Suddenly the blank desktop before Alexa filled with a glowing three-dimensional representation of a bullet-shaped room in minute detail. A caption glowed in one corner: “Hibernity—Cell R483—Prisoner: Grady, Jon.”
Alexa spread her hands and expanded the size of the surveillance model, spinning it to bring into view a tiny Jon Grady—nude, shorn, with black fuzz of some type covering his scalp.
“What is this?”
“Jon Grady’s cell in Hibernity—the complete interrogation record.”
She stared in concern at Grady awakening on what appeared to be an examination table. Realizing Grady had spent several years in Hibernity, she made hand gestures that sped up the projection, watching as very quickly the scene became much more horrifying.
She brought the hologram back to normal speed as cephalopod-like tentacles were force-feeding Grady as he screamed and struggled.
“Why are subjects force-fed? Why is he unclothed—and why is the cell empty?”
“The cells are completely self-contained to prevent prisoners from interacting with one other. All human bodily functions are superseded by the interrogatory AI.”
“Interrogatory?” She zoomed in on his head and the anguish there. “Why is it forcing—”
“Because Jon Grady resists domination, Alexa.”
She considered the hologram for a moment and then set it forward at many times normal speed. Slowing the imagery occasionally to hear and see the action in real time. As the weeks of surveillance imagery passed before her eyes, Alexa became at first horrified—and then almost physically ill. But one thing became clear:
Everything she had ever believed about the BTC was a lie.
Her mind again glazed over as the horrors unfolded before her. But the absence was no longer absence—it was hyperawareness. She finally realized.
They had deceived her. They had raised her from childhood to believe that what they were doing was saving humanity, but as she saw Grady crawling around his cell, screaming in agony, his entrails spilling out of him—this could not be part of that purpose. It must not be. Because if it was, then they had to reevaluate the very reason for their existence.
As the months of imagery and hours of real time passed, an idea began to form in her mind: Someone had lied to her.
Hedrick.
Alexa watched the muted imagery as Jon Grady wept in hopelessness. The AI’s tentacles entwined him—as his memories played on a wall moments before they were destroyed.
Tears rolled down Alexa’s face in the dim light of the hologram booth. But she did not fade away in absence. She felt the emotional trauma. She wanted to feel it. For once to know the truth.
Yet Grady continued to resist. For all their technology, the BTC could not beat him.
Varuna’s voice came to her. “Now do you see, Alexa?”
“Yes. I see . . .”
She was a prisoner, too—her very DNA the property of the BTC.
CHAPTER 21
Escalation
Denise Davis strode through the FBI’s Chicago field office with her right arm in a sling, bruises and cuts on her face.
Thomas Falwell kept pace beside her. “I don’t understand, Denise.”
“They’ve compromised our communications. Even our supervisors follow their instructions without knowing. It’s because they’re inside our computer and telecom network.”
“Don’t tell me you’re starting to believe this BTC stuff?”
She gave him an ambivalent look. “You weren’t there, Thomas. This Alexa woman damned near killed me with her bare hands, without breaking a sweat.”
“Nobody likes losing a fight—especially you. I get it, but—”
“It’s not just the fight. I can’t even tell you the other things I saw. You wouldn’t believe me—just believe I’m telling the truth.”
“And the twins—who Grady claims are clones?”
“I know it sounds crazy. But have faith in me.”
“And you’re determined to go through with Grady interviewing Cotton?”
“If I can get the SAIC to buy in, yes.”
He tugged her good arm to stop her and spoke quietly but intensely. “You realize this is a career-making case? That playing into this crazy BTC conspiracy story will ruin—”
“You weren’t there, Thomas.”
“I’ve worked ten years on this case, Denise. A big chunk of my life. I got demoted for it. And now you’re going to start saying that Cotton isn’t a bomber—that Grady isn’t dead. That maybe his other victims aren’t dead.”
She met his gaze. “The possibility needs to be investigated.”
Falwell glanced just ahead of them, toward the corner office of the Special Agent in Charge, where an admin was talking on the phone. “And you trust Bollings?”
“I don’t think the BTC has people inside—I think they eavesdrop on our systems. Technology is their thing. Besides, I need to get the SAIC’s buy-in for the Cotton interview—and I need him to be there as a witness.”
Falwell held up his hands in submission. “It’s your career.” He moved away, back toward the elevators.
“Thomas, you’ll be on the lookout for Grady where I said, right?”
He nodded grimly. “You know you can always count on me, Denise. Just be careful.”
Davis watched him go. She couldn’t really blame him. They had a slam-dunk case against Cotton. Cotton had confessed to everything. Of course Cotton wanted a trial for publicity, but in some ways so did the FBI.
She wondered about Cotton some more but then decided to march ahead. Davis smiled at a young male admin assistant as he hung up his phone. “Denise Davis to see Agent Bollings.”
He nodded. “He’s expecting you . . .” The admin got up to knock on his boss’s door, leaned in for a moment, then moved aside. “Go on in.”
Davis entered and was surprised to see another man, a big red-faced guy in a suit sitting on SAIC Bollings’s sofa.
