He scrolled through his inbox. Four unread messages. The first was about a chess competition on campus that week. The second was from conference organisers in San Francisco inviting him to speak in December. He flagged it for follow-up. The next was about a doctoral thesis that’d be late. Too bad. Submit late, pay the late fee, he thought. It was the fourth email that caught his eye. It was entitled, ‘The Plan.’ It was the same title as the email two weeks before—the one he’d marked as spam. When he’d read the previous note he’d concluded it must be a hoax, a friend playing a joke on him. He never had worked out who’d done it and no one had come forward to own up. Thereafter, he’d forgotten all about it. Until now. The last email had claimed to be from Eva, but that was just plain ridiculous. As he read the latest one though, his incredulity turned to hope. And when combined with some things that only Eva and he knew, that hope led to belief that she still lived. By time he’d read it for the third time his conviction made him feel he was losing his mind.
8
The amount of military force necessary to provide reassurance depends on how dangerous people think the world is. And that, I think, ultimately depends upon the kinds of government that hold sway in major countries.
Michael Mandelbaum
Saturday, April 2nd, 2044 8:15pm: BDS Manufacturing Plant, Doncaster
The five enormous warehouses next to the BDS plant were just under fifty percent full. The farmer whose land they bought up to construct them had given up his trade on the proceeds and now resided in a five-bedroom villa in Mallorca. It was peanuts to Zane—the stock of 20,000 Centurion-Mk2s before them was worth over eighty billion pounds. The humanoid killing machines were mainly the silver colour of their advanced alloy construction and the darker grey of their Westminster armour. The cranium, chest plate and back were afforded this additional protection, but this did not detract from the eerily human form they took. The skull-like head, complete with deep, dark eye sockets was particularly frightening. These sockets contained only sensors and cameras, but the onlookers could not help their evolved anthropomorphizing instincts. The Centurions stood at just over two metres high and had the v-shaped body associated with a testosterone-laden muscle man. Zane knew they could throw even the world’s strongest man through a wall like a rag doll. He’d seen what they could do on the test range. One had even lifted a small car clean off the deck and thrown it aside more than five metres. On another occasion, a Centurion had punched and kicked its way through a solid brick and cinder block wall to get to the ‘enemy’ practice drones inside. Now Zane, Becker and Hardcastle surveyed the rows upon rows of robots that hung lifelessly in racks that extended to the warehouse ceiling. No one else was there at this time. Even the four-limbed, yellow, stock-picking bots were still. The assembly line had a scheduled shutdown for essential maintenance after churning out their product for the past two years. Soon it would start its work again once the maintenance crew finished their work over the next two days.
“Impressive aren’t they?” beamed a proud Zane. He spoke not with his vocal cords but by the power of thought and the function of his ICS.
“A work of art, Victor,” agreed Becker silently; awestruck by the robot soldiers he hoped to command one day.
“So this is the future of warfare,” remarked Hardcastle, shaking his head in amazement at the scale of the place. He also utilised his implanted computer system to communicate.
“Of course, at the moment they’re about as deadly as a paper clip—unless one fell on you of course,” said Zane. “But once activated and armed, even the 20,000 here could take on a conventional army five times its size. Isn’t that right, Colonel?”
“At least. The great thing about the mark-two HIUs is they are flexible enough to use any weapon a human can use. Which helps us of course. The Sentinels’ weapons are integral,” said Becker, mainly directing his comments at Hardcastle.
Zane continued, “Yes, the Sentinels are in Warehouse #5—already equipped with a Gatling gun on one arm and guided missile pod on the other. They’re good as anti-tank or anti-aircraft, which is handy.” He smiled.
“So what is the status of the latest arms shipment?” asked Hardcastle.
“Star of Arabia arrived at Felixstowe on Wednesday. Fifteen more containers of HK702 assault rifles and another two of MANPADS and two more of light anti-tank weapons,” reported Becker.
“Where are they going?” asked Hardcastle.
Zane answered before Becker could. “To many, many places, my friend. My shell companies have been busy renting units all over the country. My most trusted—and best paid—security operatives are distributing our latest shipment as we speak.”
“We are gathering the resources we need to get this thing done. We’re ahead of schedule and we’ve been able to keep the number of people in the know limited”—he looked up at the Centurions in front of him and pointed to them in a sweeping arc—“thanks to these loyal troops. And I know they won’t say a word!”
