by Alex Rudall
“It goes without saying, but I’m saying it anyway. This is a completely classified situation, marked black–one. Any breach of infosec will result in immediate court martial for treason. I will now tell you the facts as we know them. Yesterday morning a powerful electromagnetic signal was detected at alert stations around the world. The radio burst was comparable to that detected in 2026 shortly before the GSE took to orbit. Actually the main difference between the two was that this was considerably more powerful.”
Amber felt a rush of fear and excitement through her chest. Gasps and murmurs ran around the room.
“Silence!” the General said. “It overwhelmed many of our detectors, and there is confusion about the order in which it reached those that did not burn out. So pinning down the location by those means may be impossible.”
There were a several mutters, but the quiet held.
“We have no evidence that it was the Chinese, but that is our best guess at the moment. Those of you new to Kathmandu will have seen it on your way to the office; there is agreement–violating tech on every street corner out here. The vast majority of that tech comes straight out of China, tacitly encouraged by the Chinese government. So, with that in mind, I’m looking for your recommendation for the best course of action. This is not an exercise or a drill. We have received a GSE–level signal: what is our response? Please be aware that the selection process for the Area Commanders begins right now.”
For a moment there was silence. Then several voices cried out at once.
Amber heard “Door–to–door!” and “Chinese ambassador!” cut through the hubbub.
"Silence!” the General shouted. “One at a time!”
There was another pause, lengthened by everyone waiting for everyone else, and then almost before she knew what she was doing Amber was speaking.
“The darknet,” she said. Every eye in the room swung around to her. “The best intel is on the darknet,” she said. “We should look there.”
The General stared at her. “The analysts will look at that,” he said, after a moment. “Something else?”
More voices started, but Amber felt a rush of anger at the dismissal. She was the most experienced trainee in the room.
“No, they won’t!” she said, raising her voice. The room fell silent. “The analysts don’t do the darknet properly, they haven’t got the profiles. They just see what everyone knows they can see.”
"So?” the General said.
“I – I’ve got the contacts,” Amber said quickly. “I’ve been building them for years, I know some pretty serious players. I could do it.”
“What’s your name, soldier?” the General said, after a long moment.
“Amber Marasini,” Amber said.
“Marasini, when I want to chat to your inked up friends I’ll ask you.” There were a couple of laughs and Amber flushed. “Wasting time on illegal forums is not what we do here. Someone with sense, please.”
She clenched her fists.
“Amber,” Emily said.
"Six litres of blue and some yellow,” she said. “Last year. I got the information from the darknet in San Francisco. I had to burn a long–term profile but that was one of the biggest ink–hauls on the west coast for years.”
“Don’t you dare tell me how to do my job!” the General shouted, rising to his feet. “I ordered you to stop speaking!”
Amber resisted the urge to reply to that. She was surprised to find that the man frightened her.
“Get out of here, I want you patrolling on foot. Get to know the locals or something.”
Amber felt her face start to burn. The anger boiled within her.
“Out!” the General said.
She stood quickly, said “Sir!” and pushed out, squeezing past people who did not make eye contact with her. As she passed through the door she heard the General say ‘too much red”. The laughter followed her out of the room.
Amber strode back to the lift, left the building and went west on foot, seething. She moved quickly, shoving through the crowds where she needed to. When they saw her in time, people got out of the way, fear in their eyes. The overwhelming smell was exhaust fumes from ancient petrol vehicles, but Amber could also detect the scent of human shit. She crossed a small bridge over a thin river running between high wood and concrete buildings. The water was completely clogged with plastic bags, a mess of bright colours in the filthy water. Uncovered electrical wires hung low overhead, and she passed half–finished concrete monstrosities of buildings, the rusting ribbed bolts of cheap steel sticking out like bones into the polluted air.
Despite appearances Kathmandu was a thriving tech centre, humming with robotics and barely–legal implants. It was widely known that the Chinese used it as a plausibly–deniable testing ground for their Technological Limitation Agreement–banned technologies and AIs.
ITSA, despite substantial Chinese funding, at its heart still a pro–US agency, had struggled to contain the Kathmandu tech boom. It was now increasing its presence to try and stop or hinder the Chinese. Meanwhile, Amber knew, the rich lived in gated communities on the best land and roamed the streets on the back of robots while the poor had their kids killed by the drones patrolling the slums.
Black three–wheelers honked and buzzed their way around the dirty rubbish–strewn streets. Street kids scattered. In one corner there was an armful of stray dogs picking at the rubbish, skinny and scared. In places the pavement was ruptured, as if someone had started road repairs and then given up halfway through. Confident wives with armfuls of groceries marched together, still young and pretty.
She saw a pair of Western girls, all backpacks and super–nutritioned height and brand new tans and braids in their hair, one with little bright yellow ink tattoos on her shoulders, that she’d have to keep hidden in the West. They were walking towards a big temple she could see high on a hill up the road. Amber thought of them getting pickpocketed and hit on by drunks and thieves while they tried to gobble up all the experiences they could. She shook her head.
Cooking–smells wafted from roadside stalls. Women strolled past in bright saris. Older men wore little red pointed hats.