“Close the door, Denise.”
She did so, keeping an eye on the unknown man.
The SAIC sat on the corner of his desk and gestured to the man. “Denise, this is Bill McAllen, the deputy secretary of Homeland Security.”
A wave of surprise rolled over her. “Good to meet you, sir.”
The man stood much taller than her and extended his large hand. “Call me Bill.”
The SAIC grabbed his laptop. “I’m going to step out and get some coffee, Denise. Give you and Deputy Secretary McAllen a chance to talk alone.”
“Yes, sir.” Davis watched him go with some alarm. The door closed again behind him.
The deputy secretary motioned toward a chair across from the sofa, and he sat back down. “Don’t be worried by my presence here.”
Davis sat uncertainly. “Okay.”
“I read your report about what happened in New York. But it seemed to be incomplete.”
“How so, sir?”
“It seemed to have the actual events missing.”
She stared at him.
“It’s been brought to my attention that you’ve been investigating something called the Bureau of Technology Control. Is that correct?”
Davis said nothing.
“You’re wise to be cautious. The BTC is not to be taken lightly.”
Now she felt a wave of shock. “Then Grady is telling the truth?”
“I don’t know all that he said to you in New York, but—”
“Clones. Fusion. Immortality. That they’re hoarding advanced technology.”
McAllen nodded grimly. “Yes. This prison Grady told you about—this Hibernity . . .”
“He said he escaped. Showed me holographic video from a tiny device he carried—it contained statements from prisoners. People who had apparently made breakthrough inventions.”
“
Did Mr. Grady say where this black site prison was located?”
“He didn’t know, but the device contained some sort of tracker that could lead him back to it. He just needed technical assistance to read it.”
“Where is Mr. Grady now, Denise?”
She hesitated.
“I know. You’re worried, and you have no reason to trust me.” He leaned forward, meeting her gaze. “But look at me. I’m a sixty-two-year-old father of three, five grandchildren, and I bowl. There’s only one thing that I care about, Agent Davis, and that’s leaving a world worth living in for my children and grandchildren. If this BTC is hoarding innovations that could improve the lives of billions of people—and if they’re using this technology to augment their own power—well, then we need to stop them, don’t we? Are we agreed on that?”
Davis laughed slightly. It seemed ridiculous, but looking at the large, blunt man, she really did believe him. “I don’t know where Grady is at the moment, Deputy Secretary, but I know where he will be.”
“We need him. If we can find that prison—free those people—that will go a long way toward righting a grievous wrong. Now, you’re trying to get an interview with Richard Cotton. Why?”
“Because Grady says Cotton is a BTC agent. The bombings were actually the means for concealing their kidnapping program—at least here in the U.S.”
McAllen raised his eyebrows and smiled. “You have been busy.”
“Grady’s convinced that if Cotton sees him, Cotton will realize that the authorities know the truth. He thinks Cotton has some sort of deal with the BTC, but if Cotton knows we’ve changed the terms—hidden him away—he might cooperate instead. Cut a deal with us in exchange for what he knows about the BTC.”
McAllen nodded. “If that’s the case, we need to move him. Cotton isn’t secure where he is. We need to put Grady and Cotton under serious protection, and then let’s hope we can learn enough from them about the BTC to help us dismantle it.”
She frowned. “You want to move Cotton? Where?”
“Florence ADMAX in Colorado. Supermax federal prison. We’ve got most of our high-level terrorists there.”
“And the trial?”
“We’ll need to postpone—Richard Cotton is apparently not a bomber.”
She nodded grimly. Years of work . . . but then, this was even more serious. “We shouldn’t wait to put Grady in front of Cotton, though.”
“Agreed. They’ll have plenty of time to talk en route. Make sure the press doesn’t get wind of Cotton’s transfer. We’ll do it in the middle of the night.”
“But won’t transferring him be risky—with the BTC watching?”
McAllen let a sly grin escape.
• • •
A surveillance hologram of McAllen and Davis played across Graham Hedrick’s desk as Morrison and several of his sons looked on.
McAllen’s small three-dimensional form grinned. “With what we have in mind, Richard Cotton will be more secure in transit than he is right now.”
Hedrick swept the hologram away with his hand and stared at his blank desktop. He spoke without looking up. “Mr. Morrison, this feud with the government has gone on long enough. Now they’re searching for Hibernity, publicizing our existence, attempting to turn Cotton against us. And Jon Grady is making it even worse. We need to make progress on gravity amplification and soon. We do not have time for this.”
Morrison nodded. “Certain people need to learn memorable lessons.”
Hedrick studied him. The old commando clearly relished the idea of schooling his old leadership. Hedrick nodded. “You’re right.” He cleared his throat. “Tech level nine.”
Morrison and his sons grinned lustily.
“Let our enemies see just how sharp cutting-edge technology can be. Finish this, sweep aside anyone or anything in your path, and bring me Jon Grady—alive. We need his peculiar mind.”
“And Cotton?”
Hedrick considered this. “Public figure or not, if he’s given any information to the government, find out what—then eliminate him. If he’s innocent, take him into custody.”
