He stumbled for perhaps a kilometer, heading east towards the far side of Dharavi. The rain soon stopped, and the skies cleared. Then came the heat, and the puddles evaporated. By this point his headache was maddening, and the pain in his arm seemed worse with each step. If he didn’t clean the wound soon, infection would set in. At a minimum, he needed alcohol to disinfect it, which he would only secure once he found a path out of Dharavi.
Now that the rain had eased more people were moving about. Crowds would make it more difficult for the drone to track him. He kept his head down at all times to avoid any facial recognition software it might be running. He stole an olive-green t-shirt from a washing line, threw away his blood-soaked shirt and changed tops.
Later he stumbled into an open area with many rows of modern, steel fabricated units, built on metal piling elevating them above the muck. Each had a door with an electronic palm scanner and caged windows. There must have been hundreds of these residential units, ordered, arranged and clean, each with the lettering N6 prominent on their front facing walls. In their midst was a radio transmission tower, several satellite dishes, arrays of solar panels and water tanks, all built up high on sturdy steel structures with no easy means to reach them. It reminded him of a proposed prefabricated base for future Mars colonization projects he had once read about in National Geographic.
Construction teams comprising locals, far east Asians, Africans and Westerners were all busy erecting more of the units. They all wore high visibility vests and hard hats with the N6 logo. Several directed a small excavator using its arm as a crane lift, preparing the next unit for assembly.
Simon stumbled through the group, knowing that if he mingled with the Westerners and if he could steal a high visibility vest, he might confuse the drone further. Half way through the group he stumbled. A young Indian woman approached, her long dark hair tied in a ponytail. She wore trousers and a blouse under her vest, and sturdy steel capped work boots.
“Are you okay?” she asked in English.
Simon nodded and kept walking.
She stepped in front of him. “Were you near the blast? We heard it, just saw it on the news. Gas bottles?”
Simon caught her eye and nodded. She was pretty, with kind yet serious eyes. “A bad accident back there.”
The woman stepped close, took his arm to examine his wound. “That looks serious.”
“I know. I need to get it treated.”
Smiling, she said, “I am a doctor.” When she caught his questioning stare, she replied with, “You think we only build structures here? I can help you.”
Simon nodded because talking was difficult. He was tougher than this. He’d once snapped both bones in his foreleg chasing an insurgent through the streets of Jakarta, and that had hurt way worse. This was just a cut. Given the right tools, he could patch himself. But the pain… it was intense. He decided he should accept her offer.
The doctor led him inside one of the accommodation units, bypassing the security locks with her palm print. The interior was clean. Its dimensions were three by five meters. A large digital screen embedded in the wall played a screen saver with the rotating N6 logo. A touch-keypad embedded in the desk next to the screen control it. He identified a compact kitchen area, a refrigerator, several fold-away bunks and a door which led to a toilet and washroom. All surfaces featured the same logo.
The woman led Simon to a sink. Without asking she washed out the wound with cold and what looked to be clean water. Simon struggled against the pain, tried not to flinch as he allowed her to clean it. The situation made him uncomfortable, accepting help from a stranger, but this was his best option. She took a medical kit from a locker, searched inside until she found tweezers which she used — much to Simon’s revulsion — to pick debris from his wound. Then she cleaned it again with a saline solution and alcohol swabs before looking up at Simon. “Did that hurt?”
He nodded.
“That was nothing. You ready for the next bit?”
“Stitches?” he winced. He had been willing to do it himself, had to if he were to survive his injury. Somehow, allowing someone else to do it was worse.
“Don’t worry you big baby. I’ll inject a local anesthetic. You won’t feel a thing.”
He felt relieved. “Thanks.”
The pinpricks of the needle were inconsequential to the pain he had experienced until now. Much to his relief, his forearm soon grew numb. He watched with interest as the woman sutured his wound. She wasn’t rushing. She was being precise.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“My name is Dr. Aishwarya Mattu. I’m not hung up about the doctor bit, so you can call me Aishwarya. Or Ms. Mattu. Or Doctor Mattu. I like all my names. Seems a shame to use one name more than another. Kind of like owning three cars but only ever driving one.”
“I’m Tom,” Simon said creating the beginnings of an alias.
“You have a last name?”
“Anderson. Tom Anderson.”
“Well Tom, it looks like I’m your savior today.”
“I’m grateful. You do this kind of thing out of the goodness of your heart?”
Her stare was suspicious. “You think I will charge you?”
“Sorry. I mean this set-up. I’m happy to pay—?”
“You need not pay—”
“Right. Thanks.” He wasn’t making himself clear. “I mean, are you an NGO? Non-government aid organization?”
“Yes, in a way.” She smiled again. “I’ve dedicated the last six months of my life to N6 and this project, helping the people who have the least and need the most. Everything N6 does is altruistic, Tom. That’s why I joined. Their vision is my vision. We don’t ask for money from people who can’t afford the services they need, you included. It sounds like you’re not used to people being kind without an ulterior motive?”
“In my line of business…” he gave her his best smile as he gritted his teeth, watched as she pushed a needle and thread through his flesh, “… you kind of question everything.”
