by Aston, Tom
There were ancient, uncomfortable-looking sofas and easy chairs with lace and chintz. It had the feel of Beijing Fordidden City meets miner’s cottage, and it reminded Stone of his grandmother and her cold, unwelcoming “frontroom”. The one she “kept for best”. Which meant she never went in, and never lit the fire in there. “Kept for best” meant cold, musty and damp. Lin Biao’s underground palazzo had been “kept for best” for nearly forty years. The “bedrooms” were stone cells. Nicely furnished with high ceilings and narrow but comfy-looking beds. But damp, stone cells nonetheless. It must have been the height of luxury in the China of the Cultural Revolution. But now, above all, it was simply “kept for best”.
Stone joined Virginia in the vast main “reception” hall of Lin Biao’s underground apartments. ‘Let’s get that supercooled trashcan out of the ground and get out of here,’ said Virginia. ‘Steven’s not going to last much longer if we stay here.’
That was wishful thinking from Virginia. Semyonov wasn’t going to last much longer - period. Which was why they were all here. If Semyonov died without downloading and unlocking what was inside the Machine, it would be lost forever. Pioneering whole new fields of technology, but cut off, half a mile below the ground, thinking its great thoughts century after century.
Semyonov’s “cleantent” had been installed down there, underground, in the middle of Lin Biao’s apartments. It was in the cavernous reception room – a kind of hallway and living room combined, with high ceiling cut out of the rock, tens of metres below the surface.
Stone had to talk to Semyonov through the sheeting again. ‘What’s the score with the Machine down there? Do I just attach the cable and hoist it to the surface? It can’t be that simple.’
‘No,’ said Semyonov, panting. ‘It can’t.’ He had to breathe heavily, like an athlete before a race, desperately oxygenating his blood for the supreme effort. Except for Semyonov the supreme effort was a short conversation with Stone. Semyonov spoke quickly, as if to get it out before he tired again. ‘The Machine is just over 100 kilograms, Stone, although it looks heavier. The meat of it is in a stack of fifty-three disks of gallium arsenide substrate. The processor is a hemispherical array of 2,048 synapse points, triggered by a high powered laser. That’s why we need the superconductor, and the cooling system. We finally got away from binary computing. There’s a small battery, mainly just to smooth the power supply. It’ll give us a few hours in hibernate mode once you’ve powered down.’ Semyonov paused breathing heavily once more from an oxygen mask to prime his lungs.
‘Down there, there are three elements to the equipment,’ said Semyonov. ‘First the cylinder of the Machine. Then, a heavy UPS unit. Uninterruptible power supply, like a huge stack of batteries. It takes the power from the nuke turbines, smooths it and feeds it into the Machine. Once you’ve powered down, it will have enough charge to bring it up the shaft to the surface, so long as you leave the power connected until the last minute.’
‘What’s the third part?’
Semyonov pump-primed his lungs again to reply. ‘The cooler. It’s a large unit producing liquid nitrogen to cool the Machine. Again, it’s powered by the nuke plant. You’ll see the power lines: all three parts are mounted on a kind of wheeled platform, so you can move them around together, though you’ll have to disconnect the main power from the reactor before you do.’
‘But I only need get the cylinder itself out of there?’
‘Yes. The rest won’t fit in the cage in any case. Not without disassembly.’
‘The cage? That’s like an elevator car that goes up the shaft.’
‘It’s a cage,’ said, Semyonov, sounding as if he were hyperventilating. ‘It’s built for the Machine, so it’s twenty-two inches diameter, a cylinder, and shorter than you are. Maybe uncomfortable. You’ll travel down in the cage, about ten to fifteen minutes. The Machine fits snugly inside the cage and you can send it back to the surface while you wait at the bottom.’ Semyonov paused for breath. ‘You’ll have to do it all in two stages. Go down there. Initiate the powerdown, and move the Machine to the cage, then bring it up. Best if Carslake works with you.’
Stone made some notes, then turned to go.
