The access codes that had been fed into our control cards seemed to work all right. We were allowed to proceed to a squat block of dark glass.
“Nice place,” Katharine said ironically. “Looks a bit like that insurance company building by the big swimming pool back home.”
“I hope it doesn’t end up the way that place did,” Davie said. “At least not when we’re inside.” After the last election in 2003 a mob of citizens whose savings had gone walkabout vented their wrath, among other things, on the building. It experienced meltdown, literally.
There was a screen with the department’s name above a panel that didn’t look like a door, but which slid open at our approach. Inside, the atmosphere was antiseptic, hardly any noise audible. I thought I’d walked into a vacuum and was relieved to find that my lungs managed to find something to work on.
“State your business.”
We glanced around but failed to locate the speaker.
“State your business.” The voice was metallic and neutral, though this time it seemed to be slightly louder.
“Quint Dalrymple,” I said. “Here on the authority of the Hebdomadal Council.”
There was a pause while the voice’s owner – human? mechanical? – gave my words some thought. Then there was a low hiss and a section of the floor in front of us started to open, revealing a short staircase leading downwards.
“Enter,” said the unseen receptionist. “Doctor Verzeni will be with you shortly.”
Well, well. Look, or rather hear, who was here. We followed the instructions and found ourselves in a long, narrow corridor.
“See if your card lets you in anywhere, Davie,” I said, pointing down the passage. There were no obvious doorways, but those hadn’t been a feature of the department so far.
Davie presented himself to the dark glass walls at regular intervals. They remained solid. He moved to the other side. “Here, Quint,” he called. “There’s some kind of sign here.”
Katharine and I went down the corridor. At eye level on the wall there was a small dark blue metal plaque embossed with four letters in white.
“N-B-W-T,” Katharine read. “What do you think—?”
“Bingo,” I said.
They stared at me.
“All right, smartarse,” Davie said when I held my peace. “Tell us what it stands for.”
“When Raphael was telling me about the bullet on the helijet, she mentioned the name of the company that developed it.” I nodded at them. “This is it. Nox Ballistics and Weapons Technology.”
“As you say, citizen, this is it.”
I turned to find that Doctor Verzeni had crept up on us. He was wearing a pristine white lab coat and there was a tight smile on his olive-coloured face.
“Come into my lair,” he said with an extravagant flourish of his arms. Either that or the word he spoke in an undertone made the floor suddenly jolt beneath our feet.
“Shit!” Davie grunted as Katharine and I each grabbed one of his arms.
Verzeni was standing with his feet set apart on the square lift platform that had dropped downwards. “I wasn’t expecting you, citizen,” he said mildly. “You should have let me know you were coming.”
“Like you didn’t know,” I muttered, certain that the Chariot had been observed heading in his direction. “I wasn’t expecting to find you here. You never mentioned that you were a metallurgist.” Then I remembered his interest when I questioned Raphael and his colleagues about the bullet after it self-destructed.
“Didn’t I?” he replied, blinking. “You never asked.”
“Did you design the bullet that put the public order guardian down?” I demanded.
“Patience, citizen,” Verzeni said as the lift came down in the middle of a large, well-lit laboratory. “That’s exactly what I’m going to explain.”
And he did – after a fashion. In the next hour he took us through the design specifications of the Eagle One and showed us the projectile in both integrated and disassembled forms. Even though I’d seen it before, it still raised the hairs on the back of my neck. The shell was as long and as thick as an all-in wrestler’s thumb, and the burnished alloy casing tapered to a vicious point at the contact end. But the contents took my breath away even more. There were circuit boards, armatures, wiring systems, Christ knows what else; all so tiny that high magnification was necessary for us to make them out.
“What are the capabilities of this bullet?” I asked when the doctor paused. “You admit that it has an anti-tamper device?” I tried to keep a grip on myself as I remembered what that had done to Sophia’s face.
Verzeni nodded. “It wasn’t clear to us initially that an Eagle One had been used on Lewis Hamilton, but . . .” His voice trailed away.
“What else can it do?” I said, keeping the pressure on him. “What was the rationale behind its development?”
The Italian stood up straight, his lower lip between his teeth. “The Eagle One has a unique command facility which enables the shooter to control what level of damage is done to the target. It can produce an explosion that will destroy a small building. It can disintegrate into enough fine shrapnel to disable dozens of people.” Verzeni looked at the object on the surface in front of him. “It can also be programmed to penetrate up to three metres of concrete or steel.”
“Jesus,” Davie said. “Sounds like the chief got off lightly.”
“Exactly,” I agreed, staring at the doctor. “What happened in Edinburgh? Why wasn’t Hamilton blown to pieces?” I shivered as I remembered what had happened in Trigger Finger’s lab. “Why weren’t we killed when it did finally detonate?”
Verzeni was chewing his lip again. “Ah. Yes, well, incorporated into the Eagle One is another top-secret device.” He ran his forefinger over the projectile’s surface and returned my gaze. “Its programmed activity can be altered after firing.”
“What?” I leaned back against the workbench and tried to make sense of what he was saying. “You mean that whoever shot Lewis Hamilton rendered the charge inert?”
