Written in Fire

CHAPTER 6

Normally she liked the train. It was something about the dissonance between the seeming stillness of the ride and the dizzy blur of the outside world. The juxtaposition was comforting—symbolic, perhaps, of the way she chose to live. But today all of Shannon’s focus was on one of her oldest friends, and whether she would be able to kill him.

She’d been back in the Holdfast for more than a week, watering her fake plant and staring out the windows of her unlived-in apartment, when Erik had asked her to come see him. Her studio was in Newton and he lived in Tesla, but when the world’s richest man called, one hopped, and so she’d gotten on a glider and met him that afternoon.

His idea had been intriguing.

No, sweetie. Learning a favorite author has a new book is intriguing. A restaurant you’ve never tried is intriguing. Nick’s smile when you shot the guard who had the drop on him was intriguing.

This is something else.

“Statistically poor,” Epstein had said. “83.7 percent chance of failure to capture John Smith alive. 77.3 percent chance of failure to kill him. 65.1 percent chance of situation reversal, possibly resulting in your death.”

“You know, you and John are a lot alike,” Shannon had said.

“Negative. We comprise dramatically different personality matrices—”

“Maybe,” Shannon said. “But one thing you have in common. You both really suck at pitching me jobs.” It was only the second time she’d met Erik, the real Erik, not his brother Jakob, who was the public face of the man. The first time had been nine days ago, when she delivered a drugged and broken Soren Johansen to him. Cooper had asked her to, believing that Soren might give them leverage or information against Smith; at the time, Shannon wasn’t so sure of that, but now she wondered.

Regardless, Erik didn’t react to her jab, just slouched there, his face lit in flickers from the holographs that hung in the air around them: a topographical chart of the price of pork bellies plotted against incidents of terrorism, images of a rainstorm in the South China Sea, vector maps of bullets fired from various weapons, a time-lapse of moss creeping up a tree, news footage of a limo burning—the new president’s, Ramirez, and wasn’t it just the way that the first female prez in history nearly gets blown up two weeks after swearing the oath? This inner sanctum was a subterranean space more akin to a planetarium than an office, and while she had tried to play cool, it was hard not to be overwhelmed by the sheer lunatic volume of information. “Why would I agree to do something that is almost certainly going to get me killed?”

“The situation is increasingly fluid,” Epstein had said in a voice whiny with frustration. “Patterns rely on data, but data is shifting too quickly. Impossible to sort it, parse it, specify it. But statistically, an attack upon the Holdfast is a near certainty.”

“And you think handing over John Smith to the government will prevent that?”

“Prevent, no. Delay.”

She’d sucked air through her teeth, looked at the schematics of the light rail train that hung in front of her. “John will know I’m not with him anymore. Why would he agree to meet?”

“Temptation. Significant stakes offered.”

“What stakes?”

“Joining. Me. You. All of us, together.”

That would be a temptation. John was his own revolution, and based on the shit state of the world, doing quite well. But how much more effective could he be with Epstein behind him?

“I’m not sure I’m willing. It’s one thing to cross him, another to try to kill him.”

“Preferably capture.”

“In order to turn him over to people who will kill him.”

“Previous subtleties of situation are now irrelevant. There are only two positions. For war, against war. Not choosing is choosing.”

It was a fact she hadn’t been able to dispute, which was how she’d ended up here, on the LRT that circled Tesla, a magnetic train without sound or vibration, the only evidence of motion the city blowing by outside. Shannon looked out the window and considered what it meant that John wanted a war. He was the greatest strategic mind alive, a man who thought not five steps but five years ahead, and if he wanted a war, it was because he believed he could win it.

That was a very sobering thought indeed. Brilliants were outnumbered 99 to 1. Any victory would involve oceans of blood.

Focus, Shan. You’re already outmatched. Don’t be distracted, too.

You don’t know if your ace in the hole is actually an ace—or even if it’s in the hole.

And John is supposed to board at the next stop.

Normally, being on a job made the colors of the day a little brighter and the taste of the air a little sweeter. But now all she felt was nervous.

The train glided into the Ashbury station without a sound. A handful of passengers got off, others climbed on. Midday, and the car was nearing capacity. Shannon had one boot propped up on the opposite seat, gave tiny headshakes to the people who eyed it. She scanned the people boarding, those navigating the rows. Two teens flirted. A young woman hummed softly to a newborn. An old lady dozed, her head rocked back at an awkward angle. A man in a cowboy hat moved down the aisle. The brim was pulled low to hide his face, but he had John’s physique. Shannon flexed her fingers, ready to slide into character, only the man walked right past her. Shit.

When she looked back at the opposite seat, someone was sitting in it. A boy, probably sixteen, staring right at her. Shannon’s boot was still on the seat, his legs on either side of it.

Well, aren’t you slick.

“Listen, I’m flattered, but I’m waiting for someone,” she said.

The boy said nothing. But now there was a d-pad in his hand that hadn’t been there a moment before. Without a word, he held it out to her.

Her heart fell. Of course. Well, it had been a long shot. She took the pad, which glowed to life.

“Hello, Shannon,” John Smith said on the screen. “I have to say, I’m disappointed.”

“You’re disappointed? At least I showed up. I’m here. Where are you?”

