Brilliance. Part 17

ANN ARBOR, MIaIt was supposed to be a peaceful protest. A march by politically-conscious college kids on the Fourth of July.

It turned into a bloodbath.

Organized by All Together Now, a University of Michigan student group supporting equal rights for abnorms, the afternoon march drew several hundred students to protest the Monitoring Oversight Initiative. Most wore gold stars, a reference to the designation Jews were forced to wear in n.a.z.i Germany.

"Everything started fine," said Jenny Weaver, one of the march organizers. "Then we turned down Main, and they came out of nowhere."

According to witnesses, several dozen people wearing ski masks and wielding baseball bats attacked the protesters and proceeded to beat them brutally.

Weaver claims she and her co-organizer, Ronald Moore, were specific targets. She says that even after she dropped to the ground, they continued hitting her.

"One of them said, 'My brother was in New York.' Then his boot came down. That's the last thing I remember."

Ronald Moore died of his injuries before an ambulance could arrive. Weaver was rushed to the hospital, where she underwent eleven hours of emergency surgery. She is expected to survive, although her injuries are...

August 8, 2013

MICROCHIP BILL Pa.s.sES.

WASHINGTON, DCaThe Senate today pa.s.sed the Monitoring Oversight Initiative 73a27. The bill will proceed to the House of Representatives, where a vote is expected to take place within a month.

"Today is a great day for freedom," said Senator Richard Lathrup (R, Arkansas). "We have taken the first step toward protecting our way of life."

The controversial bill makes it mandatory for all gifted individuals to be implanted with a microscopic computer chip that acts as a tracking device, allowing governmental agencies to monitor their whereabouts.

While the legality of the measure is still hotly debated, the bill has found significant support that crosses party lines...

August 13, 2013

CNN.com

TERROR GROUP HACKS SITES, WARNS OF ATTACKS.

NEW YORK, NYaThis morning more than a dozen major online destinations were hacked, including social networks, online encyclopedias, major retailers, and this news agency.

Hackers replaced existing code with what appears to be a message from abnorm terrorist groups:

"All we want is equality. We want peace.

But we will not sit idle as you build concen-tration camps.

Call this a warning.

Heed it."

Asked to comment on the possible source, a spokesman for the Department of a.n.a.lysis and Response said...

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

In early September, six months after the explosion at the Leon Walras Exchange that claimed 1,143 lives, a Jaguar XKR maneuvered the abandoned streets of Chicago's warehouse district.

The pavement was cracked by the weight of 18-wheelers and the relentless cycle of Chicago winters. The sports car had a racing frame with tight suspension for maximum road-feel, and every chunk of broken asphalt vibrated through the driver's teeth. He rode slowly, steering around the worst of the potholes. Unconvincing rain dribbled on the windshield, too much to leave the wipers off but not enough to keep them from catching with a squeak on every backswing.

He pa.s.sed a series of bland brick buildings screened behind rusting fences. A few blocks north the warehouses had been converted into ma.s.sive party palaces, the douchy kind of clubs favored by the douchy kind of clubbers. Here, though, the buildings mostly retained their original function. Mostly.

He rolled over a set of long-abandoned railroad tracks, ku-chunk ku-chunk, past a graffitied Dumpster, to a two-story building of faded orange brick with a water tower on top. The fence was topped with razor wire, and a security camera stared down. After a moment the gate slid open. He pulled through and parked next to a polished Town Car with tinted windows.

The gravel crunched under his shoes, and he could smell rain and garbage, and under it, faint, a hint of the river. He took a plain black briefcase from the trunk and left his pistol in its place.

A tortured squeak of metal came from behind, a door opening. A guy in a track suit watched him without expression.

Inside, the warehouse was a wide-open s.p.a.ce, cold and unfinished. The light that seeped from the high windows only made the shadows darker. Stacks of unmarked crates took up about half the floor s.p.a.ce. A cherry-red Corvette was parked near the roll doors. Someone's legs stuck out from beneath it, one foot tapping to the beat of a radio playing cla.s.sic rock.

Track Suit said, "I need to check you."

"No," he smiled, "you don't."

Track Suit was one of Zane's muscle guys, not important, but not used to being contradicted. "I know you're the boss's new pet, but-"

"Listen carefully." Still smiling. "You try to pat me down, I'm going to break your arm."

The man's eyes narrowed. "You serious with that?"

"Yep."

Track Suit took a step forward, favoring his left leg.

"Joey." The mechanic was out from under the car. A smudge of grease stained one cheek. "He's okay. Besides, he's not kidding about your arm."