‘One more thing,’ said Semyonov. ‘In operation, that thing uses a superconductor in a coil inside the cylinder. It creates a magnetic field. Very powerful. There must be no steel or iron on you. It will rip a screwdriver or a wrench from your clothes. Even a phone or a credit card in your pocket will mean you’re dragged toward the Machine. ’
Stone couldn’t wait for the daybreak, though he wouldn’t see anything of it down below ground. He’d already seen far more than he cared for of underground living. In any case, if they waited much longer Semyonov wouldn’t be around to commune with his Machine, and unburden it of its treasure trove of technology. Semyonov had changed, even in the weeks since he saw him at the Crabflower Club in Hong Kong. Back then, only two weeks ago, he’d seemed like a high-powered artificial intelligence. Quick, sharp, unknowable. Flourishing his fountain pens in both hands. Now he was more like a clapped out steam engine, panting out its days below ground. The change, of course, was superficial. Semyonov had been dying for some time. That was what this was all about. He knew he was dying last week, last month, last year. That was the real significance of the Machine. He knew he was brilliant, Semyonov. But by his mid-twenties he also knew he would die young. Semyonov had become obsessed by legacy. He built his Machine to change the world. He wanted to be remembered like Newton or Galileo. The Machine was his legacy, his monument. That’s what the words had meant when Sphinx-like, Semyonov wrote them for Stone on the table back at the Crabflower Club. exegi monumentum aere perennius. I have created a monument more lasting than bronze.
They were the words of a Roman, called Horace, two thousand years before. Horace had been right. His achievement had lasted. Semyonov wanted to be right too. The Machine would be his monument.
Behind that fixed expression and the wheezing speech, Semyonov was a young man. Just twenty-nine, dreaming of cancer cures, rocket engines and cars that ran on water. Except that if he died, anything the Machine had produced would be buried with him in his own impenetrable programming code. All that would remain would be an assortment of technologies and Robert Oyang’s money-grubbing schemes.
That was why the Chinese had left the Machine in place. If they took it, they would have nothing more than a shiny, supercooled black trashcan filled with rather expensive gallium arsenide wafer. And Semyonov would be just another human, who despite all his brains and his money would have lived a life which was nasty, painful and short. He’d be forgotten within a year.
Chapter 67 - 3:34am 14 April - Garzê Autonomous Prefecture, Sichuan, China
Like a dream, but not a dream. Some people dream like it’s real. Others know they are in a dream, and a small number even become other people in a dream. They travel, feel they are floating, and appear in the dreams of other people. They speak to them, commune. A very intimate experience.
He’d heard all this, but never experienced it. It was like a dream, but not a dream. She was there, right there with him, in the dark. A soft, sensual touch of her hands on his bare shoulder, her fingers sliding over his neck and throat. Her fingers caressing the neck, by the pulsing veins and arteries. Could she tell that he dreamed about her, just by touching, by feeling his pulsing neck?
It had to be her, didn’t it? The one who came in the night, the one who’d filled his nighttime thoughts since he’d first seen her. The Chinese girl. The wry, cheeky, arrogant bitch who tormented him. She made him angry, frustrated. Tied him in knots. He ignored her, tried to keep it “normal”. But at night, he couldn’t get her out of his head. That was it, she was in his head, the Fox Girl, the supernatural woman, the seductive, animal spirit. You can’t relate to a fox. Its face doesn’t change. Its eyes don’t move. It hasn’t got the facial muscles. It just is. Beautiful, elegant, impenetrable.
He felt Ying Ning’s fingers move
across his chest, a light grazing round his neck, his throat. Then her fingers were gone. Nothing. The wraith of the fox had gone.
Then a shock, a sting. All the way around, from his nape and right round across his windpipe. He jerked, bolt-upright. Grabbed at his neck, then relaxed. It was a dream. But there it was again. Splitting, cutting, stinging. Right into his neck. He grabbed, but there was nothing there. It was behind him, whatever it was, was behind him, pulling and tightening. Blood streamed down his chest. All over his hands, he could feel it. His head was going to explode. Tightening – a wire, a ligature, something. Coming from behind him. His eyes were bulging in the blackness. He screamed, but it was silent. Like shouting in a dream, when no one can hear. Like opening your eyes in a dream, but you can’t see a thing. His eyes are wide open, bulging. His tongue is right out of his mouth. Scream. But no one hears. It’s black, completely dark. And it’s getting darker.
Chapter 68 - 6:54am 14 April - Garzê Autonomous Prefecture, Sichuan, China
The sun rose blood-red over the trees at the crater rim. To the West the mountains of Tibet stood out burnt orange above the dark foothills.
