“The PLF drove us to policies that are bad for national security,” Pryce told the President. “What we’re doing now – it’s inciting violence, distracting us from other issues.”

Stockton’s brow was furrowing more intently. He was shaking his head.

“Mr President,” Pryce said. “Holtzman had Nexus in his brain when he saved your life. He made a moral choice. It doesn’t turn people into monsters. They’re still human.”

“Pryce,” Stockton said. “You still don’t get it.” His eyes searched her face. “And you need to. This is the biggest security threat there is. It’s like…” He chuckled. “Funny, Holtzman got it. It’s like the Neanderthals and us. Neanderthals were on top, then us smarter humans came along and drove them to extinction. Except now we’re the Neanderthals. See? And no one’s going to drive us to extinction on my watch.”

Pryce frowned. “Mr President,” she said. “Humans and Neanderthals mated. They interbred… There’s Neanderthal DNA inside of you.”

Stockton nodded. “Exactly. And we still wiped them out! How much worse does it get than that?”

Pryce stood there, reaching for something to say, anything.

“Carolyn, this isn’t for discussion. My grandson’s going to have a fair shot at life, without competing with AIs or posthumans or whatever else comes up next. Liam’s not going to be turned into some sort of second class citizen. That’s that. I’m going to fight every day to keep things that way, whether it’s popular or not, whether we created the PLF or not.”

His eyes, his tone, the look on his face, all made it clear how dead set he was on this. He wasn’t going to budge on this. Not today.

“Now,” the President said. “Is this going to be a problem for you?”

Pryce lowered her eyes. China. Kazakhstan. India. There were so many situations on the verge of explosion, so many problems that needed her attention right now. She sighed inwardly. Maybe she could reopen this in a few months.

Pryce looked back up at John Stockton. “No, Mr President,” she told him. “It’s not.”

“They have your alias. Your face.”

Breece paled. “Show me.”

The Nigerian waved him over.

Breece looked over his friend’s shoulder. The Nigerian was inside DHS’s systems, using the backdoors they’d gleaned from Barnes’s trove of data. Backdoors that it seemed DHS didn’t even know existed.

“Here,” the Nigerian said. “Picture of you from the National Mall.”

Breece frowned. It was him in disguise, but the disguise half torn off.

Seen from the ground.

“Shankari.”

The Nigerian nodded. “Some pictures are clearer,” he said.

He was right. Some showed his undisguised face. In weird ways, though. Almost artist’s renditions.

Memories.

But whose?

“How much do they know?” Breece asked.