The Italian nodded. “Precisely. The Eagle One was subject to massive deceleration immediately before impact, meaning that it caused no potentially fatal exit wound.”
That explained the curious sound I’d heard seconds before Lewis hit the ground.
“If the guardian’s heart had withstood the shock of the impact,” Verzeni continued, “he would probably have survived.”
“But surely there isn’t enough time for the shooter to do anything after the trigger’s been pulled?” Katharine said.
Verzeni opened his eyes wide. “Yes, there is. That is exactly what we have managed to achieve. The software is so sophisticated that, in effect, it overrides the normal constrictions of time.”
“What?” I was struggling to grasp what the academic was saying.
Davie’s face was grim. “So the shooter attempted to minimise the trauma suffered by the public order guardian. Why?”
Neither Verzeni nor any of the rest of us came up with an answer to that.
Chapter Thirteen
Davie was studying the projectile from a few inches’ range. “What kind of weapon fires a monster like this?” he asked, straightening his back.
Doctor Verzeni regarded him thoughtfully. I reckoned he was struggling to reconcile the free access Raphael had given us with an inbuilt tendency to extreme secrecy. Finally he led us over to an empty glass cabinet and put his hand into a slot; presumably it was some kind of fingerprint sensor. There rose up before us a collection of what initially looked like junk, an array of black plastic tubes and rectangular boxes. It suddenly began to move when Verzeni gave an almost inaudible command.
“What’s going on?” Katharine asked, her eyes wide.
“It’s a system we’ve been developing in conjunction with the Department of Cybernetics,” the doctor said. “The Advanced Self Assembling Rifle, or ASAR, is designed for undercover operations.”
I watched as the weapon took shape in
front of me. When the movements ceased, it still didn’t resemble any rifle I’d ever seen. The barrel was short and thick, while the main assembly consisted of several irregular compartments. I could see no sign of a sight or a trigger. The whole device wasn’t much more than a foot in length.
Verzeni spoke in an undertone again and the ASAR came to life, a series of underlit screens appearing on the rear surfaces of the rectangular components. “Sighting, control and firing units engaged,” the Italian said. “All the materials are completely secure. They cannot be detected by any surveillance or search systems.”
“Undercover operations?” Davie asked. “You run a lot of those in New Oxford, do you?”
Verzeni gave him a superior look. “We have no need of such activities in this city. The ASAR and the Eagle One are purely for export.” He gave a patronising smile. “They have been extremely successful in several locations around the world.”
“Not least in Edinburgh,” I said. “Who has access to the weapon and ammunition, you murdering bastard?”
The metallurgist’s head snapped back. “No one,” he answered. “No one apart from me and the administrators.”
I stared at him to register my disbelief then changed tack. “Ted Pym. The murdered cleaner. Did he work in this part of the department?”
Verzeni was watching the ASAR as it obeyed his instruction to disassemble. “I believe the proctor has provided you with the sub’s file,” he replied in an offhand manner.
That got me going again. “The sub, as you call him, was cut to pieces,” I yelled, aware that the heads of all the researchers in the vicinity had turned towards us. “I’ve read the file but I want to hear about him from you as well, doctor.”
The scientist gave me a look of measured contempt. “Do you imagine I concern myself with the cleaners, citizen?”
“Did he work in this area?” I demanded, keeping the volume up. “Yes or no?”
Verzeni drew himself back like a cobra about to strike. “I believe so,” he answered in a low voice. “According to the records, he was in this lab on the night he died.”
“No surveillance cameras in here?” Davie said.
The Italian shook his head. “All the equipment is fully protected and alarmed. There is no need for visual observation.”
I wondered about that but let it go. It was about time we checked out the suburb where the dead man came from.
I only realised it was drizzling when I stepped on to the road beside the Chariot. The rain shields around the Department of Metallurgy had protected us until then; only in the city centre did the shields extend all the way across the streets.
“It must be weird when those shields get a dark tint in the summer,” Katharine said as she climbed in.
“Weird is par for the course in this place,” I said.
Davie activated the Chariot.
“Rain dispersal system in operation,” stated a robotic voice.
We watched the windscreen as the vehicle pulled away. Who knows how it worked, but there wasn’t a single drop of water anywhere on the transparent canopy, despite the absence of wipers.
“I’m surprised they haven’t got a mechanism that sends the clouds to Cambridge,” Katharine said.
“Ha.” I glanced at her. “That’s a point. Do you think a university still exists over there?”
She shrugged. “Who knows? Who cares?”
I’d never heard her views on élitist education, but I could believe she wasn’t a fan. I hadn’t been one myself when I grew up in pre-independence Edinburgh. Until now it had been a dead issue since the Council was committed to lifelong education for all its citizens. Seeing New Oxford with its incongruous blend of dinner-jacketed, gown-clad tradition and progressive high-tech had brought the debate back to mind. The old don Elias Burton had told me that students came from the former United Kingdom as well as from abroad. I wondered how many of them came from places like Cowley.