The idea of a stroll above ground in the spoil heaps of toxic waste had not exactly appealed to Virginia, but Stone knew the reality would be different, and dragged her up there. He’d seen these mountains before, and tasted the air. He took her up there at first light. No time to waste in any case, looking at Semyonov. Carslake was still asleep.
Above ground, everything seemed better. Virginia’s mane of hair flowed again in the cool breeze. There were goose bumps on her arms in the chill, and a warm smile glowing in her eyes. Maybe she wasn’t all artifice. She done it all for a reason, even if that reason was guilt. It must have killed Semyonov at sixteen, when she disappeared out of his life. As it must kill Virginia to see him now.
After the night in Lin Biao’s Chamber of Secrets, Stone felt a small wave of ecstasy flood through him. Impossibly clear mountain air, and the vision of the virgin forest against the deep blue sky of the Tibetan daybreak. Stone inhaled lustily and walked to the steel tower which held the winding gear at the head of the shaft. He thought again of Semyonov, his lungs scrabbling for oxygen in the damp pit below them.
‘You should get Semyonov brought out here,’ he shouted to Virginia. 'It would do him good.' The fresh air was all the sweeter for knowing he was about to go nearly a kilometre underground, down a hole not much wider than his shoulders.
The winding gear was pretty simple. Up. Down. And a speed regulator. Some Chinese guys were on hand, and they showed Virginia how to use the gear, but Semyonov insisted they had to it themselves. He didn’t want the Chinese trying anything the minute he’d brought the Machine out of the mine. After the briefing, the engineers were packed off in a truck, and driven out beyond the fence. Stone and Virginia were on their own.
Where the hell was Carslake?
Stone opened the door to the steel cage. He had on a white overall and a hardhat with a flashlight. The cage was a cylinder about 170 centimetres tall. Made to fit the Machine. It was pointed at either end with cones, and painted with the ShinComm logo. Twenty-two inches seems a lot, but inside it was less, and when your knees are bent and your neck is crooked to fit inside, it feels pretty small. The ride down would feel like a long fifteen minutes in the pitch dark.
‘Steven says he’ll supervise by the phone link,’ called Virginia.
‘Sure,’ Stone smiled at her. To encourage her. She was looking more nervous than he was. And for once, he was nervous. ‘Let’s get on with it,’ he shouted back. ‘And get that lazy bastard Carslake out of bed when I’m down there.
‘He’s not going to like it,’ she said.
‘No. He’s going to love it!’
Stone slammed the steel cage door shut on himself and rattled to check it was secure. There was a hum on of electric motors above him in the winding tower, and Stone slipped smoothly down into the Death Hole.
Chapter 69 - 7:44am 14 April - Garzê Autonomous Prefecture, Sichuan, China
‘He’s going to love it!’ Stone repeated to himself.
Bravado. Ridiculous bravado. Stone started slipping away into the Death Hole, wondering if Virginia had guessed what was bothering him, or even if she had noticed.
Stone closed his eyes to shut out the blackness, and the rattling of the cage against the tube of hard rock. Ten minutes to the bottom. Maybe fifteen. Up to now, there’d been only one Death Hole in Stone’s life. He would be thinking of it all the way down as he dropped into the hole. He would be thinking of the real Death Hole.
Kalai Kumza, March 2002, Balkh Province, Afghanistan. When the Al-Qaeda Arabs and Chechens were still around in Afghanistan. Before the Americans started bombing in earnest. Before they took control. Four hundred Taliban and Al-Qaeda gave themselves up to the Uzbek forces of General Dostum of the Northern Alliance. Dostum later said it was a trick to capture the fort of Kalai Kumza from the inside. The Taliban prisoners smuggled guns and grenades under their ragged clothes, and once inside the fort, they revolted. Against the two hundred Uzbeks and twelve NATO Special Forces. The Americans wore military fleeces and fatigues - Stone and the others in his squad were in plain clothes. Running shoes and HK machine guns.
The Uzbeks said it was the white faces which did it. It was the Red Cross workers whose insignia and white faces inflamed the Taliban – or so the story went. Not Special Forces, who were looking as rough as the Taliban by now. Stone knew it would have kicked off anyway. Why else smuggle grenades in?
