Interface: A Techno Thriller (5 page)

"Why would the company risk it? Why would Bern risk it?"

"Before we talk any more," he said, "we need to agree how this is going to work."

Kate sat back, clearing her throat. "I want to be clear that our funds are limited."

Armstrong laughed. "You think I want money? Ms Turner, you've misunderstood me. This is about technology changing us. And whether we should allow it to." He paused. "Or perhaps whether we can even stop it."

"So, what
do
you want?"

"I want to make things right." He paused. "And I don't want anyone dying. Not like last time."

"What?"

He slid the vial across the table. "A gesture of my good faith. Do some research, Ms Turner. You need to understand more about the company and its history because if it's about to make mistakes, it won't be the first time. Then if you still want to, let's talk again."

ELEVEN

TOM BECAME AWARE OF THE sound of heart monitors and the smell of disinfectant. Around him a swirl of light and noise coalesced into a hospital ward, with several patients sleeping in beds to either side. He blinked and tried to sit up, but realised he was swathed in electrodes and wires, a drip in his left arm. His tongue felt like a dry sponge.
 

"Careful now," said a man's voice. A doctor walked quickly over and scanned the electronic display next to the bed. "Welcome back, Tom. How are you feeling?"

Tom's head was pounding. He coughed, trying to get moisture into his mouth. "Can I get a drink?"
 

The man produced a white plastic cup and held it to Tom's lips.

"Thanks." Tom coughed as the cold water softened his tongue. "Where am I?"

"The Royal London Hospital," said the doctor. "You were brought here yesterday after you collapsed."

Tom shook his head and winced. "My head hurts."

"You have a nasty lump where you hit your desk, although thankfully it's nothing serious." The doctor paused. "It seems you fell over."

"I was feeling under the weather. I think I had a bit too much to drink at the weekend."

The doctor frowned. "When you say a
bit too much to drink
, could you be more specific?" The doctor lifted his pen and started jotting notes on his clipboard. "Times, quantities? Did you take any narcotics?"

"To be honest, I don't remember much about the weekend."

"We've run some tests and nothing showed up, but if you know you took something you really should tell us." He hesitated. "We're not interested in reporting drug use to the police, if that's your worry."

Tom shook his head. "I really don't remember"

The doctor started to say something, but behind him an alarm began ringing. He strode quickly away.

Tom watched a nurse walk across to his bed. "You have a visitor," she said. Tom turned towards the door, expecting to see Jo. Instead a grey-haired man in a neat suit walked up to him. His face seemed familiar.
 

"Mr Faraday," said the man with a smile. "Good to see you're awake. I'm Peter Marron. We met during your CERUS interview."

Tom frowned. "HR, right? What... Why are you here?"

Marron turned and looked at the electronic display next to Tom's bed, a small frown crossing his face. "Hell of a first day. How are you feeling?"

"Like I've got a very sore head. Only just woke up."

"What happened exactly?"

"I was enjoying the view from my office and then... I guess I fell and hit my head. I'm not sure how." Tom sat up a little in his bed. "Does the head of HR turn up every time a CERUS employee is in hospital?"

Marron gave a broad smile. "You're a new member of our team, and we want to make sure you're OK. I know we're a big operation, but everyone's important." He leaned forward. "Especially those on the top floors."

"I'm sorry to have caused a fuss."

Marron pulled the privacy curtain into place. "Tom, let me be honest. We've had enough bad press about the building already; the last thing we need is some story about a design fault causing an injury. You didn't trip on a rug or something, did you?"

"Nothing like that."

"I don't mean to pressure you. I just like to manage issues for Mr Bern before they become problems." Marron interlaced his fingers. "What did they say is wrong?"

Tom blinked. "The doctor ran some tests, but nothing came of it."

"Well, that is good news." Marron looked around with a slight furrowing of his brow. "But this place doesn't have the time or money to spend digging too deep. Tell you what, why don't we get you checked in to somewhere a bit more agreeable?"

"I'm not on the company health insurance yet. Haven't done the medical."

