Inkers

by Alex Rudall

  “Oh god,” Robert said.

  “Yep,” she said. “I’m stuck in my apartment now, until the investigation is done. They’ve got a drone sat on my window.”

  He stood up. “I’m coming to get you.”

  “You can’t. They – they’ve forbidden me from speaking to anyone.”

  The fear on Robert’s face brought her own rushing back.

  “While the investigation is on? How are you talking to me?”

  “Darknet,” she said. “Dryer’s recommending I be forbidden from talking to anyone from ITSA, ever. I guess he found out about us.”

  “No,” said Robert, and he sat down on the bench and put his face in his hands.

  After a long time he raised his face again.

  “What can I do?”

  “Probably nothing,” she said quietly. He looked like he was about to cry, but he blinked several times and then leaned forward and put his hands on her shoulders. “You’re not a lost cause. We’ll figure it out.”

  She kissed him, and then pulled away. “You at home?” she said.

  He nodded and they kissed again, and lay down together, the boat making room for them.

  All darknet watches were burners with a built–in lifespan to help protect anonymity: this one had had 60 days. There was less than a week left before it ran out. She spent some time with Robert, mainly talking and having sex, but used most of her waking hours to trawl through everything she could find about the signal. She looked for discussion about the pregnant girl, too, and tried without success to find another copy of the photo. Stingray hadn’t appeared online at all since he had sent her the photo.

  She found an old discussion involving people who claimed to have seen the photo. There was much argument about the species of plant in the pot – apparently it looked a lot like sorbus arranensis, a plant native to a single island off Scotland called Arran. It fit what Stingray had said about the speech indicators of the message.

  On the final day, with three hours to go before the watch would self–destruct, not having slept for over twenty–four hours, she came across a set of conspiracy theories. She found one she had never heard before. Its thesis was that the GSE itself was the result of an experimental ink/human foetus, and that to make ink of sufficient concentration and complexity to do that you would need thousands of litres of ink.

  Amber dropped the watch, stunned. Suddenly, somehow, she was certain. The dark figure was a pregnant girl and she had a singularity inside her. She read everything she could, but found nothing more, only just remembering to send Robert a message saying goodbye before the timer ran out.

  The next day she received a message from ITSA Internal Security stating that the investigation would be concluded within one week and she should prepare to leave her apartment, and potentially Nepal, at very short notice. Amber packed her small bag and waited to find out if she would face the death penalty.

  Hardwick

  “He’s scared. He invented this thing, and it’s brilliant, and he knows it’s worth a lot, but he’s terrified he’s going to lose it or someone’s going to steal it. He doesn’t get that it’s not the invention really, however good your invention is that’s only a tiny part of it. It’s the business that matters, it’s how well you can monetise.”

  Hardwick was sat in the office of his big empty house, the old–style landline resting on his shoulder. He rented the house remarkably cheaply from a contact he had made while running down his last property business. It was far too big for him but he liked the size, he liked being able to disappear into the house, even sleep in a different bed each night. When he got tired of the place he’d just call a number, end the contract and leave. He had enough money not to need long–term possessions.

  “Yeah, is that the line you’ll sell him?” came the response. Ross had given Hardwick his first job at sixteen, and, although you couldn’t really teach the aggression that had made Hardwick successful, he had at least tried to teach Hardwick what he knew. They had had a fiery business relationship, but since parting ways, had kept in touch regularly, habitually by old–style calls where they couldn’t see each other’s faces. Hardwick still called him up for a business discussion whenever he felt in the grip of a dilemma. It was an unwritten rule that Ross would not share his own problems with Hardwick; it was a one–way relationship in that sense, but Hardwick hoped Ross enjoyed the mentor role.

  “You’ll sell him that it’s your business expertise that’s the really valuable thing?” Ross said.

  “Yeah, I will,” Hardwick replied. “You’re being sarcastic but I will tell him that because it’s true. What do you think will happen if he goes to the government? Yeah he’ll get a cushy job somewhere I guess, research at ITSA, decent salary. That’s if he was careful enough to keep it legal when he was building the thing, which I kind of doubt actually. They’ll probably just arrest him for illegal research and keep the tech for themselves. But if he can find a way to sell it or monetise it, he knows it’s worth millions, more. Hell, he could be a celebrity.”

  “If it actually works, whatever it is. I think you’re being scammed by this kid.”

  “It works. Trust me. I’ve got a good nose for this kind of thing.”

  “And how long has it been since you met with him?”

  “Two weeks. More than two weeks.”

  “He’s not made contact since then? Since he basically humiliated you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Christ. You’ve blown it.”

  “I have not. I made a mistake, I thought he was just a kid, I could go in all guns blazing and take it all. But he’s not. He’s genuine, he saw straight through me, and I should have tried to build a proper relationship with him.”

  “Isn’t it a bit late for that?”

  “Never. I want to work with him. He’s smart. We’d have a lot of complementary differences.”

  “Hah. Differences is right.”

  “And it’s such a big deal that it’s worth doing differently. Taking a few risks.”