“What line of business would that be?”
“Computers.” He lied again. “Network administration.”
“Doesn’t sound so bad.”
“Normally it isn’t, until someone tries to hack in to your system, and take control.”
She nodded, understanding where his suspicions originated. “I guess you would be. Network security is more your line of business then? Keeping the bad people out?”
“Yes. That’s what I meant. It’s distracting, watching my arm being put back together.”
“Then don’t watch.”
“My imagination is worse.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to ‘hack’ your body. You can keep all of it for yourself, and besides…” She looked up at him, waited until he made eye contact. He grinned, and she did too. “What would I do with a second body, anyway? I only have one mind. One mind can’t control two bodies.”
Simon nodded. Aishwarya was odd, quirky and prone to rambling, but also engaging and charismatic, drawing him in. “I guess you have a point.”
“Imagine being able to spilt your mind so it could operate in two places, or three, or four, or even a thousand. When you came back together again, would each individual part have changed, so none of you were the same person anymore? Could you even come back together?”
Simon shrugged. Her philosophical musings were interesting, but it was hard for him to engage when she was performing field surgery on his arm.
“Never mind Tom, it was just a random thought.”
When she finished suturing his wound, she washed her hands of his blood. Next, she placed surgical tape over the wound pinching the skin back together.
“Can I ask you a question?” he said now that the worst part of the surgery was over.
“Seems like a good time, so sure.”
“What’s N6?”
She frowned. “You don’t know N6?”
Simon shook his head. “Only saw them on a billboar
d this morning. Thought they were new.”
“Oh no Tom, they’ve been around for decades. I am surprised you don’t know of them. They are everywhere.”
“Really?” He wasn’t certain he believed that. “How long have you worked for them?”
“Oh, five, six months, something like that.”
Simon nodded. Everything weird in the world had started about six or seven months ago now, and these pristine accommodation units in the middle of a slum weren’t normal in Simon’s view of the world. Therefore, N6 didn’t strike him as a normal NGO.
“You seem passionate about them?”
“N6 is a charity organization, if you like. We support people-enhancement projects all over the world, Tom, like our mission here in Dharavi. These accommodation units, they feature multiple levels of security that allow access only for orphaned children or trusted representatives of N6 like myself, recognized by their palm prints. If anyone else forces their way in, we have security guards who can deal with intruders. There, you’re done.”
His arm featured a clean suture. It still ached, but nothing like before. “Thank you.”
She covered the wound with a larger bandage to keep out infection. “Don’t overstretch it. The last thing you need is to pop those stitches.” She went to the refrigerator, took a vial and handed it to Simon. “Broad-spectrum antibiotics. Take two now, then one every twelve hours until you’ve completed the pack. I presume you’ve had your tetanus and rabies shots?”
“Yes,” He took a cup from the kitchen and filled it with water from the sink, then washed down the two pills. Now he was up and about, he felt light-headed again, and the world seemed to spin once more. For a second, he considered she might have drugged him.
“Hold on a second.” She sat him down, took a penlight from the first aid kit and shone it into each of his eyes. “You might be in shock, Mr. Anderson.”
“Tom, please. And I’m fine.”
She felt his pulse, touched his forehead to check his temperature. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Seriously, I’m okay.”
“Well, I can’t hold you here if you refuse, but you’d be stupid if you didn’t stay and rest. If you need to lie down, I can make arrangements?”
His suspicious mind again considered that she might have drugged him. His instincts, however, told him she was genuine, and that he was dizzy from pain and shock. “You have an orange juice? A coke? Something with sugar?”
She went to the refrigerator and produced a can of lemonade. He took it, popped the seal and guzzled. He soon felt better. Sugar was what he needed.
“What does N6 stand for? November Sixth?”
She laughed. “No, it’s our motto. ‘No Nations, No Nepotism, No Neglect’. We’re about creating a better world, where people are no longer the victims of the environments they are born into. Take this room as an example. Orphaned children can come to these dwellings, so they can sleep safely knowing that no one can attack, abuse, threaten or rape them during the night. They are also a place to learn and receive food and medicines. The digital screens are hooked up to our global networks and provide children with a host of educational programs. Each activity they complete rewards them with a food package, delivered by drones. At N6, we are preparing the next generation to be the first not to know poverty… Why are you looking at me like that, Tom?”
He hadn’t realized he’d been making a face, or he was staring at her. What she was saying fascinated him because he didn’t quite believe it was real. “How old is this project, this one here?”
“Six months. Why?”
It was his turn to laugh. “Any of you worked for N6 longer than six months?”
Aishwarya had to think for a moment. “I don’t know. Now you come to mention it, I was amongst the first on this project, so probably not. My supervisor, in New Delhi, he’s been with N6 for years.”
“You ever met in person?”
She paused again, then shook her head. “Why these questions, Tom?”
“Honestly, I don’t know.” He shrugged and lied again because he didn’t want to say what was on his mind. “Just that I’ve never heard of N6, that’s all. And this is a big gig you’ve set up here. In my line of business, I’m all over tech startup companies. I would have thought I’d have heard of you.”