Marron waved a hand. "Don't worry about that. The company needs you at a hundred percent. Remember what I said during the interview: the future of the business depends on people like you." Marron patted Tom on the shoulder. "I promise, once you're finished at the place I'm sending you to, you won't know yourself."

TWELVE

BERN HAD BEEN IN THE back of the van for more than an hour. There were no windows, so he wasn't sure the hood was completely necessary, but the team of bodyguards had been politely insistent. At least the seats were comfortable.

The bodyguards had ignored his repeated attempts at conversation. Eventually he had given up and sat back, with nothing to listen to but the rattle of the engine and the grinding of the suspension, and with continual changes of direction he quickly gave up trying to work out where they were going. Finally he heard the handbrake being engaged and the van came to a stop. Then the hood was pulled from his face and he was guided out.

He was inside a large, apparently disused warehouse, amongst rusting machinery and piles of rubbish. In front of him was something very large and angular covered in dust-sheets.

"Good morning, Mr Bern," said a voice from above: a Russian accent, laced with overtones of Eton. "My apologies for the manner in which you were brought here. I prefer to stay under the radar for certain meetings."

A man, probably in his late fifties, walked down a set of metal stairs from the gantry above. He wore an immaculate pale suit. Two large men walked behind him, also wearing suits, although they looked more like their choice of clothes was an order rather than a choice. There were four other men, similarly attired, standing by the doors.

"Viktor Leskov, I presume?" Bern asked.

The pale-suited man reached the bottom of the stairs and extended his hand. "It is good to meet you. I've followed your career with great interest, but I did not think we would ever do business."
 

Bern shook the hand firmly. "Mining was never an activity we had much to do with, although my broker always said it was a good investment. But I hear you've diversified."

"I like to think that my other areas of interest are also good investments." Leskov pointed to a rough table and chairs. "Let's talk." He snapped his fingers and one of the large men produced a flask and cups, pouring hot, black coffee for them.
 

"Bradley briefed me on your discussions to date. He said you need a new kind of system interface."

Leskov gestured to one of his men, who reached into a case and placed a small black box on the table. "I'm looking for a fully bi-directional neural interface to communicate with this hub."

Bern slowly reached forward and picked it up. "What is it designed to control? A vehicle? A weapon system?"

Leskov smiled. He snapped his fingers. Three of the large men moved and began cutting cords connected to the dust sheets, which slid away to reveal a sleek black-grey helicopter. "It's not officially in production."

"How many passengers does it carry?"

Leskov followed him to stand next to one of the side doors. "Up to ten. But it's more comfortable for six."

"And why do you need a neural interface for this?"

"Because it is no ordinary helicopter. We're going to market it as a security vehicle for high-net-worth individuals. The weapon systems are a discretionary extra. But it is fully stealth capable, has active and passive radar, and a range of other sensor equipment, plus sophisticated autopilot and threat evasion systems and six ejector seats."

"Not ten?"

Leskov flashed a smile. "Like I said, it's more comfortable for six."

Bern tapped the door of the helicopter. "How much did this cost?"

"Close to two hundred million US dollars. We expect the unit price to fall once we enter production," he paused, "but not by much. It's not really a vehicle for those who have to ask about the price tag."

"So it's fully featured. Why the need for an interface? Considering the cost."

Leskov raised an eyebrow.
 

"If I don't know why you need it, I won't be able to build it."

"It takes a crew of three to fly it to full capability and those three pilots need extensive training. It's a logistical nightmare finding one suitably discrete pilot, but three? We need to reduce the number."

"To one?"

Leskov smiled. "To zero." He paused. "At least on-board. With your interface a single pilot could fly the craft and operate all systems – and do it all from another location entirely."

"So it would be a passenger-carrying drone?"

"I don't like that term. It makes my clients nervous. We're talking about a system whereby the pilot is on-board – just not physically. The sensor cluster would be his eyes and ears."

"So you already understand how the interface would work. You know it wouldn't just be a headset you wear."