The road was lined with shops, dirty cavities stretching back inside the crooked buildings. She passed one and stopped. Amongst the Coca–cola and Budweiser branding, a sign over the entrance read buy darknet transmitter here. She blinked at the audaciousness of it – the darknet was completely illegal under the Technological Limitation Agreement. In the US the penalty for possession started at five years imprisonment. She looked around for some reason to let it slide. Was it a joke?
“You seeing what I’m seeing?” she said.
“By definition,” Emily replied in her ear.
“Would I be within my remit to investigate that?”
“That would depend on your intentions.”
“To investigate the advertising of a criminal activity.”
“Why are you asking?”
“Is that a yes?”
“If that’s actually what you’re going to do, then yes, it’s technically inside your remit. But I’m not sure that the General meant–”
Amber was already inside the shop.
Inside was dark, lit only by a pair of filthy fluorescent tubes in a far corner. The walls were covered with shelves and the shelves were crammed with boxes overflowing with tiny electronic components. The man behind the counter was half–asleep, one hand buried in one of the little boxes. When he saw her he snapped awake and jumped around the desk towards her. He was wearing a bright red waist–coat, embroidered with a pattern of vines. He gave her a big grin.
“Immune?” he said.
Amber nodded. “I’m looking for a transmitter.” A shadow of fear crossed the man’s face for a moment. He knew it was illegal – how could he be stupid enough to put a sign up? Was ITSA so weak here? Were the Chinese so strong?
“Oh, no,” he grinned, “We do not sell that. Electronic components only.”
“Don
’t worry, I’m not police,” she said. “I want to buy.”
“Er…” Emily said in her ear. Amber blinked to make her shut up.
“You want to buy?” the man said, appearing to consider it.
“Yeah,” she said, “Sell me one,” Amber said. To her surprise the man nodded.
“Follow me,” he said, still nodding. “Come here.”
He ushered her into an even darker part of the shop.
“Amber…” Emily said. Amber blinked again. She could feel the implant administrator activating various nervous system heighteners, readying her body to fight. She glanced around. It was an enclosed space, but he was only one man, and she was stronger than him and probably faster. She patted her sidearm anyway, as if to make sure it was still there.
They reached a door. The man pushed it open on a dark and smoky room. Amber counted eight men sat on crates. Everyone was smoking. They all looked up and stared at her. One tall, thin man pushed himself to his feet and shuffled towards her, smiling a yellow smile. She could smell the alcohol from two feet away. He said something in Nepali that her translator couldn’t catch.
“She wants to buy a transmitter,” the shopkeeper replied. “Says she’s not police.”
“She would say that, wouldn’t she, brother,” he said in Nepali, still smiling.
“You looking for a good time?” he said in English. All the men laughed.
“I want to buy a transmitter,” Amber said, grinning back fiercely.
“Negro wants to buy a transmitter,” a voice said at the back, and some of the men laughed. The drunk man grinned back at them.
“You want a drink?” he said to Amber, and someone handed him a dirty bottle. “You like whiskey?”
Amber shook her head. “I want to buy a transmitter, or I’m leaving right now.”
“No,” the man said, reaching out and gripping her arm. She grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm, hard enough to hurt him a little and make him release. He grimaced, but then laughed and let go of her, shaking out his wrist.
“Oh, transmitter!” he said. He turned around and nodded at one of the men. The man disappeared through a door and came back holding something. He gave it to the drunk man, who held it out to Amber. It was a modified watch. She took it and switched it on.
“Forty thousand,” the man said, nodding and smiling. “Very cheap.”
Amber tapped at the screen. There was no response.
“Is it broken?” she said to Emily in her inside voice.
“Not even a watch,” the implant replied. “Just a casing.”
Amber shook her head. “No,” she said.
“Just no signal here,” the man said.
“Bye,” Amber said, and she dropped the case to the floor and turned to go.
“Wait,” the man said. She looked back and from nowhere he had another watch in his hand. He tapped the screen and it glowed. He handed it to her. She pressed connections —it was picking up from eighty–four local transmitters. She had never seen more than four at once in the US. She loaded up the front forum.
“Is it legit?” she subvocalised.
“As legit as this shit can be,” Emily said. “It’s worth ten k at most.”
“I’ll give you eight thousand rupees,” Amber said out loud.
“Eight thousand!” the man said, mock–shocked. Amber shook her head and turned to leave.
“OK, OK, wait, is OK, eight thousand,” he said, holding out his wrist.
“Do it,” Amber said to Emily, and touched his personal watch to hers. They made a noise like coins rattling inside a jar. The man checked his watch and grinned.
“Thanks,” Amber said.
“Sure, sure,” said the man. “Stay, drink!” he said, holding up the whiskey, but she was already at the door.
“Get me a secure drone to take this home, now,” she said to Emily. “Use my personal account.”
Amber walked quickly out of the shop. It was already hovering at the door, waiting for her, a sturdy–looking quadcopter with an open drawer like a mouth.
“That’s it,” said Emily. Amber dropped the watch into the drawer. With a whine the drone shot up into the air.
