I’ve got a goddamn ace up my sleeve that’s been waiting there for ten years. Since the birth of Pure Pride. Wait until I show them what I got. Then they’ll know war.

Vaughn is the ace.

“He’s going to kill you to start a real war,” I whisper urgently, backing away. “The safety zones aren’t his goal. He just needed to put the amps against a wall. So they’ll fight. Cancel your speech. You need to hide. You need to run.”

“You’re mistaken,” says Vaughn. “Lyle belongs to me. Not the other way around.”

I can hear footfalls now. The wheezing grunt of a linebacker hurtling through space. Too far away to catch a Zenith, but no time left.

“Please,” I say to Vaughn.

And then I am motion. The trees swallow me up.

BBC News

US & CANADA

Q&A: The US “Amp” Problem

The president of the United States has declared a state of emergency, going so far as to create “safety zones” to protect hundreds of thousands of citizens with neural implants from violent demonstrations.

Implants of this sort are in common use throughout the European Union, medically and electively. So why are they causing such a row in the US?

What is an “amp”?

The derogatory term refers both to a neural implant or to an implanted person.

Why are Americans debating?

An emotional debate has raged between those who say the technology is vital for medical progress and those who say it creates an unlevel playing field for those who do not have the implant. Scientists and people with disabilities have claimed that neural implants can cure disease, but many middle-class voters and religious groups are opposed.

Why has the debate turned violent?

Government funding of brain implantable devices has been blocked and the US Food and Drug Administration (FDA) recalled the most popular type of implant. Discrimination against implanted individuals was legalized. Some implantees responded with a series of violent attacks. American pundits believe these attacks may have provoked an even more violent backlash from regular citizens.

I get inside the Cathedral of Learning by scaling the back side of the building. The front is guarded by police and mobbed by demonstrators. But whole hog, the soot-stained concrete wall is alive and writhing with virtual handholds, friction estimates, and climbing routes. My fingers are steel claws. It takes three minutes to solve the tower wall, thirty more seconds to wriggle in an arched window.

If anyone saw me, it’s too late to matter.

And there are plenty who could have. I can feel the roar of a thousand people outside rumbling through the structural bones of the building. The lawn out front is packed with Pure Pride supporters. A thousand pairs of eyes turned up toward a double wood-plank door perched above a three-story arch. It leads to a wrought iron balcony big enough for one man and a nest of microphones.

Senator Vaughn stands there now, framed in ornate stonework.

I sprint down dim hallways, praying that Lyle hasn’t beaten me here. I’m faintly aware that I’m gasping for breath. My chest heaves as I negotiate cramped corridors, trying to reach the room that leads to that iron balcony.

Finally, I spot the door at the end of a hallway. There’s a piece of white paper taped to it. PRIVATE, it says.

Some minute vibration in the floor causes me to freeze, throw my back against a wall. A gray suit crosses farther down the hallway, patrolling the building. I watch him, holding my breath, letting my eyes taste the shadows.

The guard doesn’t seem upset or panicked. Lyle isn’t here yet. Nobody must have reported me climbing the wall yet, either. There is still time to save Vaughn’s life. Time enough to stop Lyle from triggering a civil war.

In a fuzzy way, I realize that I can see the sound I’m making. Every careful step I take closer to the door sends a ripple racing over the tile, like splashes through a puddle. Each quiet breath I take dissipates quickly to silence. Surgically planting each foot, I manage to creep closer while eliminating the ripples of visible sound.

This is the only door that leads to Vaughn, and it’s under constant surveillance. Well, almost constant.

Gray suit paces a few more feet, turns. The door is unwatched for a split second. Observing the smooth, relaxed muscles in gray suit’s neck, I leap across the hallway. As his muscles contract and his bald head begins to turn, I knife the door open with my fingers and ease my body through. A gaze estimate appears like a spotlight projected from gray suit’s eyes, racing down the hallway. It lands on the door as it closes the last few inches.

A soft snick and I am in the empty room.

I crouch and listen as gray suit approaches. Watch the rippling light from his footsteps swell under the door. He nears, stops. Slowly, the doorknob turns as he checks it. Turns all the way, pauses, then lets it flip back.

He keeps walking.

Now I allow myself to breathe. This room is a stone alcove. The carved ceiling folds into itself over the polished marble floor. The far wall is dominated by arched wooden double doors that lead to the wrought iron balcony and to Vaughn.

I’m too late. He’s already giving his speech.

A line of light runs between the doors. From the other side, I can hear Vaughn speaking. He enunciates each word into the microphones. This is it: Vaughn is outside delivering his master stroke. If he claims to have identified the villain behind Astra, well, there’s nothing I can do about it now.

From the sound of it, I’m only hearing the tail end of the speech.

“I do not stand before you today, I stand with you,” says Vaughn in a measured tone. His magnified voice echoes against the hard buildings outside. “We who are gathered here today, made in the image of the Almighty, stand together in naked defiance of martyrs and terrorists.

“I stand with you, arm in arm at the edge of the abyss. And together, we stand stronger than any man-made steel ever beaten in a foundry. And though vicious extremists may lash out at us, we continue to stand together firmly, without fear, and with the knowledge that we stand for America.

“And that is why, mere blocks away from the medical laboratories where this grave threat to our nation was born, and mere blocks from where it will soon be eliminated, I ask you all once again that you not retaliate. We have the amp problem firmly under control. Violence will not right the wrongs. It will not solve our problems. And it will not best serve the interests of our children, those born and those who have yet to join us.”

The air reverberates with the dull impact of thousands of dutifully clapping hands. The temblor builds slowly, growing until the shadowed room itself hums as if it were on a launchpad. A few angry catcalls pierce the applause as it begins to fade. But judging from the general response, Vaughn’s message seems to have been accepted.

“Thank you,” says Vaughn. “God bless America.”

And the crack of light splits in two.

Joseph Vaughn stands before me, a stark black silhouette against bright gray Pittsburgh skies. A great writhing mass of humanity spreads out behind him like a cloak.

Before I know what’s happening, I’ve got two fistfuls of his shirt and I’m yanking him inside. I kick the double doors shut, muting the clamor outside. Drop my forearm under his chin and ram him up against the wall before he can make a squeak.