A CIA interrogator was dead already. Twenty Uzbeks dead. Dozens of Taliban and Al-Qaeda were down. It was a suicide job. They knew they were going to die. The Uzbek tanks were waiting outside. The Americans would start with the gunships within minutes. No civilians here to worry about – they were all Taliban and therefore bad guys. Dostum and the Allies would wipe out the lot.
Stone forced the Red Cross guys to climb out over the walls, practically at gunpoint. Twenty metres high, but scalable. Then word came there were US and Brit interrogators stuck in cellars of the fort. Trapped with the bodies of twenty more Uzbeks and Taliban after a grenade blast. Stone and Hooper went down to bring them out. Another stupid thing Hooper had agreed to. That guy needed to choose his friends better. Thirty-four steps below ground.
Stone’s cage rattled downwards. Strangely muffled, like there was no echo at all. Like he was sealed in the middle of the earth, where sound and light don’t exist anymore, where his own existence had become entirely theoretical. Theoretically possible to be in that cage. But a very foolish place to find yourself.
Like the place he’d found himself when Hooper had risked his neck to go with him. Thirty-four steps below Kalai Kumza. Stone killed seven Taliban who’d been occupying steps twenty-nine to thirty-four at the bottom, the last two with face shots as they turned back up the steps. The first took it in the upper lip and the second directly in the right eye. Their heads exploded like coconuts filled with raw meat, all shell and blood and weird white stuff. A CIA guy in the chamber below, an ex-Marine, had been holding them off with an empty pistol. A fine effort. He’d used every round in every weapon he could find. When they got to him, he wanted to run right out up the steps. Stone knew better. The C130’s were already outside, pouring fire from their .50 calibre Gatling guns into the Taliban in the compound. The B52’s would be overhead soon. It would be an extinction-level event if they went up those steps. Thirty-four steps down, below many metres of mud baked two centuries ago. They might have a chance. Just might. But it was a very foolish place to find yourself.
Stone, Hooper and the three Americans were dragged from the wreckage fourteen hours after the B52 strike. Stone had thought he was dead, and had plenty of time to dwell on the fact. Hope, despair, panic, delusion, hallucination. Pain. Pain was the least of it. Pain lasts only so long, and Stone had long ago learnt to deal with pain.
The claustrophobia hadn’t started straightaway for Stone. It had come with the dreams
of being stuck under the mud and clay. Dreams, recurring for years, again and again. Dreams can be really bad for you.
Now he was heading down another hole, much deeper this time. In a tin cage he could barely squeeze into. The rattling began to slow. There was a faint glow, a centimetre of light around the edges of the cage. This was it. The cage flopped slowly out from the ceiling of a low tunnel, not quite high enough to stand up in.
Chapter 70 - 8:06am 14 April - Garzê Autonomous Prefecture, Sichuan, China
Sheeee-Hshawww.
Sheeee-Hshawww.
Stone put on the hat and now the breathing mask. He felt like a diver in an underground river, walking carefully along the tunnel. There were telephone points every hundred metres or so, and one by the shaft so he could speak to Virginia. With so many heavy metals around Semyonov had advised the breathing gear, but the air looked clear. The tunnel was dimly lit by strip lights, and held up by steel pit props. It wasn’t quite high enough for him to walk upright, but not far off. Not as bad as he’d expected. He walked up an incline. This was it, he could sense it. There was something ahead. He could even hear it.
Stone pulled down the mask for a moment to listen. An electric humming, a low buzzing, like a large transformer. He walked up a little further. He was now maybe four hundred metres from the shaft where he’d come down from the surface. Up here the pit props were made of wood.
Round a left hand bend. The buzzing was louder, and there was an eerie glow of blue light in the tunnel, about thirty metres off, brighter than the strip lights. Wispy clouds of fog hung in the dead, dank air, the blue light glowing through them. So this was it - Semyonov’s masterwork. The alien intelligence, shrouded in mysterious blue clouds. Stone walked up slowly and felt the chill as he entered the cloud. He thought it might be dry ice. More like the vapour of liquid nitrogen from the chiller Semyonov had told him about, stingingly cold on the exposed skin of his face. He wafted at it, and it dissipated. Cold as death, but ultimately harmless. It was just condensation from the intense cold of the liquid nitrogen in the cooling unit. Perhaps it was leaking. He made towards the blue light through the mist.
