lap, shielded from view by both hands, and opened it as quietly as he could.

His fingers felt for the right pill. There.

He looked down to be sure he had it.

Yes. The green one.

Jameson brought it to his mouth, swallowed it dry.

Good luck, Johnny boy.

“Missed,” the Nigerian said. “Got the wrong guy.”

“Damn it,” Breece cursed.

“Doesn’t matter,” the Nigerian said. “T-minus five minutes.”

Kate looked at the clock. 12.01pm. Four minutes.

On the wallscreen, John Stockton was talking, giving his post-inauguration address.

She had to time this just right. But there were so many unknowns.

Kate typed another message out to this insider.

[ERD_SECRETS: China isn’t behind what’s about to happen inside the Capitol either.]

12.02pm.

SEND.

“DC rapid response team is en route, Dr Pryce,” the DHS response desk said over Pryce’s headset, plugged into the Pentagon terminal. “The lead looks strong, ma’am.”

“It could be a trap,” Pryce said. “Be careful.”

She looked up, was keenly aware of eyes on her, watching her here in the Pentagon Situation Room as she touched this issue well outside her nominal remit.

“We know, Dr,” the response desk replied. “They’re ready.”

“Keep me informed,” Pryce said. “I need to know right away when you get there if this is legit or not.”

“Yes, Dr.”

Her personal phone buzzed again, the three sharp buzz pattern. It was sitting atop the table. She looked at it and saw the message.

Pryce’s heart dropped.

She whirled. There, against a far wall of the Situation Room, her new Secret Service detail, the one she’d resisted for so long, were standing, waiting for her.