Tom Aston - The Machine

Virginia Carlisle was not a difficult woman to track down. First look for the most expensive hotel in town. Second, get Ying Ning to ask around about a woman followed by an entourage of cameramen, makeup artists and flunkeys. Stone needn’t, either, have bothered to enquire about her room number. Just ask for the largest suite in the hotel.

Inside her room, Stone went straight for her MacBook — super-slim, ultra lightweight. Like its owner? He uploaded a password-hack program from a memory stick, and used it to copy her docs and emails for the last seven days. Then skimmed through her schedule for the day. Also lightweight. She was a canny operator, Carlisle. Saved herself for those ten minutes of airtime.

Then there was the sheer weight of luggage in that room. She’d divided her clothes into work and non-work. The fatigues, jeans and rugged shirts she used for her GNN reports on TV were on one side, together with appropriately battered running shoes and hiking boots, discreet makeup and sunglasses. These clothes were replicated, to make it look as if she was wearing only a couple of items again and again. These were “work” clothes. The wardrobe of a performer. On the other side of the large closet was a kaleidoscope of designer clothing, suited to an upper class woman of leisure, with copious jewelry and twenty-odd pairs of shoes. She had a couple of power-dressing business suits, which occupied the leisure side of the closet.

To read there were the usual “professional” magazines — Forbes, The Economist and Harvard Business Review looked unread. China Quarterly still in a cellophane wrapper. Vogue and Cosmopolitan , by contrast, creased and well-thumbed by the bed. The books were pure chicklit and there was a plastic wallet containing DVDs. Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Sleepless in Seattle, Meet Joe Black, The Devil Wears Prada. You could say a pattern was emerging. A good thing Ying Ning wasn’t there to give her strictures on this woman.

Some reporters in Virginia Carlisle’s position are driven. Committed, humourless newshounds with PhD’s in International Relations, who collect their visits to the benighted troublespots of the world like so many picture postcards, reeling off stats about infant mortality and female circumcision as they go. Not our Virginia. She talked like a hard-nosed investigator, but she was a true professional — a professional actress.

Stone wondered for a second who would do better at changing the world — hard-as-nails Ying Ning with her Tang dynasty war poetry and her stats on ShinComm suicide rates? Or Virginia Carlisle, with her Vogue magazine and an audience in the hundreds of millions?

Stone checked his battered LCD watch. Three forty-seven pm. She’d be back any minute. He lounged back with his boots on the sofa and opened up the MacBook once more. He made a search with the words “Steven Semyonov Life Story”.

There are no results for this search string. Please try another search.

Typo? Stone tried the search again.

Again no result. This time he typed the words “Steven Semyonov Search Ignition”

There are no results for this search string. Please try another search.

Finally he tried simply typing the words “Steven Semyonov”. Same result. The same thing happened on two other search engines. No wonder the news outlets weren’t discussing Semyonov’s motives and background. They were flying blind without the Internet. SearchIgnition’s technology was used by all the major news archives too.

Semyonov hadn’t been erased from history, but he may as well have been. He’d been erased from the world’s search engines. In an age of instant access to information, no one would bother to discover anything about him. No wonder there was no talk of motives and background for the man.

And who would be able to manipulate the world’s search engines to do this? Only one person, and that was Semyonov himself, before he died. Stone was reminded of the note Semyonov had given him. “ Odi profanum vulgum .” I hate the ignorant masses. Semyonov’s scorn for the world had extended to forbidding research into himself.

Stone looked again at the watch and took at look at the recent web site in Virginia Carlisle’s history. One caught his eye. It confirmed his theory as to why Virginia Carlisle had come to Sichuan. The page was just coming up on the screen as the door handle clicked and the door opened.

Carlisle didn’t handle it too badly in the circumstances. After a few seconds of shock and some harsh Anglo-Saxon language, the actress in her took over again. Her eyes looked at the open closet doors, then at her books and magazines on the table, then ran along Stone’s long legs, stretched out on the sofa on the other side of the room. Stone glanced up and then back down at the screen of her MacBook. That was a delightfully complex look she’d come up with after the initial shock. Anger, contempt, and a subtext of sexual interest all at the same time.

‘Now. I know you’re pleased to see me, Virginia,’ said Stone looking at the laptop. ‘But aren’t you supposed to know a man better before you use words like that with him?’

‘This CANNOT be happening!’ she hissed, grabbing at the telephone by the door. ‘This is Miss Carlisle. GNN. Give me hotel security!’ The hotel’s Chinese receptionist was going to need a few minutes to get to grips with Virginia in this mood. There was stammering on the other end of the phone. ‘SECURITY!’ she sang down the phone, then covered the receiver and turned on Stone. ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ she yelled, her anger ramping up now she knew she wasn’t in danger. Stone had taken a tiny peek behind her facade. An unforgivable crime to actress Virginia. ‘You arrogant son of a…’

Stone got up from the sofa and walked over the walnut-covered floor of the suite, smiling. ‘Put down the phone, Virginia. If that security guy comes up here, I might have to deal with him. Neither he nor I would feel good about ourselves afterwards.’ He took her hand and moved it calmly to hang up the receiver.

Carlisle stood open-mouthed at her own acquiescence for a few seconds, but then got a hold of herself and turned up the volume again. ‘How dare you break into my room and go through my things? The closet, the computer…’

‘Does that mean there’s something interesting I missed?’ he said. ‘Tush, Virginia. I’m too much of a gentleman.’

‘You lousy…’ she repeated. ‘I got you out of that hole of a jail in Hong Kong so you could find out some stuff. You’ve done nothing but follow me to Sichuan. Pathetic.’

This was more like it — goading him to say what he’d been up to.

‘What brings you to Chengdu, Virginia? I didn’t see any sign of a brutal civil war breaking out on my way to the hotel,’ said Stone. ‘Or will you just use some old footage of carnage and mayhem in the background? That’s the way it’s done, isn’t it? Your news reports sound like they were made a week ago in a job lot.’

‘You’ve got nothing.’ She glowered at him.

‘Oh, hold on! I forgot. You’ve been looking at the Internet.’ He picked up the MacBook and showed her the web page he’d seen she’d been looking at. ‘Perhaps this explains what brought you to Sichuan.’

http://dougcarslake.blog.Notfutile.com

UFOWATCH BLOG

Could this be the reason everyone’s favorite extraterrestrial, AKA Steven Semyonov, suddenly found a taste for the Orient? Looks like it wasn’t Semyonov’s love of braised camel’s hump that gave him those generous proportions after all. Something lies deep under the mountains of Western China which reminded him of home.