Leskov nodded. "We like it because it will exercise a degree of control over the subject. Those we select as pilots aren't going to be running off to a competitor."

"Just what has Bradley shared with you?"

"His conversation was frank. Knowing the financial state of your business, is this not a time to be frank?"

"I suppose it is. You have the full schematics for the aircraft?"

"Ready for you to take with you. Presuming you can meet the timetable."

"That depends."

Leskov looked at Bern carefully. "I didn't expect to find you so cautious. Perhaps you'd prefer to stick with a project with less personal risk."

Bern smiled. "I'm not cautious, Mr Leskov. I'm negotiating." He paused. "And the higher the price, the less cautious I will become."

"Ah. That I understand. Although in this case I am going to tell you what I will pay, and you can take it or leave it." He smiled. "My offer is one billion US dollars. For that I expect a demonstrably viable candidate. And full schematics, source code and nanite production equipment. In the next sixty days."

Bern closed his eyes, counting slowly to ten. As if there was any decision to make. He opened his eyes and extended his hand. "We have a deal, Mr Leskov."

THIRTEEN

THE PRIVATE AMBULANCE GLIDED SMOOTHLY up the bush-lined red-sealed private road, then slowed as it approached a large building that looked like a cluster of period houses squashed together. It pulled up under a huge shelter that extended over the road, and Tom's wheelchair was lowered out. Two smiling nurses appeared to greet him then wheeled him inside and along several corridors. The place seemed deserted. Eventually they left him in a large first-floor room with an expansive view across the grounds. He gazed out of the window for several minutes before he heard footsteps and turned to see a man wearing a white coat, a stethoscope, and a broad smile.

"Tom, great to meet you," said the man, shaking his hand. "I'm Dr Chatsworth. I'll be in charge of your care while you're at the Angstrom Clinic."

"Nice place. I'm glad work is paying for it." Tom nodded back the way he had come in. "I haven't even seen another patient."

Chatsworth smiled. "Our patients demand absolute privacy. And we want to make you feel you have our undivided attention while you're here."

"But why am I here?"

"After your incident, we've been tasked with making sure that you're in the best possible health. The more candid you can be about what happened to you, the better I can help you."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because a capable, athletic young man rarely just falls over in his office and knocks himself unconscious."

Tom narrowed his eyes. "How does that all work with patient confidentiality? Won't you be reporting back to my company, given that they're paying for all this?"

"Please be assured, Tom, that we will only disclose information to CERUS with your explicit permission. They may be footing the bill, but all they're entitled to is a breakdown of tests and other expenses, unless you say otherwise."

Tom sighed. "Well, it's not like I've got anything to hide. It's just... I had a strange weekend. Strange in that I can't remember any of it. From Friday night to Monday morning it's a blank."

"What do you mean?" asked Chatsworth.

"Friday night, I was at a party. I had a few sips of champagne and a cognac, but that is all I remember drinking. In fact that's the last thing I remember at all. I woke up on Monday feeling dreadful. Maybe I had more to drink after that. It's not like me but..." He shrugged. "I'm pretty sure I didn't trip over in my office. I think I fainted."

"Why didn't you mention this when you were taken to A&E?"

"I didn't want to make a fuss. Like I said, it was the first day in my new job and I wanted to make a good impression."
 

Chatsworth nodded. "Well, first things first. Let's run a few tests."

◇
◇
◇

Tom awoke feeling different. He was lying in bed at the Angstrom clinic. It was dark outside, but the curtains were open and a figure was standing at the window.

"How long was I out?" he mumbled. Then he saw he was not talking to one of the clinic staff.

"Hey, loser," Jo said, turning to face him. "I am struggling to decide whether to hug you or shake you for not telling me what had happened. You should have gone straight to the doctor. You should have told me to call an ambulance."

Tom began to struggle upwards, then noticed the bed had automatic controls. He tapped them and slowly raised himself to a seated position. "Yes, well hindsight is a wonderful thing. Although it's not like they've found anything wrong with me so far."