What he didn’t say was that he knew with certainty whose company this was. GhostKnife had created N6, established it when the AI had first come online about seven months ago. Aishwarya’s boss was no more real than the digital Gridley-Brooks he’d been dealing with since the artificial intelligence had assigned Simon to protect Casey. Aishwarya’s digital manager would have provided the perfect impression that N6 had been around for much longer, and that humans ran it.
“I mean, Aishwarya, I can see you might succeed here. This is fantastic.”
“Are you okay, Tom?”
He nodded. “Oh yes. Why?”
“I still think you should lie down. You’ve lost a significant amount of blood.”
“I’m fine.” He finished his lemonade. “Aishwarya, Doctor, you’ve given me faith I’ve chosen the right side.”
“What do you mean?”
“My client. I wasn’t sure about him at first. But now…”
“Tom?”
Simon laughed. “I keep thinking I’m alone in this, but I’m not. I have a friend who keeps sending people like you to help me.” He remembered the NGO and the man he had encountered two weeks ago in Africa, who had helped Casey and Simon after a long trek through the nighttime desert of East Kenya. At the time Simon had put the encounter down to luck. Now he wasn’t so sure. What had GhostKnife said yesterday? Something about the AI ‘needing to be subtle’ and ‘leaving a trail of clues’ for him to follow.
The AI had also talked about sending someone else to help him.
“You’re from India, right? Not the Middle East?”
“I was born here in Mumbai. I’ve only ever traveled outside of India to Europe on two occasions. Never the Middle East. Why do you ask?”
Simon stood, bowed and pressed his hands together, palms touching and fingers pointed upwards. “Namaste.” I bow to the divine light within you.
Aishwarya bowed and returned the gesture. “Namaste. You are leaving already?”
“Yep. I’m glad I met you Aishwarya. You’ve helped me more than you might know. I hope we meet again one day, but I have a friend who needs me. The longer we are apart, the worst it will be for her.”
“That sounds… cryptically terrible?”
Simon nodded. He said nothing because he didn’t know how to explain further, so he gave another short bow and left.
He soon identified his location. The sun was low in the west so he headed away from it, to the opposite side of the slum from where he had entered.
As he walked down the traffic-heavy Station Road, it became a bridge and crossed a rail line, defining the boundary of the eastern edge of the slum. On the opposite side, he discovered a convenience store with a payphone and made a call.
“Yes?” said the man who answered.
Simon recognized Matondkar’s voice. “Any luck finding the American couple?” Simon asked bypassing pleasantries.
“Yes, I did, Cooper,” he said using Ashcroft’s alias. “One, at least.”
“Which one?”
“The woman.”
“Okay, thank you. Please tell me where I can find her?”
Matondkar laughed. “I can do better than that. I can introduce you. She’s my guest.”
Simon felt a cold shiver erupt along the length of his spine. If Matondkar had Clementine Irvine in his house, she was not his guest. “If you’ve hurt her in any way—”
“Cooper, calm down. Everything is fine. But if you want it to stay ‘fine’, then come now, because I can’t promise it will remain that way.”
Simon growled. “We had a deal.”
“We still do, I’ve just changed the details. You have three hours, then—”
; Simon didn’t wish to hear anymore. He slammed down the receiver and marched out of the store.
GhostKnife might help him from afar, but that didn’t stop Shatterhand laying every obstacle it could onto Simon’s path towards salvation.
CHAPTER 22
A gentle rocking, back and forth, back and forth.
Light creeped in.
She forced her eyes closed. There was a pain outside. She didn’t want to let it in.
“Peri?”
Rocking, back and forth, back and forth.
That’s what her father did… rocked her back and forth, on the cane chair on their family porch, hung from a chain off the verandah. She always felt safe around her father, especially when he rocked her. He’d never questioned that she might not achieve whatever she put her mind to…
“Peri?”
Who was calling her? Her father? Or the President? Had they always shared similar facial and vocal characteristics, or was that a recent amalgamation?
Back and forth—
“PERI!”
She opened her eyes, startled by the sun’s intense brightness. The aches flooded in, a double hit from the fever and the beating she had taken fighting Ashcroft—
She sat upright. Her head ached.
The Australian terrorist. Simon Ashcroft. Where was he?
Paul Szymanski instead looked down at her, with his awkward smile and nervous gestures, he held her head with one hand and supported her back with the other. “Are you okay?” he asked.
She looked around orientating herself. Ashcroft was nowhere. The shanty house where they had been fighting, where she had sliced open Ashcroft’s arm, was now a pile of smoldering rubble. Dharavi citizens stood some distance back, adults and children alike, discussing her in languages she couldn’t understand. The rain had stopped. At least the air was damp, bringing relief from the heat that aggravated her illness.
“Peri, what do you remember?”
“I’m f-f-fine, Paul.” She clambered to her feet. The stench that wafted into her nostrils almost made her gag. Then she realized that the smell was her. She’d been lying unconscious in the muck and waste of the slum. “Where’s Ashcroft?”
Strike Matrix Page 17
