The 4400® Promises Broken (28 page)

“Do you remember,” she asked with a trembling smile,
“when my sister April used her ability to force you to admit that you’d had sexual fantasies about me?”

Rolling his eyes, Tom said, “How could I forget?”

“Well,” she said, “I think you deserve to know … I’ve had them about you, too.”

For a second he stared at her as if he were in shock. Then he checked his watch again, and looked back at her, at once exasperated and amused. “
Now
you tell me.”

They chuckled together at the absurdity of it. As their mild laughter tapered off, she asked again, “How long?”

“Fifteen seconds.”

“Hold me till it’s over. Please.”

He helped her to sit up, then sat next to her and hugged her to him. She clutched him and shut her eyes, knowing that in a few seconds, just yards behind her back, the world was about to end in fire and fury.

She counted off the seconds in her mind.

Three … two … one …

Even through her eyelids, the flash was intensely bright, and the heat wave surged against her, tingling her entire body with twice the pain of the worst sunburn she’d ever had.

Then, to her surprise, the light dimmed. Not by much—it was still too bright to look at directly, but it had diminished. The heat abated quickly, as well.

She opened her eyes and turned her head.

The SUV was gone, devoured by a massive sphere of white fire that had seared a bowl out of the pavement beneath it. But the miniature sun seemed to be contained inside another sphere of energy, an amber shell that flickered
as the raging inferno within pulsed against it but failed to expand.

“Thank God and Jordan Collier,” Diana said, certain that one of Jordan’s p-positives had intervened to save her and Tom.

Then she noticed that Tom was trembling. His jaw was clenched, and his neck muscles were taut with exertion.

He was staring into the heart of the fireball beside them.

Diana realized that he was holding her with only one arm. She looked over his shoulder.

Tom’s other arm was pointed at the crackling ball of white-hot energy, his hand open, his fingers spread apart. He lifted his arm higher, and the sphere rose from the ground. Then he began curling his fingers into a fist and turning his wrist, as if he were miming the crushing of a bug.

The trapped fireball shrank in proportion to Tom’s gesture. As his fist clenched white-knuckle tight, the contained blast dwindled to a pinpoint—then blinked out of existence.

He collapsed into Diana’s arms, exhausted and shaking. Rain poured down on them.

After a moment, Tom caught his breath enough to say, “Don’t thank Jordan …” He opened a pocket of his vest and took out a syringe that was empty except for luminous traces of promicin trapped beneath its rubber plunger.

He mustered a weak smile. “Thank Maia.”

July 24, 2008 8:43
P.M.

S
UNSET WAS MINUTES
away. The sky above Promise City had dimmed to indigo in the east, and the western horizon burned with a vermillion glow. Parts of the city were still burning, but Jordan knew that his people would soon have those blazes under control. Smoke curled from other neighborhoods that had been razed, either by artillery or by enhanced soldiers with devastating powers.

Watching him, and broadcasting with her promicin ability all that she saw and heard to every cable and frequency on Earth, was a young Israeli woman named Ilana Teitelbaum. She was a slip of a girl with long, straight brown hair. Jordan tried not to become entranced by her soulful, dark eyes as he stared into them and delivered his address to the world.

“All around me,” he said, pacing around The 4400 Center’s roof in a slow circle while Ilana pivoted to keep
him in her sight, “you see the consequences of today’s attack by the United States military against Promise City. As I vowed we would do, we defended ourselves.” He stole a quick look away from Ilana at the tower of smoke and the smoldering mountain of rubble where the Collier Foundation building had stood until that morning. “As you can see, we’ve suffered losses of our own, and our city has taken great damage. But our casualties have been light compared with those of the forces that attacked us.”

He beckoned Ilana forward and directed her view over the edge of roof, to the driveway and the main entrance of the Center. “Even now, the wounded of Promise City, p-positive and p-negative alike, know they can come to us and be healed. Unlike the soldiers who left here today maimed or critically wounded, tomorrow our people will be healthy and whole.”