  “I still think it’s too late. Your relationship is in negative equity with him, now, it already was when he found out about the stuff you’ve done – “

  “My successful, honest career –”

  “Yeah, yeah, but from the kid’s perspective, your dishonest career. And then you went in all gung ho and made it even worse. You’re going to have to give him something real. You can’t fake your way here, it’s too late. You’ll have to sacrifice something.”

  “I’ve already said. I’m willing to be fair with him.”

  “Yeah. Well. I’ve don’t know why you bother calling me about this kind of stuff. I don’t think you’ve ever listened to me.”

  “Yeah, maybe, but then I’ve never been wrong, have I?”

  “You’re wrong all the time!” Ross said.

  “But if I’m wrong I make it work anyway, don’t I? Whatever happens I make it work, somehow. I don’t call you to ask you to make my decisions for me. I call you to make sure I’ve thought about everything and to get a different perspective that will help me when I implement. And trust me, these calls are very very helpful in that regard. It’s like pre–negotiation for me, a warm–up. And you’re almost always smarter than the people I’m negotiating with anyway, so by the time I get to them I’ve already won.”

  “Yeah. So can I take it from your tone that you’ve already made your decision on this?”

  “Of course.”

  “And?”

  “I’m buying it.”

  “I thought you were going to try and work with him?”

  “Yeah, but with my money.”

  “And his technology.”

  “And my money.”

  Back to the university, daylight this time, pockets empty of ink. Hardwick had thrown it off a bridge straight after the meeting. Now, several weeks later, he was back to find Lwazi. Hardwick’s car parked in the same place as last time. The campus was busy, students everywhere, the morning sun just starting to hea
t up. In daylight the place looked entirely different. He could see a sandy path skirting around the edge of the grass area where he had fallen. He left his car and followed the path. He passed a tall girl wearing a short jacket and earphones. She pouted at him, raising an eyebrow, and carried on towards the car–park.

  He continued for three more paces and then stopped, looking back.

  “Excuse me,” he called. She carried on.

  “Excuse me!” he said, running after her. She paused and looked at him, pulled out an earphone.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “Sorry,” he said, “Aren’t you one of Lwazi’s friends?”

  “I’m my own person,” she said, her voice quite soft, accent strong.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “But you were there, sat on one of the tables, I’m sure of it. What’s your name?”

  “Yonela. He doesn’t want to see you again. You should leave.”

  “No, I know that, but I want to apologise. I was rude, I’m sorry, I want to apologise to him.”

  “You can’t. He’s gone home, he won’t be back.”

  “To his home? Where is that?”

  She flushed. “A long way away. Too far to visit. You should just forget about it, just leave him now.”

  “Where is it? I don’t mind travelling.”

  “No! I will not tell you, none of us will. You would not be welcome there. Just forget about it.”

  With that she turned and walked away. “Wait!” he called, but she just waved a hand contemptuously.

  He sighed and continued further into the university. He recognised nobody else. He passed the door to the library and went further in between the buildings. It was far less threatening in daylight but somehow also looked more run–down. He reached the far side of the complex and was about to turn back when he saw a low building of red brick with a large green sign – Administration. He approached and pushed through the old, heavy doors. There was nobody to be seen. He went up to the reception desk. There was an old–style computer monitor, and through a door he could see half of an office. It was filled with boxes overflowing with pamphlets and stapled sheaves of A4 paper.

  “Hello?” he said, and then cleared his throat and repeated, more loudly, “Hello?”

  A short, fat man wearing glasses appeared suddenly.

  “Yes?” he said, gruffly.

  “Ah, sorry to bother you,” Hardwick said. “I’m from the Department of Statistics, my name is Mr. Hardwick, nice to meet you.” He offered a hand and the man shook it.

  “What can I help you with?” the man said, softening a little.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m conducting some unofficial preliminary research into the history of certain names. I’m trying to see if these names have appeared at a few different prestigious institutions – do you have the functionality to check if you’ve got anyone by these names enrolled here, just two or three of them?”

  The man considered. “You should book an appointment,” he said. “If you call the University main line–”

  “I will do that,” Hardwick said, “But I just want to quickly check first of all if there’s any point in me doing so. It’ll save us all time in the meanwhile. Here’s my card, by the way, old–fashioned I know but I like to–” he began to rustle in his pockets and then stopped.

  “So can you search on that system, for example, to see if there are any Mandlas? Would you know how to do that?”

  “Yes,” the man said, and shook the mouse to wake the computer up. He typed rapidly.

  “Yes, two,” the man said.

  “Aha, excellent, excellent,” Hardwick said, still rustling in his bag. “You know, it seems I’m out of business cards. My apologies, but I’ll drop one off next time I’m here. He began tapping at his watch. “Two Mandlas, was it? And what are their hometowns, please?”

  “Durban and Capetown,” the man said, after a moment.

  “OK,” Hardwick said, tapping at his watch to note it down. “And any Simphiwes?” he continued. The man typed again.