The Chariot was taking us down what my father’s guidebook described as “dreary modernistic buildings” on South Parks Road. There were some fairly dreary-looking students in corduroys and gowns in evidence too. Then we were round a couple of corners and heading down Longwall Street to the High. The grandiose buildings of Magd where the helijet had landed were on our left.
“Do you think this will get us anywhere, Quint?” Davie asked, looking over his shoulder.
“You told the Chariot to take us to Cowley, didn’t you, big man?”
“Very funny,” he growled. “I mean, how are we going to find out why Ted Pym was killed by asking around in the suburb? Surely the answer’s in the university area.”
I nodded. “You’re probably right.” I looked out as we crossed Magdalen Bridge and approached a roundabout. “But maybe the so-called subs will be a bit more forthcoming than the academic tight arses like Verzeni.”
“Aye, maybe,” he conceded. “On the other hand, they might just tell us to make enemas out of our questions like they do in the Edinburgh suburbs.”
He had a point.
There were some buildings around the junction that bore a resemblance to the worst barracks blocks that had been erected back home. There was also a construction faced with red tiles and standing on stilts that combined grandstand and giant’s pissoir very imaginatively, if you like that kind of thing.
Signs on the roundabout exits proclaimed the start of separate suburban zones, each with its own checkpoint. Vehicles like ours which were programmed with the appropriate authorisation weren’t bothered, but individuals pedalling bicycles had to stop to flash passes at bowler-hatted bulldogs. Those individuals were wearing clothes that definitely didn’t come from the university outfitters: loose-fitting denim trousers, jackets in bright check material and heavy workboots. Most of the men had hair down to their shoulders and were unshaven.
“No more rain shields,” Katharine said, pointing upwards.
She was right. The subs had been left out in the rain and they weren’t enjoying it. The drizzle had turned to a much heavier downpour and pedestrians were bending their heads as they struggled down the Cowley Road. Some of them gave the Chariot hostile looks. It moved rapidly past unkempt shops and under-maintained two-up two-down housing; the gas line that fuelled it apparently continued down here. It wasn’t long before I discovered why the infrastructure was organised that way. The university had more interest in the suburbs than I’d thought.
“Bloody hell,” Davie gasped. “What’s this?”
“The university’s engine room,” I replied, clocking the large screen in front of the complex of tall, white, corrugated-metal buildings. It read “NOX Industry Park No. 1”. Underneath the luminous red letters was a long list of company names, most of them prefaced by the New Oxford abbreviation and many of them containing the words “digital”, “hyper-conductor”, “software” and “technology”.
Katharine sniffed and grimaced. “It’s noxious enough around here, all right.”
“You kill me, Katharine,” Davie said, looking past her at me. “What do you mean, the university’s engine room, Quint?”
“This is how it makes economic sense,” I replied, recalling what the old don had told me about the transnational companies and their sponsorship of research and development. The names of major concerns that I could remember from the early years of the century were on the display too. “It’s a business, not an educational foundation. The administrators have set things up so that every faculty makes a pot of money.”
Katharine grabbed her seat. “Where are we going now?”
The Chariot had made a sudden turn on to a wide carriageway and was hurtling northwards, overtaking slow-moving trucks that looked similar to the vehicle we were in but were ten times larger. Stacks of boxes and containers were visible through their canopies. I wondered where they were going. If it was true that New Oxford was surrounded by the so-called Poison Fields, perhaps there was a commercial helijet base somewhere outside the university boundary.
“Ah, I’ve got it,” Katharine said, her nostrum in operation. “Ted Pym lived in Appleby Terrace. It’s the next left.”
Sure enough, the Chariot slipped smoothly off the main road and entered a housing estate that had seen better days; better days about fifty years ago, judging by the overgrown gardens, the plastic sheeting that was replacing many of the windows and the spatter of missing tiles. Despite the rain, ragged children were playing in a desultory way between the potholes in the street. The Chariot wove competently round both kids and cavities, having informed us that it was switching to its onboard fuel tank. No gas lines in this neighbourhood.
“Number thirty-two.” Katharine said. “This is it.”
The vehicle hissed to a halt on Davie’s command. He told his door panel to open, then hurriedly changed his mind. “Close!” he yelled.
The three of us leaned towards the onside and I felt the Chariot cant over before its computerised suspension got a grip. A large black dog with foam-specked jaws was snarling at us from the pavement. Then it made the mistake of jumping up against the transparent plastic. There was a sharp crack and it arced back through the air in a spray of urine, landing on its back.
“Shit.” Katharine was out before I could stop her. She kneeled down beside the beast and stroked its head. Then she looked round at us. “Get out, you cowards,” she said angrily. “Our bastard Chariot has dealt with the poor thing.”
Davie and I squatted down beside the motionless dog.
“Is it dead?” he asked.
Katharine shook her head. “No, I can feel a pulse.” She glanced back at the vehicle. “The bloody plastic cuddy must have turned on an anti-tamper device as soon as we entered the suburb.”
I watched as she eased the dog on to its side, then saw two pairs of small feet appear on the uneven paving slabs nearby.
House of Dust Page 22
