His mother stepped forward then. “Rangan,” she said, “We believe in you. We know you’re innocent. Stay safe. They’re watching us, hoping you contact us, so they can find you. Don’t. It brings joy to our hearts to know that you’re free. That’s enough, for now.”

Rangan pulled the ear buds out, and touched his fingers to the screen, as if he could touch his mom, touch his dad, and then he was crying, and he was laughing, and there were arms hugging him from behind, and minds opening to him, and offering comfort, and for some reason he thought of Bobby just then, and hoped the boy was in Cuba, with Alfonso, and Tim, and all the rest, whether Rangan ever made it there or not.

And then a voice cut through everything, and the sense of a mind in stunned delight.

“Well frack my random seed,” Tempest said. “This isn’t possible.”

“What?” Angel asked.

“Someone just broke the crypto on a bunch of high-end chemreactors,” Tempest said. “A dozen different models with their own keys, maybe more. And put out a high-throughput recipe for Nexus on all of them.”

32
Disclosure

Sunday 2040.11.11

Breece woke in the morning, rolled over to reach for Kate, found only empty bed instead.

He pulled himself to alertness, heart pounding, muscles tensing, senses scanning for a threat.

The apartment was quiet. Faint early morning light came in through the curtains over the bedroom window. The door to the living room was open a crack, artificial light coming in through the gap. The bed sheets were mussed. Everything was as it should be.

He took a breath, flexed and un-flexed his hands, let himself calm down.

Too many years of this.

Too many years waiting for the hammer to drop.

Too many years of knowing his death was going to be a bad one. A violent one.

So close now. So close to victory.

He rolled out of bed, pulled on shorts and a T-shirt, and padded out into the apartment.

The Nigerian was at the kitchen table, a pistol disassembled on a towel, cleaning and oiling it methodically.

“You clean that gun every day,” Breece said.

“It’s my meditation, my friend,” the Nigerian replied, not looking up.

“Rodrigo Pereira,” Kate’s voice said.

Breece turned. She was on the couch, her hair back in a ponytail, in casual pants and shirt, long legs folded under her. There was a slate in her hand, and she was looking at him.

“Biotech researcher,” Breece said. “Died… a long time ago. Murder. We suspected assassination. None proven. He was… Argentinian?”

Kate raised an eyebrow and nodded approvingly. “Brazilian, actually. Specialized in human genetic manipulation. Died in a mugging in 2033, two years before Copenhagen was ratified. A random mugging.”

She smiled.

“Except now, thanks to Barnes’s files, we know it wasn’t random at all. We know the ERD killed him, and at least a dozen more people like him.”