Tom Aston - The Machine

He’d found himself looking for fights. He’d once put on a dress suit and ordered a sweet sherry at one of the hardest bars in Portsmouth, just to see what would happen. Nearly had his ear torn off in the struggle that followed, but he’d finished on top. Just.

To credit the army, they gave help for this kind of thing. The “stress” counsellor talked to Stone about anger management, and asked him about something called rules for living . Did Stone feel the need to prove himself by violence, over and over? Did he feel constantly threatened? Stone had answered yes, to keep the counsellor happy, but the real answer was no — in both cases. Stone hadn’t felt threatened. He didn't feel a need to prove himself. The truth was, he enjoyed the violence. That was why he’d kept looking for trouble, looking for fights. It was also why he'd had to get out of the army. Over time he’d healed his mind, reduced his violent urges from an open wound to little more than an itch. But an itch that never went away. Right now that itch to harm someone was getting seriously irritating.

The Peace Campaigner thing was Stone’s way of cleansing his psyche of those feelings — but it only worked up to a point. It was displacement activity. Deep down he knew he was simply looking for danger and confrontation in different ways. Repressing the feelings, but not getting rid of them. Was he motivated by anger about Hooper’s killing? Yes. Did he have an urge to get Semyonov? Yes. A long, long way back, Hooper had been his friend, the kind of deep comrade-friend that only soldiers can know about. And Stone owed him. Stone owed very few people anything at all in life. He liked it that way. But Hooper — he owed Hooper. So going after Semyonov — and whoever else was behind that charnel house in Afghanistan — was a way of scratching the itch.

Stone was snapped back to the present by the image of Semyonov on the seatback TV. He put on the headphones:

‘In a surprising development to the Semyonov story, advisers to SearchIgnition Corporation confirmed that they have already sold one hundred percent of the shares belonging to SIC founder and majority shareholder, Steven Semyonov. Semyonov’s holding netted the search genius a total of $25.9 billion in cash.

‘Meanwhile, Semyonov is said to have travelled to Hong Kong, where he’s set to make yet another “major announcement” tomorrow evening.’

Semyonov had taken his money, and himself, out of the US with indecent haste. It looked as guilty as hell. It looked like Terashima was right. But how had she known?

Nine-thirty in the morning. Lawyer Abe Blackman of Blackman, Vascovitz Intellectual Property Law, rubbed his eyes with fatigue. He had worked late, and had made an early start once again.

Blackman’s speciality was the law of patents, and he was the best. He had made hundreds of millions for his clients, working with some of the most creative minds from Silicon Valley. From his mahogany desk Blackman had seen all manner of ideas — most of which he turned down, saving himself for the “money-makers”. He was seldom surprised by the way things turned out.

But surprised he had been when a Chinese gentleman calling himself Shin arrived the previous afternoon, wearing an ill-fitting suit and cheap shoes. He said he was from Taiwan and he carried an outsized briefcase.

Blackman doubted Shin had anything of note in that bag of his, and he came to the point. ‘Why should I look at your work, Shin?’ Blackman asked, barely looking up from his desk.

The first surprise came when Shin produced a banker’s draft. ‘I give you twenty thousand dollars to review these papers, Mr Blackman. On the condition you alone should examine them.’ Shin then produced a very professionally drafted non-disclosure form for Abe Blackman to sign.

Twenty grand? It wouldn’t hurt. Blackman took the cheque without speaking, and scribbled on the non-disclosure agreement.

Shin took the signed agreement and inspected it. Then he placed a number of thick files on the desk.

At this point, Blackman attempted to bid Mr Shin goodbye, but the Chinese insisted on sitting in the office while Blackman read the papers. Shin stood up and went to sit silently in a chair by the door. Blackman shook his head, took out his reading glasses, and began to work.

— oO0Oo-

As the antique clock ticked softly in his office, Blackman quickly realised Shin was no time-waster. These were fundamental technologies. There were nine or ten first rate patents that he could see at first glance.

The first file was an outline for a system of wirelessly-controlled industrial robots. Within that, there were patents in software, miniature engineering and nanotechnology. Then there was a quite incredible system of sensors, which would allow the tiny robots to hover and even fly at slow speeds. Blackman felt out of his depth momentarily — for the first time in twenty years.

After two hours of reading the details of the first file, Blackman realized his mouth was dry. This stuff would work, it would actually work. The sensors could be mass-produced — very cheaply. So, given the right equipment, could the nanotech parts. Yes, in theory this incredible technology looked not only viable, but cheap to make.

The Chinese man sitting in the corner of his office, his eyes half-closed, was a genius, sitting on an astonishing fund of technology worth billions of dollars. Either that or he was a lunatic, a maniac who had spent months forging research papers

Blackman made his decision. He left a voicemail for his secretary to cancel his morning meetings. He asked for coffee and caffeine tablets. He would be working through the night.

— oO0Oo-

Abe Blackman sat red-eyed at his desk again the next morning. The unreadable face of Mr Shin looked on from the side of the room, as it had done all night. Blackman was nowhere near a detailed assessment of the three files, but everything so far was in order. There were questions over the programming — the software as described looked, well, astonishing. But that was a minor detail.

Blackman felt lightheaded. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity. His every instinct told him to grab at the opportunity. But prudence dictated he know more about the mysterious Mr Shin. The third file in particular gave him pause. It was clearly a weapon — a device which generated and focused very low frequency sound waves. The waves affected the central nervous system of mammals to incapacitate. The idea had come from research work done on the roar of tigers. Crazy, but all backed up by research.

Abe Blackman eyed Mr Shin, then handed back the bundle of files.

‘I make it a rule not to sign in the heat of the moment,’ Blackman said finally. ‘But I’m sure we can work together. I’ll call you in a couple of days.’

Mr Shin showed no disappointment. ‘You have signed the confidentiality agreement,’ he said. ‘You are aware of the consequences if you break your promise?’

‘Naturally,’ Blackman replied, irritated. And then, ‘Forgive me. It is our practice nowadays to take copies of our clients’ passports…’

Shin took out his Taiwanese document. Blackman left the room to make a copy, and stared at the enigmatic face in the passport.

A minute later Shin was gone. Abe Blackman found himself looking at the photo of Shin’s unreadable face once more. He realized he needed to take stock here. Real life did not proceed like this, and he needed to make some further enquiries on the enigmatic Chinese man.

The usual agencies wouldn’t cut it. Blackman picked up the phone.

‘FBI?’ he said in clipped Californian tones. ‘Give me Special Agent Carl Hackspill. No, I can’t say what it’s about. It’s a personal call.’