“I’m not in New Canaan right now,” he said. “Which is probably for the best, since I see you have some new friends. I count six of Epstein’s best tactical assets, including the fellow in the hat you thought was me. I suppose they’re just commuting?”

“They’re here for protection,” she said. “We didn’t know what to expect—”

“Stop,” he said. “This is me.”

She took a deep breath, let it out. “Okay.”

“We’re going to chat for a minute. But first you need to see something. Colin?”

The boy opposite moved in a blur, his hand flying into and out of his pocket. When he opened it, she saw a small cylinder topped with a button. Her stomach twisted.

“In the interest of time, let me dispense with your thoughts. No, you cannot move faster than Colin, nor can you shift without him noticing. He’s gifted and very, very good. And yes, LRT station scanners are attuned to conventional explosives, so no, Colin couldn’t have boarded with any. Which is why half an hour ago he injected himself with radio-triggered explosive nanites. Individually they’re not much, but when they self-organize into a lattice in a host body, they pack a punch. The blast will take out most of this car.”

She stared at Colin, took in his sunken cheeks, his fervent eyes, the sweat at his temples and throat. “Why?”

“I’d ask you the same question. We go back a long way.”

“It wasn’t easy. But I don’t want a war, and you do.”

“I don’t want a war, Shannon; I have one.”

“So why waste time talking to me?”

On the screen, John sighed. “On the off chance you were telling the truth about Epstein’s offer. I thought there was a chance that he’d come around and realized we’re on the same side. There are only two, after all, brilliants and straights. All the rest is window dressing, and sooner or later the whole world is going to come around to my point of view.”

“You mean you’re going to force it to.”

“No one knows for sure why the Neanderthals went extinct,” John said. “Some scientists say climate, some think it was direct conflict with Homo sapiens, others believe it was finite resources. Whatever the reason, the fact is that there was a species on the planet that was better able to survive. Simple as that. The gifted are the new order, Shannon. Conflict is inevitable. I’m just speeding things up a bit. And guaranteeing victory.”

“Nice history lesson,” she said. “But all you’ve done is turn the rest of the world against us. We’re going to get creamed, John.”

He laughed. “I don’t think so.”

She stared at her friend and longtime compatriot. A man she had fought and killed for, back when she believed all he wanted was equality. A man who had evaded capture for years, despite being the most wanted man in America, and who had built up a revolutionary army while he did it. A man who beat three chess grandmasters at the same time when he was fourteen.

She’d been nervous all along. Suddenly she was afraid. And not for herself.

“Anyway, I’m sorry it’s happening this way. I hate killing brilliants, and I consider you a friend. But you’re on the other side, and you’re dangerous.”

Shannon felt her pulse kick up, her hand start to shake. She looked at Colin. “Don’t do this. You’re just a boy, don’t—”

“He’s a holy warrior,” Smith said, “ready to sacrifice himself for the greater good.”

Colin didn’t quite smile, but the words filled him with light, a feverish glow that strained at his pores and spilled out his eyes and made his thumb quiver on the trigger. He wanted to do it, she saw. He believed he was following a prophet, believed it with teenage certainty.

“John, there are civilians,” she said, careful to keep her voice low. If anyone overheard and started to panic, Colin would undoubtedly press the button. “Innocents. Across the aisle there’s a woman with a baby.”

“I keep telling you. This is war. There will be blood. How can you not get that?”

He’s not bluffing.

Time to see if that ace is worth anything.

“I do, John. And I have something to show you.” Very slowly, hyperconscious of Colin’s twitching thumb, she took out her own d-pad and activated it. Turned it so that he could see the video.

A plain white room, surgical and too bright.

A tray lined with glittering instruments: scalpels, pliers, wires.

A table with a man strapped on it.

“Soren?” John said incredulously.

“Thought he was dead, huh? I’m told he has a T-naught of 11.2. A second of pain to us is more than eleven to him. Can you imagine?”

There was a long moment of silence. When John spoke again, his voice was thick. “I was wrong. I’m not disappointed. I’m disgusted. This is beneath you.”

“I agree. It’s not me doing this. It’s you.”

Shannon sat perfectly still. Every cell in her body screamed. She could smell her own sweat. The lives of everyone in the train car depended on two things: how much John really cared for his friends—and how valuable he believed killing her was.

“You’ll let him go?”

She laughed. “Not a chance. But you’ll notice that he hasn’t been touched, not a mark on him—apart from Nick kicking his ass, of course. But Epstein patched him up, and they’ve kept him humanely. So how about Colin puts away his remote, gets off the train, and we all go on with our lives?”

Smith’s face revealed nothing, but she could imagine the calculations behind it. Weighing costs and benefits. She had no doubt that he would sacrifice Soren to agony and burn everyone on this train if he believed it was worthwhile. Out the windows, the scenery began to slow. They were coming into the next station. If he triggers the bomb there, even more people will die.

“John,” she said. “I’m not that important.”

Across the aisle, the baby let loose a squeal.

“Fine. Colin, you did well. Get off. If anyone tries to stop you, blow the train.”

The boy seemed almost disappointed, but he put his hand back in his pocket and rose swiftly. As the train glided to a stop, he vanished in the crowd at the door.

“I misjudged you, Shannon. How does it feel to get dirty?”

“Lousy,” she said. “But I’ll just have to comfort myself with the thought that I saved all these people’s lives.” She clicked disconnect before he could reply.

And buried her head in her hands.