  “No,” he said. “I should get back to work now, you can call up to book an appointment–”

  “Just one more, please,” Hardwick said, “And then I’ll leave you alone, I promise. Are there any Lwazis?”

  The man frowned. Hardwick tried not to hold his breath. The man typed a few letters.

  “One,” he said.

  “And his hometown?”

  The man looked at the screen. “Ntlaza,” he said. “Near Durban.”

  Hardwick remembered to type it into his watch.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much. Have a great day. I’ll – I’ll be in touch.” The man looked sceptical.

  Hardwick left the administration building and returned to his car.

  “Ntlaza, Eastern Cape, as fast as possible, disregard my comfort,” he said.

  “This journey will take five hours,” the car said, pulling quickly out of the car–park, swerving past students.

  Hardwick took his VR suit out of a drawer and began to put it on.

  The car interrupted Hardwick in the middle of a particularly stimulating VR about a pirate ship.

  “Sir,” it said, “There has been an unexpected delay.”

  “Show me,” Hardwick said. The deck of the ship was replaced by the inside of his car. The letters VR in the upper right of his vision, only really noticeable if he looked straight at them, were the sole reminder that he was still technically looking at a simulation. They slowed to a complete halt. They were surrounded on all sides by cars. Hardwick could see the occupants peering concernedly out of their windows.

  “Any drones nearby?” Hardwick said.

  “Two in visual range,” the car said.

  “Buy me thirty seconds in the one with the best view,” Hardwick said.

  Suddenly he was in the sky, the highway below. The queue was lengthening rapidly. The cars at the rear were turning around and accelerating off in the opposite direction. The cause of the jam was obvious: there had been a stupendous crash, involving by his quick estimate at least fifty cars and several massive lorries, which could be seen strewn all across both sides of the highway. Several were ablaze. He zoomed in – people could be seen walking slowly about between the vehicles.

  “Ambulances coming up from behind,” the car said.

  “Alright,” Hardwick said. “Exit VR.”

  The highway disappeared and he was in the darkness of the suit. He unzipped the hood and peeled it off, stowed it in a drawer.

  “We are being moved out of the way for the ambulances,” the car said.

  Hardwick thought for a moment. “Follow them,” he said. “Join the train.”

  “Sir, that would be a major violation of the highway–”

  “Do it, pay the fine.”

  The long ambulance–lorries roared past. He settled into his seat but was still nearly thrown out of it by the sideways acceleration of the car as it shot into the gap left by the ambulances. His car’s electric engines whined as it chased them. The other civilian cars, wheels sideways, had begun to close the gap, but they all jumped back to avoid a collision.

  They were close to catching the rearmost ambulance when it began to brake, and then suddenly it disappeared to the left and there was a gap ahead. They had reached the accident.

  “Slow down, don’t touch anyone or anything, but find a way through. Use whatever drones you need to, go off the road if you need to and the risk of getting stuck is less than one percent. Go.”

  The car slowed down and began to weave between the ambulance lorries, which were opening up and letting out groups of bots and paramedics. The humans stared at him as he passed, the bots rushing straight out into the carnage and getting to work. He saw several cars that had been completely eviscerated, flattened by the high speeds. One mangled wreck was surrounded by a large pool of what could only be blood. He thought he saw some body parts in there too. He looked away.

  His car had to go onto the hard should
er and and then down onto a bank for several metres, but it found a way. Once they were through the worst of the crash the road emptied completely and the car accelerated to 250mph. Hardwick didn’t get back into his VR suit again. Somehow the pirate adventure had lost its appeal. He made a substantial donation to a fund for tech–related accidents and sat and watched the orange sunset out of the window while he waited to arrive.

  Following the death of Nelson Mandela, South Africa had gradually descended into anarchy, climaxing in devastating civil war from 2015 to 2017. The outcome was a victory for the moderates, who allowed the whites to stay in the country. Years of turmoil followed. Stera Bekezulu, a Xhosa from the region where Mandela grew up, came to power in 2029 and restarted the peace and reconciliation process, although there was talk of corruption and terrible violence behind the scenes.

  Mostly the whites were still rich and the blacks were still poor. South Africa’s economy had thrived during the early 2030s as safety increased slightly, due partially to its liberal business and tax laws and partially to major investment from the US and Europe, which were trying to maintain SA as their foothold in Southern Africa against the growing influence of the Chinese.

  It was safer now, but they still always told the rich to stay out of the villages. They always said, if you must go, never go alone. And they always always said never ever to go there at night. Part of the peace agreement had been keeping flying drones out of the communities, so there was no backup.

  “Would you say it’s night or dusk, car?” Hardwick said, looking down the dirt track to Ntlaza.

  “The time is seventeen fifty–seven,” the car said diplomatically.

  “Thanks,” Hardwick said. “Call some sec–drones and get them to the edge of the no–drone–zone, as close as possible. Bring them in if I get injured, or if I ask, at max speed, pay any fines necessary.”

  He paused.

  “But keep me updated as to the cost. OK. Take us down there. Keep over twenty, but do not get damaged. All lights off. Be as silent as possible. Play any noise from outside in here.”