I have to buy some gas off the plant manager before I can get back. The tank capacity is just under two gallons, so I toss him twenty bucks to make it square and then take the main road back to the smoldering remains of Brentwood. It's twice the distance as cutting through the woods, but it's a straight shot in fifth gear so I actually get back in half the time. Just in time to join the confusion.
The vortex chopper from before, and two others just like it, are being forced out of the sky by something I have never seen before. Something that looks like it should still be a concept on paper, not a physical craft zipping around before my eyes. It isn't just a newer and better vortex chopper; it's the next step in the evolution of military aircraft.
But whose military? Certainly not Blackburn's.
The mystery craft fires electromagnetic pulses at all three of Blackburn's vortex choppers, forcing each one of them to land in a storm of sparks. Land, not crash.
“How are they still able to fly?” I ask Snake, who is the only one left at the nursing home after Dexter and Red Tail left to help out at the hospital.
“It's a brand new form of targeted EMP called the
smart pulse
,” he says. “The mechanism can differentiate between various types of circuits, giving you the ability to fire a targeted pulse that can shut down the weapons and navigational systems but still leave the craft operational enough to land safely.”
“I've never heard of that.”
“No, it's not something you would ever read about in a white paper. That logic is still supposed to be at the drawing board. There are only a few people in the world who have the resources to build something like that in complete secrecy, not to mention the craft itself.” Snake turns to face me. “Bigsby?”
“With his own kind.”
Snake understands exactly what I mean. “Good. I never liked that kid.”
I am so focused on the aerial show that I haven't even noticed all the soldiers who have crept in around us. Soldiers everywhere, almost as if the entire town is under martial law. Only their gear isn't Blackburn gear. This gear is lighter and slimmer, more compact, and I'd be willing to bet even tougher. Something tells me I am looking at the next step in that as well.
It isn't until a few of them run past us to secure the Blackburn soldiers climbing out of the vortex choppers that I see the unmistakable G on their uniform. “Grumwell?”
“Jesus,” says Snake. “They did it. They really did it.”
“When did Grumwell get into the paramilitary security business?”
“That was always the next step in the doctrine, but no one ever thought they'd do it. And even if they did, we always figured we'd be right on top of it. Damn!”
“On top of whatâ¦what doctrine? Snake?!?”
But Snake's attention is not on me, and when I look up at the Grumwell aircraft and see the one solitary soldier rappelling down, neither is my own. A woman. That much is unmistakable. She doesn't come down haphazardly like Bigsby; this one lowers herself slowly, giving herself time to observe her surroundings and take it all in. It isn't trepidation, it's discretion.
She touches ground and removes her helmet to reveal the long dark hair braided underneath. More troops in the fancy new gear seem to emerge from out of nowhere, and now many of Blackburn's troops have turned their guns against their own, like they were sleepers for Grumwell the entire time. One Blackburn soldier puts his back to the grounded vortex chopper and fires a short burst of gunfire at Grumwell until a sonic burst drops not only him to the ground, but also the two soldiers on either side of him who had already surrendered.
That is the first and last of any resistance. Grumwell's troops now way outnumber Blackburn's. Blackburn has no choice but to surrender. But it's more than that. As I watch the others carefully, I realize it isn't just because they're outmanned and they know it. Judging by the actions of the ranking officers who have just gotten off their radios, it seems like they are under company orders to surrender.
“What the hell is going on?”
“You know, Carrion, I think we're about to find out.”
“Carrion?” The woman from Grumwell is about thirty meters away from Snake's whisper, but she hears us like she's standing right next to us. She turns to me. “Monsieur Nill,” she says in an accent worthy of the words
crème brûlée
. “My name is Sandrine.”
Of course it is. Who else would it be?
“I was hoping to meet you at the gaming parlor, but you slipped away from our mutual friend before I could get there.”
“What can I say? I'm not a fan of unauthorized detention.”