She turned to go just as an empty taxi passed. She waved and it stopped immediately, the door sliding open. She jumped inside and sat on the dirty, ripped seat. The door slid shut and locked just as she realised what she was doing and Emily said, “No!” The taxi accelerated suddenly, shooting down the street and then hard left down an alleyway, throwing her against the side of the car. She swore and struggled to right herself.
“Backup, now!” she shouted, and threw herself against the door she had come in through, tugging the emergency handle. It snapped off. The car plowed down the alley, throwing dirty water out to the side, people in rags jumping out of the way. It turned hard left again, throwing Amber down once more, shot through an open gate into a small courtyard and slammed to a halt.
She scrambled up as the door slid open. The men from the shop were running out of a door, several of them holding metal bars, one giant of a man holding a long knife. Most were grinning.
Emily spoke quickly, “Get away from the door! Permission?”
“Granted!” said Amber, but it came out as a gargled scream as Emily flooded her body with epinephrine and then a massive dose of amphetamines. Amber’s heart spasmed and sped up so quickly it felt like it was about to explode. Amber threw herself away across the taxi as the door slid open and the huge man with the knife reached in. She reached for her gun but he had hold of her ankle and she had to grab the seat with both hands to stay in the car.
“Face,” said Emily, and the years of training and the four real close up physical fights she had been in in her whole life kicked in, and it was almost as good as ink. She twisted and kicked him in the face with her other foot, breaking his nose and her big toe all at once. He cried out but he didn’t let go, just spat and held on and pulled hard on her ankle. Amber held on to the seat and screamed in anger and pain. It felt like her leg would detach.
“Let go,” said Emily, and Amber garbled “fuck you,” as she let go and he dragged her out of the car. She hit the ground hard in a cloud of dust but he had released her and then she was on her feet so fast she hardly knew what had happened. He snarled and stabbed viciously towards her with the long knife. She dodged to the side, avoiding the blade by inches, took his wrist, pulled him hard to break his balance and turned the knife up towards him as he fell. It was so sharp it went through his chestplate without resistance. He dropped with a gasp and she danced back, reaching for her gun, registering the six others closing in. Six?
Emily said brace so quickly that it felt like one of her own thoughts. Amber had time to be aware that it meant something bad, which was no help at all, and then without knowing how she had got there she was on one knee, blood pouring down her face, Emily screaming get up, get up.
She looked up and became aware that she could no longer feel the right side of her head. She could see some of her blood and hair on the iron bar. The man wielding it looked shocked that she was still conscious. Reinforced brain, friend, she thought abstractedly. He was raising the bar again so she stood up and drew her gun and shot him through the throat. He stumbled back and dropped the bar and she went down to her knees involuntarily, and then there was a great wind and a deafening roar and heat everywhere and loud booming voices echoing from the walls. She fell onto her face as something big and dark descended on the courtyard.
“Shit,” she mumbled into the dirt and blood.
Hardwick
The concrete architecture of Walter Sisulu University loomed in the darkness. There were a few electrics and one ancient petrol but otherwise the gravel car park was empty. Hardwick sat in his suit in the sleek opulence of his car, looking out into the night, rubbing occasionally at his lined face with both hands.
The note said six o'clock; his watch read 17:49.
Hardwick could see nobody in the area of the car park. There were seve
ral sections of concrete piping big enough to stand up in. There was a heap of rubble. He thought he saw a little movement over by one of the university buildings, but it was too dark to be sure, and he had no eye implants to look closer. He checked his watch once more for the route to the library, then rolled his sleeve down so it was completely hidden. The suit, which he had worn to impress the student, now felt like a ridiculous, dangerous choice. Still more dangerous was the vial of ink in the left pocket of his trousers. But it was too late now, unless he backed out; and backing out would mean giving up on the possibility of an incredibly lucrative deal. And he needed the ink in his pocket to test them. There was no other way to be sure.
If it worked, he wanted it, because it would make him much richer, and because the technology the email and the note had hinted at, if it existed at all, would be important enough to make his name. To grant him a kind of immortality, even. And because he had read too many stories of investors turning down opportunities at an early stage and missing out on billions.
Hardwick had not gone to university, not even a poor one like this. It had seemed like a waste of time for him; he was not good enough at maths or science to do something technical, and he didn’t believe that a degree in business would help him. Experience had proved him right. Still, he didn’t mind working with the educated. They invented valuable things, and tended to be naïve and flexible at the negotiating table.
They had contacted him. The email said the inventor, Lwazi, was a student, and he had developed a process and a prototype for detecting certain chemicals at distance. This in itself was not particularly interesting, but what had piqued Hardwick’s interest enough to make him take the meeting was the handwritten note that followed it. It had been delivered to Hardwick’s secretary first thing that morning by a fresh–faced young black man who was, probably, the inventor himself. The note had been written in handwriting so messy as to possibly have been deliberately messy; it said the inventor had developed a method for detecting chemicals with a nanotechnological component at a distance. Post–GSE, the word nanotechnological could mean just one thing: ink.
