Ramez Naam - Apex

Tit for tat on a global scale.

Interrupted.

Self-sacrifice salvaged out of mutually assured hatred.

The Division Six team had made it home, courtesy of the People’s Liberation Army, their tails between their legs. The official history would write it down as a joint operation between China and India, India offering assistance at the invitation of Chinese authorities.

And that was a win as well.

Had Lane planned all of that? Varun wondered.

No! It beggared belief. No one was that smart. Lane must have been lucky.

Unless…?

Varun was still pondering this when a technician yelled his name from across the field and came running towards him, a case in his hand.

“Dr Verma!” the man yelled. “Dr Verma!”

Varun stared at the man, a catch in his chest.

“We found it!”

The technician put the case on the lawn, delicately, so delicately.

Then he held his thumbs to the lockpads, unsnapped them, and opened it.

Varun exhaled, reached down, and pulled out the diamondoid data cube, still dripping with water from the salvage operation.

He held it up above him, his fingers at the corners. The cube glistened and glittered in the equatorial sun, refracting the light, sending out a bright prismatic spray that shifted as Varun turned it over.

His breath caught in his chest at its beauty. At what he held up to the sky.

A single drop of water dripped down his hand.

“This time,” Varun said aloud, staring up at the bright and shining cube, “I’ll do better by you.”

On a bench, a few hundred meters away from Varun Verma, a woman named Jyotika watched the leaves on the trees sway in the light breeze, watched the tiny dappled clouds roll by against the blue sky. She could feel Verma’s excitement, though he’d be surprised to know that. She could feel so much, so much more than she ever could.

There had been a goddess inside her, for months, while she lay in a coma.

Or perhaps she had been inside the goddess.

Wisps of that time were still present now, like half-forgotten dreams.

The Nexus technology was still in her head. Shu – the goddess – had set about using it to heal Jyotika’s brain, to repair the damage that had placed her in a coma in the first place. A gift. And now it had opened whole new worlds to her.

She looked over at Verma. And then she stood, and started to walk over to him.

He was going to need help if he wanted to do things right this time.

Rangan looked down at the slate in his lap as the plane descended.

Watson Cole, 2009 – 2040.

Ilya Alexander, 2014 – 2040.

Kaden Lane, 2013 – 2041.

They gave their lives, that you could be more free.

After that, notes, pages of notes. Pages of music. Pages of text. Drawings. Scribbles. Diagrams.

Pictures. Pictures he’d found. Pictures he’d saved.

Wats with Rangan in a headlock, grinning that huge pearly grin in that dark face, his muscles bulging and shaved head gleaming. The man of peace, horsing around.

Ilya, standing in front of a wall screen in a giant auditorium, looking elfin even in a formal setting, her hair down and unbound, a finger raised to make a point, an engaged smile on her face, the screen below her showing part of her dissertation, explaining the metrics she’d developed for collective intelligence. The day of her PhD defense. The day she’d become Dr Ilyana Alexander.

Kade. Kade on the dance floor, arms in mid-flail, a near-spasmodic look on his face. Dancing goofier than anyone Rangan knew. So graceless. So funny. So genuine. So real. The guy everyone loved.

Rangan shook his head and laughed to himself.

They deserved better than this. They deserved medals. They deserved a real memorial.

No.

They deserved to be alive. More than he did.

They’d each believed more than he had. Fought harder than he had.

And died for it.

Rangan shook his head again, wiped at his face. If he could do one thing, he’d make sure the world knew, make sure the world understood who they’d been, what they’d stood for, what they’d done.

What they’d died for.

The immense gifts they’d given the world.

Willingly, each of them.

Too young, he wrote in a margin. Too good for this world.

Then the wheels bumped the ground. They were taxiing.

Rangan closed the slate, then slipped it into his bag.

Then he closed his eyes and breathed, just breathed, like he’d learned from Kade, like Kade had learned from so many others.

Letting go.

Then they were at the gate, and he was opening his eyes, rising. He was pulling his other bag down, the only possessions in his life besides ideas and memories and data, and he was disembarking from the plane, a lump growing in his chest.

He still wasn’t sure this was real.

It had been a long, roundabout trip from the moment he’d made that call. Container ship from Baltimore. At-sea transfer somewhere in the Atlantic. A different ship headed the other way, to Panama, to cross through the canal. Over land to Guatemala.

And now this. On a Cuban passport. This flight. To a place where he’d be a citizen. Where he’d be legit. Maybe someday he’d head for India, see if he could make that work. Maybe someday there would even be a pardon in the US, as unlikely as that sounded, as uncertain as he was if he’d be willing to go back even if it came through.

But for now…

For now it was Cuba. For now there was work to do. A lot of work. Coercion was still far too easy with Nexus. Emotional manipulation was still far too easy – Breece had shown that with the riots he’d started, the violence he’d incited. Kade had planned to address parts of that with Nexus 6. He’d said the Indians were on board…

Rangan shook his head. It wasn’t their job. It wasn’t something he trusted any government to do, anyway.

It was something the community had to do. The community of Nexus developers. It had to be done in the open. Transparently. And Rangan was going to do his damndest to make that happen.

The line moved. He shuffled forward, bags in hand, step by step. He came off the plane and there were uniformed officers waiting for him, guns holstered in their belts.

The lump in his chest grew thicker.

“ Senor Shankari ?” one asked.

“ Si ,” Rangan said.

“ Venga con nosotros, por favor ,” the officer said, gesturing. Come with us, please .

Rangan nodded. “ Si .”

They took his bags. One officer followed behind, while the other led him, down the jet way, past the line, down the concourse of the airport, to immigration, into his own line, where his passport was stamped, then out, through a customs line that seemed to exist just for him, where nothing was searched.

Through a door, a different door than everyone else was taking.

There was a crowd on the other side. Hundreds of people. A banner held high.

WELCOME RANGAN SHANKARI, HERO OF THE PEOPLE.

Then he saw faces. Faces he knew.

His father. His mother.

Then his mother’s arms were around him, gripping him tight, her face buried in his neck, crying.

His father’s arms were around him too and his voice was in Rangan’s ear. “We’re so proud of you, son.”

Bobby was in his mind. Alfonso was in his mind. Tyrone was in his mind. They were all in his mind, all embracing him with their minds. And wrapping their arms around him where they could.

…learning to SAIL…

…and it’s SUNNY…

…coral is like HOUSES for little fish…

…PARENTS are here and we’re NOT GOING BACK WE’RE GOING TO SUE and you’re going to meet…

…we do lots of cool SCIENCE and COMPUTERS and…