Ilana stepped back but kept her eyes on him as he gestured for her to turn her view toward the southeast. “By morning, the fires of Promise City will be extinguished. Our people will have clean water, steady electricity, and reliable sewage removal—all for free. In a week, we’ll have rebuilt our roads, including the elevated highways that the military destroyed.”

He stopped circling and stood with his back to the sunset, knowing intuitively that it was backlighting him with a halo. Every regular and high-definition video frequency in the world was showing Ilana’s transmission; those who didn’t see it live would almost certainly see it ad infinitum on the Internet in the days and weeks to come.

The hour had arrived. It was time for Jordan to throw down the gauntlet. He smiled.

“The United States, on the other hand, has fared quite poorly in this conflict. Its military satellites have been destroyed, crippling its ability to wage war and defend itself from attack. Because its numerous intelligence agencies had illegally hacked into several civilian satellites, their destruction has cut off much of North America’s cell phone service, impaired its broadcasting capability, and knocked out its Global Positioning Systems. It might take America several years to restore these services.”

He folded his hands in front of him and continued. “Taking this kind of damage to its national infrastructure so soon after the tragic earthquake that devastated much of California must be a cause for concern not only to all Americans, but to all the people of the world who fear the global consequences of a U.S. national collapse.

“Such a tragedy must not be allowed to happen. That is why I am here tonight to tell you that I and the citizens of Promise City bear no grudge against the people of the United States or its allies. You don’t have to face these dark times and daunting challenges alone.” Consciously echoing the final words of his speech to the city government of Seattle after the Great Leap Forward, Jordan spread his hands and said, “In this time of crisis, we stand ready to help, in any way that we can, in whatever way that you need. All you have to do … is ask.”

E
VERY PART OF
Tom’s body was in pain.

His muscles ached, and his skin burned with abrasions. Each beat of his heart made his head pulse with agony, as if something were trying to push out his eyeballs. He lay atop a long dining table and ruminated on his miserable evening.

It had been a few hours since he and Diana had returned through a second portal opened by Kendall. Tom had carried his gravely injured partner back to The 4400 Center, where Jordan’s followers had whisked her away to be seen immediately by Shawn.

It wasn’t until Tom had found himself abandoned in the Center’s infirmary that he had realized no one had asked whether he needed medical help.
It’s my own fault
, he told himself.
That’s what I get for acting stoic all the time.

He’d gleaned from overheard conversations that there had been an attack on the Center, but that it was over, and that the principal leaders of Promise City were alive. Having been in no shape to go running all over the building looking for Kyle or Shawn, Tom had scrounged two tabs
of Vicodin from an unlocked infirmary medicine cabinet. Then he’d walked across the hall to a private office, where he’d found a bottle of cheap bourbon in a bottom desk drawer.
That’ll do nicely
, he decided.

In the commissary, he’d selected a juice glass from the plastic rack stacked next to the front door. Then he’d sat down at a table, crushed the Vicodin tablets into dust with the butt of his pistol, swept the powder into the glass, and poured in what he’d figured was a triple shot of his borrowed liquor. He’d stirred it with his index finger until it looked mixed, then downed it in one long draught.

A few minutes later, the pain coursing through his body had abated … a little bit.

The relief had almost been enough to let Tom fall asleep, but every time he began to let go of his grip on consciousness, some random sound—a distant gunshot or explosion, or a nearby footstep echoing in a hallway—had made him shudder back to full wakefulness. On one occasion it had been a scent of sulfur, like a struck match, that made his eyes pop back open.

Another dream fluttered just beyond his reach when he heard the door of the commissary open with a loud metallic clack. Overlapping footfalls echoed inside the dimly lit dining hall.

With great effort, Tom pushed himself up from the table until he was sitting upright, legs dangling over the end, facing his visitors: Jordan, Shawn, and Kyle.

At least, he was fairly certain it was them. The booze and the drugs hadn’t done much to dull his suffering, but they had done a fantastic job of blurring his vision.

“Uncle Tommy,” Shawn said, his voice sounding strangely deep, slow, and resonant. He reached out and gripped Tom’s shoulder. “You all right? How’re you feeling?”

“Like I got run over by a truck full of hooch,” Tom slurred out. He pitched forward.