"But-"

"Take him to Zane."

Joey hesitated for a moment, then turned and said, "This way."

"This way" turned out to be to the back of the warehouse, where a metal staircase ran to a loft. Joey moved heavily, grunting as though each step was a task to cross off. A short hallway ran to a door, and Joey knocked. "Mr. Zane? He's here."

It had once been a foreman's office, with windows that looked not out at the world but in and down to the warehouse floor. Since then it had been cleaned up and decorated. Twin sofas sat atop a lush oriental rug. The lighting was tasteful and low. A tri-d ran CNN, the volume muted.

Robert Zane had come from the street, and neither the Lucy Veronica cashmere sweater or the two-hundred-dollar haircut could change that. He radiated an ineffable sense of dangerous slickness, and around his eyes and in his posture there always lingered a hint of the days when he'd been bad old Bobby Z. "Mr. Eliot."

"Mr. Zane."

"Drink?"

"Sure."

Joey closed the door behind them as Zane walked to a sidebar. "Scotch okay?"

"Fine." The rug was thick beneath his shoes. He set the briefcase flat on the table, then sat down. The couch was too soft. He leaned back with his hands in his lap.

"You know, I wasn't sure you were serious. What you were offering? n.o.body can get hold of that kind of newtech." Zane took ice cubes from a mini-fridge and dropped them into the gla.s.ses, then poured two inches into each. His movements as he walked back were light and balanced, a fighter's posture. He pa.s.sed a gla.s.s and then sat on the couch opposite, legs crossed and arms outstretched, every bit the man of leisure. "But here you are. I guess I shouldn't have doubted, huh?"

"Doubt's good. Makes you careful."

"Amen to that." Zane lifted the gla.s.s in a toast. On the tri-d, a reporter stood in front of the White House. The ribbon at the bottom read, BILL TO MICROCHIP GIFTED Pa.s.sES HOUSE 301a135; PRESIDENT WALKER EXPECTED TO SIGN. The reporter's breath steamed in the cold air, rippling toward them, artifacting a little where it reached the limits of the projection field. "So."

"So."

Zane nudged the briefcase with his toe. "You mind?"

"It's your case."

The other man smiled, leaned forward, and thumbed the locks. They gave satisfying pops as they opened. Zane lifted the lid. For a moment he just stared. Then he blew a breath and shook his head. "G.o.dd.a.m.n. Ripping off a DAR lab. You don't mind my saying, you are one crazy son of a b.i.t.c.h."

"Thanks."

"How did you pull it off?"

Eliot shrugged.

"Okay, sure, professional secret. Let me rephrase that. Any trouble?"

-a finger of flame shattering the gla.s.s, shards raining sparkling down, the squealing of the alarms lost behind the roar of another explosion, the truck's gas tank going- "Nothing that will come back on you."

"G.o.dd.a.m.n," Zane repeated. "I don't know where you came from, but I'm sure glad you're here. People can say what they like about your kind, you get the job done." He closed the case slowly, almost gingerly. "I'll have the money transferred, same as before. That okay?"

"How'd you like to keep it?"

Zane had been about to sip his scotch, but the words caught him off guard. He froze, the muscles in his shoulders going tense. Dealings in the criminal world were a dance as regimented as a waltz. Everybody knew the steps, and any improvisation was cause for alarm. Slowly, Zane lowered his gla.s.s and set it on the table with a faint click. "What does that mean?"

"It means I'll give you those," gesturing at the case, "and you keep your money."

"And you get?"

"A favor." Tom Eliot leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, a confessional pose, man-to-man. "My name isn't Tom Eliot. It's Nick Cooper."

"Okay."

"What I'm about to tell you..." He paused, held it, sighed. "Trust isn't a big part of our business, but I think I can trust you, and I need your help. You know I'm an abnorm."

"Of course."

"What you didn't know is that I used to work for the DAR."

"So that's how you were able to rob their lab."

"No, actually. I'd never been to one before. The labs are on the a.n.a.lysis side. I was response. Equitable Services."

Zane almost controlled his reaction.

"Yeah. We don't exist. Except, of course, we do. Or they do. I left under...well, being gifted at an agency that hunted my kind caused some friction. The specifics don't matter. What does matter is that once I left, I became a bad guy in their eyes."

"I know something about being a bad guy." Zane smiled.

"That's why I think I can trust you. See, they've named me a target. They're trying to kill me. And sooner or later, they'll succeed."

"And you want me to...what? Take on the DAR?"