Sandrine smiles. “From the son of Martin Baxter?” She pronounces his name
Mar-teen
. “I would expect nothing less.”
All around us guns are dropped as Blackburn's soldiers get zip-cuffed.
“We'd like to thank you for your services,” she says.
“My services?”
Sandrine removes a device from her vest, something small like the size of those old serial-bus flash drives. “With all that's happened here, you haven't had the chance to check the news stream lately.”
Sandrine taps the device, and even Snake is taken aback by what we see.
An impossible burst of light shoots, nay
fires
from the tip and projects a flawless, cinema-sized hologram of the Grumwell logo into the air above the grounded vortex choppers. And I do mean flawless. The image density is as good as anything you'd see in a commercial theater, only this image isn't coming from a roomful of projecting equipment.
“Wow, I had no idea you could lens something so small!”
“Forget the optics,” says Snake. “How in the hell do you power something like that?”
At that moment, Snake and I are thinking the exact same thing. We want one. Not to useâwe want one to rip apart so we can see what's going on inside.
“Free City news stream,” Sandrine instructs the device. She doesn't even have to tell it where to route the audio. The device does that automatically. All of a sudden every speaker on every device within earshot delivers it. From the thin screens in people's hands to the PA systems on the vortex choppers, the sound comes from everywhere at once.
Now everyone's eyes are on the massively projected Free City news stream.
The first streamlet shows the very thing I never thought would ever happenâChristopher Blackburn wriggling his shoulders and shouting obscenities as he is hauled away in handcuffs. Likewise for the CEO of TerraAqua in the second streamlet, who is escorted from his office with his suit jacket over his head. The third streamlet covers what looks to be an emergency session of the Senate Subcommittee on Alliance Security, even though it's clear by the empty room that that meeting has ended. After that are several more streamlets covering the global takeover of Blackburn by the new Alliance security initiative known as
Grumwell Liberty
. All at once, all around the world, everything that previously belonged to Blackburn Limited is instantly acquired by Grumwell Liberty in what can only be called the ultimate hostile takeover.
“Is this us?” I ask. “Did we do this?”
“No,” Snake replies. “You don't build something like that overnight. This has been in the works for some time.”
“So you didn't know about it either?”
Snake shakes his head with equal parts amazement and disbelief. “We were so focused on staying one step ahead of Blackburn. Grumwell was ten steps ahead of us the entire time.”
It reminds me of chess. The player who thinks two moves ahead will often believe he's pulling ahead on material even as he walks a slow road to the inevitable checkmate. That player is us. We thought we were pulling ahead by getting this cargo to the Alliance Senate, but Grumwell had already captured the Senate from the inside.
Another streamlet pops up of Miles Tolan giving a press conference. Sandrine reaches into the light and swipes her fingers across the projection to expand the Tolan streamlet to full size.
“Integrated active motion sensor,” mutters Snake. “Light Projecting Display in an ultraportable form. You're basically looking at a giant transparent screen without the physical layer.”
Giant is an understatement. There is no question about it. This LPD technology will make all t-screens go the way of LCDs, and the CRTs before them. Even if it is just a prototype, just knowing it exists suddenly makes the thin screen in my backpack feel like a hunk of junk.
Miles Tolan. A graying gentleman in his late forties with eyes like black dots from a felt-tip marker. Hair slicked back. Beard trimmed close. Pinstripe suit pressed to perfection. The audio kicks in mid-sentence. “âthat we are all infuriated by the egregious and unconscionable actions of Blackburn Limited and TerraAqua. I am as angered as anyone by these deplorable actions. Blackburn, acting in collusion with TerraAqua, has not simply conspired to burn down North American suburbs to steal the water rights; they have conspired to commit acts of domestic terrorism against the citizens of this great Alliance. That means all citizensânot just the citizens living in these towns, but all of us. All of you and even myself. They have launched an all-out assault on the very citizens who form the backbone of this great continent.” Miles Tolan stops to shake his head
no
. “This cannot abide. Not now. Not ever. These actions must be answered for. There must be accountability.”
