Ramez Naam - Apex

Tuesday, 5.31am, Washington DC

American News Network

Polls and analysts gave wildly differing assessments of the likely outcome in the race for the Presidency late Monday night. A barrage of scandals battered the campaign of President John Stockton and bolstered challenger Stanley Kim, but may see their impact muted by the record setting number of early votes cast in this election.

Senator Kim made a videocast appeal to voters on Monday.

“My fellow Americans, this is a democracy! In a democracy, the candidate chosen by the majority is the one elected to office. It’s clear that today, knowing what we now know, a majority of you would cast your votes for me. If you did vote early, know that the constitution and the laws of the land are clear: your vote is not actually cast until election day, even if you’ve sent it in before then. There is still time to change your vote. And if you decide to do so, and you’re denied that right for any reason, we ask only that you register that fact at the net site that follows…”

The Stockton campaign in turn, has denied the allegations, saying that…

Barb tapped the slate to turn it off, then stepped out of the car – her personal car this time, and walked down the sidewalk towards Town Hall. She took a turn inside the door towards the West Room. She stopped outside to start her phone recording and stuffed it into her shirt pocket. Then she stepped inside, into her designated polling place.

The time was 6.01am.

Jenny Collins was working the table. Bill Banks was in uniform, providing security. No one else was there.

Barb walked up to Jenny.

“My name is Barbara Ann Richmond, and I want to change my vote.”

21

Goodbyes

Tuesday 2040.11.06

Rangan said goodbye to the boys in the hidden basement of a farm supply store on the outskirts of Palmyra. There were tears. He almost couldn’t bear it.

He hugged them all tight, said as much as he could.

I’ll see you in a few days,he sent.

But he didn’t sound convincing even to himself.

Then he left them in the care of Laura and Janet, and started the slow, painful ascent of the narrow stairs.

At 7.42pm, sweating bullets, gasping in pain, he was there in the darkened alley, and the nondescript car pulled into the other end, as he’d been told it would.

His driver went by “Oscar”. That wasn’t his name, he was quick to tell Rangan. That was just what Rangan should call him. Oscar was tall, lean, freckled and red-haired, younger than Rangan, and twitchy. He was wearing a black hoodie, not unlike the one Rangan had been loaned. He spoke with a Jersey accent.

“Lie down in the back. Pull the blanket over you, the greyish one. Don’t lift your head up, ever. If you can see out the windshield, the cameras can see you. Got it?”

“Got it.”

Oscar drove, or the car did. Rangan wasn’t sure. Miles passed. The motion went from start and stop to the fast, steady flow of a freeway.

“Shouldn’t I be in the trunk or something?” Rangan asked.

“T-rays,” Oscar replied. “Terahertz scanners. See right through the trunk. Nothin’ more suspicious than a man in the trunk.”

Rangan noodled on that.

“So how do you know–” he started.

“I don’t know anybody!” Oscar snapped. “And neither do you! Knowing people gets ’em killed, OK? You wanna do those people that helped you a favor? You forget about ’em. You ever get in touch with them again? You ever mention their names? You’re killin’ ’em. Literally. So I don’t know ’em. You don’t know ’em. And you sure as hell don’t know me.”

Rangan shut up for kilometers after that, just staring at the ceiling of the car, trying to be grateful for the help Oscar was giving him, trying to take the things he was saying to heart.

“So where are we going?” he finally asked.

Oscar said nothing.

“It’s not like I’m gonna tell anybody,” he went on. “Hell, I don’t know anybody, right?” He forced a chuckle.

“Baltimore,” came the eventual reply.

“Baltimore?” Rangan was surprised. That was north of here. Cuba was the other way. “Shouldn’t we be headed south?”

Oscar took his time in replying. “We go where there’s a boat we trust, that’ll take you. You’re a hot commodity. The Cubans want you. But it’s a hell of a risk for anyone transporting you.”

“So why Cuba?” Rangan spoke up to the ceiling of the car.

“Cuba’s still shit poor,” Oscar said. “They’re way behind the US in industry. They’re not big enough to be another China or even another Mexico. But if they can say ‘yes’ to tech the US and all the other rich countries say no to… maybe that gives them an edge. Lets them move ahead in ways we won’t. There’s a lot of funky biotech down there. Now maybe neurotech too.”

Rangan pondered that.

“Plus maybe they like the idea of refugees from America heading down to Havana. Good propaganda.” Oscar laughed.

Then the man’s tone changed. “Shit.”

“What?” Rangan asked, his body suddenly tensing.

“Fucking Stockton,” Oscar said. “He’s going to fucking win.”

Rangan exhaled, feeling himself relax. Not the cops then.

A woman’s voice filled the car. A news broadcast.

“…ANN is confirming that President John Stockton has carried the key battleground states of Ohio and Illinois. That adds to New York, Pennsylvania, and Florida.”

“That’s right, Jane,” said a different woman’s voice. “In fact, as we can see on this map, the only states that Stanley Kim has carried thus far are Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Maryland, and Vermont. Despite Senator Kim’s commanding lead in today’s polls, President Stockton has captured twenty-two of the twenty-six states where voting has closed, and amassed almost one hundred and ninety of the two hundred and seventy electoral votes he needs to retain the White House…”

“Fucking piece of shit,” Oscar exclaimed, silencing the broadcast.

Rangan said nothing. Not my country any more, he thought to himself.

They drove in silence. Then Rangan felt the car slow abruptly, heard Oscar swear again under his breath.

“What?” he asked, his body tensing once more. Bad election results didn’t apply the brakes.

“Traffic jam,” Oscar said. “Accident up ahead.”

“Accident?” Rangan asked, incredulously.

“Fucking hell,” Oscar said. “I’m getting us off the friggin’ freeway. Someone blew up a goddamn car.”

“What?” Rangan wanted to sit up, wanted to see what the hell was going on, but Oscar’s admonition rang in his mind. If you can see the windshield, the cameras can see you.

But… someone blew up a car?

He felt the car swerve hard to the right, brake, then accelerate briskly as it or Oscar moved them across lanes and towards an exit. Then they were moving smoothly again, banking on what he was sure was an exit ramp, banking, banking.

“We’re on the outskirts of DC, now,” Oscar said. “We’ll take surface streets past the accident, then back onto the freeway.”

Rangan grunted. He felt the city streets from the car’s pattern of motion. Driving. Stopping at lights. Turning. Driving. Stopping. Turning.

And then he heard Oscar exclaim again. “What the hell?”

The car came to an abrupt stop.

“Oh, Jesus,” Oscar said. “It’s a fucking riot.”

22

No Concessions

Tuesday 2040.11.06

Pryce smiled and mingled backstage at John Stockton’s re-election party.

She wanted to be anywhere but here.

She was part of the administration, not part of the campaign. But the President had insisted that she travel with him on this trip, as on so many others.