“The others?”
“Examples should be made.” Hedrick hesitated. “Exothermic decomposition. Make sure there are witnesses.”
Morrison turned to his progeny. “You heard the man.”
They nodded and moved swiftly, eagerly out the doors as Morrison trailed more slowly behind them. He was still in the office as the doors closed, and he turned back toward Hedrick.
Hedrick was gazing out his windows at Mount Fuji, its snowcap gleaming in the hyperrealistic distance. “What is it, Mr. Morrison?”
“Alexa is AWOL. I thought you should know.”
Hedrick sat in silence for several moments, but then he picked up a complex, geared Victorian clock and hurled it against the wall—where it shattered spectacularly.
“When are you going to deal with her?”
Hedrick turned to glare at him, but he couldn’t withstand Morrison’s disgusted expression.
“She disobeys you, and you deliberately try not to see.”
“Enough! You have a job to do, go—”
“Your feelings for her have blinded you. It puts the entire organization in danger.”
“You don’t need to—”
“She illicitly accessed Grady’s Hibernity interrogation records.”
Hedrick’s face dropped. “What? How?”
“She circumvented network restrictions—we’re still trying to figure out how. It appears she might be using her charms on more than just you.”
Hedrick turned another warning look in Morrison’s direction, but it melted away as he realized the implications. “How much did she see?”
“Everything.”
Hedrick put his head in his hands and collapsed in his chair. “God.” He sat like that for several moments before leaning back. “I didn’t want her to know. The world is an ugly place.”
“There’s more.”
Hedrick closed his eyes in resignation.
“In reviewing the breach, the AIs noticed that Grady’s interrogation hologram loops after a few months.”
Hedrick’s eyes opened. “It loops? What do you mean it loops?”
“Somebody’s tampered with it. And not here.”
“You mean at Hibernity?”
Morrison nodded. “It looks like numerous systems there have been compromised. The inmates might be running the asylum.”
Fear stole across Hedrick’s face. “My God . . . Chattopadhyay.”
“I told you, he’s dead. And the moment we get the chance, we’ll open his cell and confirm it.”
Hedrick gazed at the screens all around him. “This entire project is coming apart. If they escape our grip—”
“No one’s escaping anything. And after I take care of this problem, if the civilian authorities want a war, then we’ll make damn sure we win it.”
Hedrick’s breathing calmed. “I can always rely on you, Mr. Morrison.”
Morrison moved to depart. “I’m posting guards around you. See no one—especially her.”
“What are you doing to do?”
“What I should have done long ago.”
CHAPTER 22
Interception
Special Agent Denise Davis held Richard Louis Cotton’s elbow firmly as she escorted him out of the parking garage elevator and into the subbasement of the Dirksen Federal Building. Her way was lined by dozens of FBI tactical officers in body armor, with assault weapons slung across their chests. They scanned sight lines for trouble as they waved her and the escort detail onward, toward the open doors of a waiting armored FBI transport van. It was just one in a line of identical unmarked escort vans standing by.
Cotton shuffled along in leg irons, his hands cuffed before him and chained to his waist. He wore bul
ky orange body armor to protect him against reprisals from his victims’ loved ones. Cotton’s trademark beard without mustache was carefully trimmed. But his disappointment was obvious when he looked out across the parking level and noticed the lack of news cameras. There was only the long motorcade of FBI vehicles and armed agents.
He cast an irritated look toward her. “A transfer in the wee hours. You won’t silence me, Agent Davis. His message shall still reach the world.”
“It’s not my job to give you an audience.”
“The Lord will find a way.”
“What’s the Lord got to do with you?” She eyed him closely. Difficult to believe Cotton was anything but what he appeared—just another megalomaniac cult leader. But what she’d seen couldn’t be denied. “Watch your step.”
Transport agents pulled Cotton up into the van and escorted him into a small caged section at the front of the passenger bay as he began to cheerfully sing a hymn in a booming voice, offering his hands to his captors.
“Lord, the King of kings art Thou. In Thy presence here we bow; God’s anointed we adore. Worship Thee in holy awe . . .”
They chained Cotton to a railing and locked the cage door on him as Davis took a seat on a bench alongside half a dozen heavily armed agents. The guards even had gas mask pouches on their harnesses. No one was taking any chances.
Cotton stopped singing as the engine revved, and they began to move out. FBI radios blared in confirmation of their departure, units sounding off. Cotton leaned against the thick wire mesh, staring at Davis. “And it was He sent messengers throughout Manasseh, calling them to arms . . .”
“Even God took a day off from religion, Richard.”
Cotton chuckled. “The ever-watchful eye of our Lord is upon you, Agent Davis.” He examined the agents arrayed before him. “I was told I’d be in Chicago until the trial.”
“Operational security precludes this discussion.”
“Do you really want to anger me, Agent Davis? I don’t have to cooperate with the prosecution’s case. I can drag this out far longer, if that’s what you want.”
Davis stared back. “You can’t help yourself from confessing, Cotton. You want to take credit for these bombings. We couldn’t shut you up if we wanted to.”