Ten years since the backlash. Since Josiah Shepherd had spoken out, his face, his words broadcast endlessly, burned into Breece’s memories. “Mad scientists warping God’s creation, doing the devil’s work, bringing to life the devil’s children.” Spittle had flown from the televangelist’s lips. “The Lord will surely reward any who send them to hell where they belong.”

Ten years since the firebomb had ripped through his parents’ fertility clinic. Since they’d been murdered for the crime of reversing genetic diseases, of boosting a few points of IQ, of entirely benign actions that had nothing to do with the Aryan Rising.

Ten years since fear had turned America into a police state, since the priests and the politicians had decided that they could control who you were, what you were, what genes you carried, what tech you put in your brain.

Ten years since he’d become a freedom fighter. And now, finally, they were making headway.

Breece crouched beside his parents’ graves, reached out his fingers to brush the cold stone.

“I miss you,” he whispered.

He rose to his feet hours later, as the sun dipped below the plains of central Texas. He dusted himself off and started down the hill, pulling out his phones and turning them on as he did so.

His team phone buzzed angrily the instant he activated it. An urgent message, long delayed. Breece looked at the display. It was from Hiroshi.

[Your up-phone is burned. DHS.]

Breece stared at the phone numbly for a moment, then dropped to the ground behind a headstone.

His up-phone. Fuck. The one that connected to Zarathustra. How’d they know that number? Only he, Zara, and Hiroshi knew. And Hiroshi only because he’d been employed by AmeriCom, had set up the hidden alert that would tell Breece when the Homeland Security backdoors were activated to tap into his data, his location.

They must have taken Zara. Breece pulled out the up-phone. The thing was poison now, reporting his location to DHS. How long did he have until they arrived?

He left the up-phone powered on, tossed it away from him, then reached into his pants pocket and pressed the hidden switch. His shirt, pants, and shoes shifted color to match the grass. From his other pocket he pulled out thin gloves and balaclava which did the same, then pulled them on. His clothing lacked the speed and resolution of true chameleonware. They wouldn’t turn him into a blur when he moved. They wouldn’t mimic a detailed pattern behind him. But if he lay still or moved slowly, they could blend him into the grass and the headstones and trap most of the IR signature of his body.