"Thank you for the greatest challenge of my career," Tim Norley grunted, pressing his taser between his detainee's shoulder blades.
Forced to kneel beside the bed with his head in a pillow, Nicolaus Tomos pretended to be unconscious.
Tim cuffed the first future posthuman's wrists and ankles. The blindfold went on next. He'd spent several hours practicing this procedure, and was disappointed Tomos didn't try one of his tricks.
The bound man looked average in every way, but he had been frightfully swift earlier. Not swift enough.
   A Chinese news channel was playing on the wall, talking too fast for Tim. He kept his eyes on Tomos's back. If he could keep his prisoner alive for the next three hours, his victory would be total. He checked Tomos's teeth for unusual cavities and capsules. Tomos bore it resignedly.
   "I haven't seen your face," he said, "but presumably you're Tim Norley with the NSA."
   Tim had expected existential menace, but Tomos seemed pleasant enough, with a smooth voice like a webcom character or a Box avatar.
   Tim said, "the pleasure is mine." He pulled Tomos to a sitting position. The Burmese motel was unaffected by the recent disturbance. "Any associates nearby?" he asked.
   "Unfortunately for me not," Tomos responded. "I can tell you intend to fly me out of the country clandestinely."
   Tomos was said to be the ultimate nihilist. It was dangerous to even have this conversation. Normal people couldn't handle his ways of thinking. He might try to talk himself to freedom, cause maximum chaos, or maybe start a new religion.
   "I doubt we have anything in common," Tim said.
   "You're a classic cynic, though far below my level. Most actions are futile because mankind is doomed."
   He wouldn't give Tomos the satisfaction. "Looks like I just removed a major threat," Tim said, removing the blindfold.
   Tomos didn't blink. "Certainly does. How did you find me?"
   Tim reholstered his taser. "Mostly luck. Going undercover in the Amazon rainforest with the Yoriba Indians was too clever."
   "Too bad about what happened to them."
   "And you spent six months in Mecca pretending to be a reform mullah allowing himself to be unreformed."
   "Such a concentration of untapped power."
   "I lost your trail then, but picked it up again last month. Before coming here, you spent a year on Laurie Island."
   Tomos said, "I liked the long nights."
   Tim responded, "Then you'll love where you're going. It's called 'Hypermax', a cross between Alcatraz and Devil's Island without the fun and games."
   Suddenly Tomos sat upright. Tim was almost startled.
   Tomos spoke as if nothing had happened, "I don't think you understand your role yet. The fun has barely begun." His tone was highly confidential. "I'm a random contingency within the human phenotype. Others like me may have already been born."
   "I'm just a modest soldier." Tim took a chair, sat with his gun on his lap, and began the long wait.

   Once, Tomos had been a highly respected if reclusive CEO, a fabulously wealthy tech pioneer who had made two major discoveries, bankrupting Google in the process.
Seven years ago, the Internet had been a chaotic maze of undigested information. Tomos had found a way to organize it. Using swarms of supercomputers, every bit of online data could be indexed and catalogued in many ways. This process created personal aggregator sites for every user.
A stepping stone to true artificial intelligence, Tomos's invention had changed society in subtle and possibly dangerous ways.
   A year later, his company had filed a patent application for a new ultra-high-capacity memristor CPU. A billion simulations could run inside a small silicon cube.
He had amassed the largest personal fortune in human history (some of which he still controlled). He began to use his wealth in interesting ways.
   Fortunately, his attempts to control politics had failed, despite many clever ideas and endorsements. Perhaps the voters were smarter than they usually seemed, or they had sensed something alien.
After a final failed referendum, he gave a press conference where he had revealed his true self. The bloggers had loved it.
His favorite political system was totalitarian, ultra-targeted life control. The presentation's chilling graphs were still being studied.
He was almost convincing, arguing that the worst dictators had been instinctive if misguided geniuses.

   "They used suicide soldiers the last time they tried to capture me," Tomos said as he slid himself laboriously along the bedside while Tim looked on.
   Four years ago, Tomos had found his calling as scientific director of North-Korea's biowarfare program. That was the main reason (by no means the only one) why he was now under rendition.
He had somehow developed a sarcoma retrovirus intended to blackmail the world, something that until then had only been possible in theory. Work had been 70% complete by the time a South-Korean spy found out. Tomos's fortune had paid for top-quality Russian incubators, installed inside mountain caverns constructed by liquidated slave labor.
   America's last major airborne assault, by troops stationed in the South and off helicopter carriers, came a week too late. One "dispersal device" had already been deployed in a major Western city. The disease would spread unpredictably from there.
   Tomos had explained the dilemma on everyone's online device of choice. American intelligence had narrowed down the weapon's location to ten suspect cities (two in the USA). They could choose to destroy all these cities, or they could withdraw their forces and allow a diplomatic solution to be worked out. It was all the same to him.
The invading units, sent through North-Korea's formidable SAM-belts, had retreated in some disorder.
Concessions were made to the DPRK's fanatical leadership, by then in its fourth generation. The dispersal device was eventually found in Seattle and disarmed.
Tomos had somehow escaped.
   Now he was watching Tim closely. "The Airborne Rangers came for me in the Kim Il Sung tower," he said. "Looked like some postmodern shampoo bottle. I'm glad I don't live there anymore. Committed troops, though they never reached my floor. They only sent one platoon."
   His lopsided grin looked hideously out of place, exactly the way it appeared on his wax figure. "You've done better than all of them."
   "I'm not stupid," Tim said. "I know you're planning an escape. But your influence is at an end. People may fear you, but they will never respect you again."
   "If you say so."
   Someone knocked on the room's sliding window.
   "Our ride's here," Tim said.
   Two men in business suits entered silently. The doctor didn't look at Tomos's face as he injected a sedative. The other man took Tim's taser and unused gun.
   "I've educated many eager souls," Tomos said as he was lowered in a self-powered wheelchair, his voice steady. "My legacy outlives me. Any minute now." His eyes tracked the wall screen.

   The airport near Rangoon was used mainly for cargo. A SkyTruck with folded props waited on the tarmac, its loading ramp lowered. Five men stood by in casual civilian garb, with the posture of elite forces.
   "I'll stay in-country," Tim told them as the wheelchair rolled up the ramp. "Tying up loose ends."
   Tomos spoke for the first time since the motel room. "Come closer. I want to whisper something in your ear." Tim obligingly leaned over.
   "Don't you follow the news?" Tomos exclaimed. Tim strained as if to listen.
   "A few hours ago, China has prematurely invaded the Philippines and World War Three has begun," Tomos explained. "The likely termination of civilization." He sounded privileged to be a part of it all.
   Tomos studied Tim's blank face, looking his adversary in the eye. Another privilege.
   Tim said, "At least I caught you in time. You won't make things any worse. That's enough for me."
   Tomos said softly, "Yes, you did catch me just in time." He studied the plane's interior. "One question: why did the Pentagon send their best troops in wartime to retrieve little old me?"
   "Sir please exit the air vehicle sir," a Marine said, guiding Tim down the loading ramp.
   "They obviously need my expertise!" Tomos shouted after him.
He didn't laugh. That was one thing Tomos couldn't do.
   The plane lifted off even before the ramp had closed. Tim wished he still had his gun.

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Probably the best hard SF novel ever written: Infinite Thunder by Jack Arcalon.
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