Shawn caught him. “Take a breath,” the young man said.

Tom felt a glorious warmth wash through him, and as he inhaled, his mind and his vision cleared. Exhaling, he felt his pain melt away, as if he had breathed it out.

“Any better?” asked Shawn.

Tom grinned. “Much.” He pulled his nephew to him and gave him a bear hug. “Good to see you.”

“Good to be seen,” Shawn said. As Tom released him, Shawn said, “Don’t worry about Diana. I healed her a couple hours ago. She’s resting upstairs.”

“Thanks,” Tom said, letting Shawn go.

Kyle stepped forward, taking Shawn’s place. “Hey, Dad,” he said, clearly struggling with a flood tide of powerful emotions that he still felt embarrassed to share in front of others.

“C’mere,” Tom said, wrapping his arms around his son and holding him in a fierce embrace. “Thought I might not see you again. Thought I …” Grappling with the effort of expressing his feelings, he appreciated the irony of where Kyle had inherited the trait. Committed to changing his ways, Tom blinked through his tears and made himself continue. “Thought I might never see you again. Not get to tell you one last time … that I love you.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

Shawn put one hand on Kyle’s back and the other on Tom’s shoulder, and they stood together for a few moments in silence. It felt right to Tom. They felt like family again.

Then Jordan had to ruin it by speaking.

“I’m sorry to interrupt—”

“Then don’t,” Tom said.

“I just wanted to welcome you to the ranks of the promicin-positive, Tom. We all understand this was a big step for you.”

Tom let go of Kyle and Shawn, stood, and took a step toward Jordan. “I didn’t do this for your movement, or to live out some half-baked prophecy.”

“It makes no difference to me why you took the shot,” Jordan said. “What matters to me is what you did with it. You literally
saved the world
, Tom.”

It was hard for Tom to argue with a man who was praising him so lavishly. After a few seconds of opening and closing his mouth in stymied silence, Tom said, “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean I’m on your side, Jordan. Or on the government’s side.”

Jordan shrugged. “No one says you have to choose a side, Tom. It’s my hope that one day very soon there won’t be any ‘sides’ at all. Just people, living in peace.”

He almost had to chuckle at the naïveté of Jordan’s utopian vision of humanity’s future. “Yeah, sure. You’ll buy the world a Coke and everyone’ll sing in harmony. Except for the kooks and the scumbags who’ll try to use their powers to get rich, or hurt people, or take control.”

“True, there will always be those among us whose
motives are less than noble,” Jordan said. “Who pose a threat to us.”

Nodding, Tom said, “That’s what I care about, Jordan: Making sure people like you—”

“People like us,” Jordan corrected.

Chastened, Tom frowned. “Making sure that people like
us
obey the law and don’t get away with hurting people.”

“Good,” Jordan said. “Because that’s exactly what Promise City is going to need: someone fair. Someone trustworthy, who’ll keep us all honest.” He extended his open hand. “And for what it’s worth, Tom … I’m glad it’s you.”

Tom looked at Jordan’s hand and realized that he was being offered more than a truce, more than simple friendship. What Jordan had proffered was a partnership in a new understanding, and a role in the shaping of the world to come. It was more responsibility than Tom had ever wanted for his life.

He reached out and shook Jordan’s hand.

Jordan smiled, then let go of Tom’s hand and stepped toward the door. “Shawn? Kyle? We have a lot of work to do tonight.”

Shawn turned to join Jordan, but Kyle stayed by Tom’s side and said, “I’ll catch up in a few. I just need a few more minutes with my dad.”

With a nod and a smile, Jordan signaled his understanding. Then he and Shawn walked quickly out of the commissary, talking under their breath about matters of apparent urgency.

Once the door closed after them, Kyle cast a hopeful look at his father. “Dad, can I ask you a personal question?”

“Sure,” Tom said.

“I know you were against taking promicin, but now that you’ve done it … how do you feel?”

The question made Tom stop and think for a few seconds. Now that he was free of the pain that had preoccupied his thoughts for the past several hours, he was really able to take stock of himself, inside and out.