“Watch. He's about to paint Grumwell as the hero in all of this,” says Snake.
“How do you know that?”
“Just watch.”
Tolan continues. “I'm sure many of you, like myself, have watched with disgust as the allegations against Blackburn have amassed. Of late and for many years now. Allegations that Christopher Blackburn has, both personally and through his company, engaged in dealings that are in direct conflict with the best interests of the Alliance. Allegations that Blackburn has dealt with the Caliphate. Allegations that the very army contracted to defend this great Alliance has been selling its services to those who would do us harm. And I'm sure that many of you, like myself, have watched these scandals with a feeling of helplessness and despair, because what other choice did we have? Well, my fellow citizens, I am a very fortunate man. Fortunate enough to have the resources at my disposal that I could do something about it. Fortunate enough that I could build the solution. Fortunate enough that I can now offer you the choice we never had before.
“That choice is Grumwell Liberty, or what we like to call the
Fortress
. No longer will the North American Alliance be forced to subcontract the management of our most prized assetâour own security. Today, by unanimous vote of the Senate Subcommittee on Alliance Security, Grumwell Liberty has agreed to an unprecedented unilateral initiative to be the sole defenders of the North American Alliance. We will be the standing army that this great coalition so greatly deserves. As of today, there are no mercenaries. No guns for hire. As of today, the North American Alliance
is
the Fortress, and the Fortress
is
the North American Alliance. Witness today the largest nation-state in the world and the largest private enterprise in the world coming together as never beforeâintertwined like a double helix to form the DNA of a brand new global power structure. Witness today the birth of the Grumwell-Alliance Fortress.”
Cheers. In every streamlet, even all around us, people cheer.
“My god, they're taking over the whole thing,” I say.
“Now you see,” replies Snake.
“There is one more thing,” says Sandrine, who once again hears us through all the commotion with her combat-grade earpieces.
“There is just one more thing I would like to say,” continues Tolan as if on cue. “There is one person who deserves a great deal of recognition for bringing Blackburn and TerraAqua to justice. He's not one of our people here at Grumwell nor was he an inside man at Blackburn or TerraAqua. He's a young data runner by the name of Jack Nill. And through his efforts, even putting his own life in jeopardy to do it, young Mr. Nill was able to deliver the evidence that brought these actions to light. Jack, wherever you are, the Alliance owes you a debt of gratitude.”
It is a very strange thing to see yourself in cinema-sized dimensions, but that is exactly what happens when my Brentwood High yearbook picture fills the air above the vortex choppers, looming overhead like the mug shot of some fugitive on the lam. The only thing I can't figure out is what the hell he's talking about. I was carrying the evidence, yes, but it wasn't me who delivered it. “I don't get it,” I say. “I appreciate the credit, but he must know I had nothing to do with it.”
I see at once that Snake doesn't share my sentiment. Just the opposite. He closes his eyes and shakes his head.
“What?”
“It's not a favor,” says Snake. “You've just been burned. The one thing you absolutely need in order to be a data runner is anonymity. That was the most valuable asset you had, and he's just taken it away from you. Fame is like kryptonite to a data runner. You can't run cargo when everybody knows your face.”
I look up at the screen, at my face, at the grim smile on Tolan's, and for the first time I know what it is to walk in Martin Baxter's shoes. I know what it is to have the CEO of Grumwell sitting across from you playing the other side of the board. Miles Tolan. My opponent. The man who moves the pieces against me.
Sandrine kills the projection as the rest of Blackburn's soldiers are marched away. Most of them will probably be folded into Grumwell Liberty; but I'm sure a few of them, the loyalists, will be dealt with differently.
“Monsieur Nill,” she says. “Please inform Monsieur Baxter that Miles's offer to him still stands. There is nothing that has transpired here today that will be held against him if he chooses to come to us now.” She goes to leave, but before she does, turns back to me. “This goes for both of you,” she adds.