“And you, John? Is the Westminster Circle on board with our plans? Apart from the unfortunate Mr Hassall who had a nasty fall from his tenth floor balcony. Appropriate name for the pest, wouldn’t you say?”
“Well, quite. And we can’t afford disloyalty. Unfortunately, the by-election will probably go to Labour,” replied Hardcastle.
“None of that will matter very soon. So are you all good, John?”
“Apart from the late Ian Hassall, yes, we’re ready to step in.”
“Well, one thing’s for sure: my security guys—both my own and those officially in the employ of MI5—have never been busier. Lots of potentially wagging tongues to keep quiet. Good thing they don’t know the details even if they talk. You see it’s the same game the spooks love to play so much with everyone else—compartmentalise anything and everything on a need-to-know basis. We’re probably the only ones who have the whole picture,” said Zane, satisfied The Plan was working out smoothly.
“Well, and my former colleague in the Cabinet, of course,” smiled Hardcastle.
“Ah yes, and our Right Honourable friend,” laughed Zane.
***
The MI5 drone hovered two kilometres away from the three men standing just inside the vast warehouse. Its powerful directional mics could hear the shuffling of feet, the footsteps of the men and even their coughs and laughs. But no spoken words could be discerned.
“Why the hell aren’t they talking?” asked a frustrated Sophie Walsh to Jian Yu, the tech whiz kid operating the drone. They sat 250km away in Thames House, Central London.
“I have no idea. Mics are working fine and I’ve triangulated the other sounds from their location,” he replied.
“Well, either they’re not talking or they’re communicating via ICS again. Can you check data traffic coming from the BDS network—see if it corresponds with ICS comms?”
“No go. We don’t have access to BDS… Have you any idea how secure their intranet is? Besides, they’re probably using point-to-point comms right now since they’re right next to each other.”
Dean Ashley walked into the room full of displays and control stations. He overheard them and said, “We know they’re up to something, but they always seem to be one step ahead. You know they have ex-CIA and, so I’ve heard, a few from Six,” he revealed, referring to MI6, the Secret Intelligence Service.
“We’ll keep trying. They’ll misstep at some point,” replied Sophie.
***
A second drone was watching, high in the night sky. This one was controlled from the upstairs study of a suburban house in the city, eight kilometres to the north. Zhanna Zykina sat in the modest home office of the property she rented under the name of Dr Liv Martin. Her ordinary display showed the live video feed from the tiny drone hovering a thousand metres from them. Its night vision and powerful optics could read lips at this distance; it could see their lips and if they were actually using them. Being an ICS cyborg herself, Zhanna knew they were probably mind-talking. But the fact that Hardcas
tle was there at all at such a strange time added weight to the theory she’d discussed with her SVR handler. It was quite some time ago now that he’d been fired as Defence Secretary and, officially at least, he had no direct role in the robot programme. So why was he inside the security cordon looking at 100,000 bots on a Saturday night? It had to be linked to the weapons shipments that had come in the previous week.
Another SVR source had learned of the container ship, which docked at Felixstowe. It stood out for two reasons. First, the Star of Arabia had come from IC-held Libya and had supposedly undergone enhanced security checks by UK Customs. Yet all those containers of weapons from a very unconventional source went undetected. Second, it was where the autonomous-road-trains had taken them to. They did not end up on army bases, but spread throughout the country. Then they’d found the evidence linking it to Zane. One of the warehouses that an SVR source had tracked a shipment to was leased under a shell company. A company linked tenuously to one Victor Zane. They had not yet worked out the plot, but they suspected something big. What they needed to decide now was what to do about it.
None of this detracted from her mission to get her hands on BDS technology—preferably at least one working Centurion and one working Sentinel. However, it could have presented an opportunity for Zhanna and her Russian accomplices.
***
Monday, April 4th, 2044 2:05pm: Thames House, Central London
The home of the Security Service since 1994—commonly known as MI5—stood a kilometre south of Parliament. During much of the twentieth century, subversion of British democracy was a major issue of concern for the Security Service. This threat diminished sharply following the end of the Cold War, to the point where counter-subversion work ceased completely. Ever since, the major concerns were counter-terrorism and counter-espionage with the main culprits being IC and the Russians, respectively. No one seriously considered subversion a modern-day peril. Not until recently, anyway.
Director-General Diane Maison sat in the top floor conference room of the eight-storey limestone building that was Thames House. The matriarchal veteran regarded what her operatives, Kyle Green and Shaun Pardew, were about to present. As decision executive for their operation, she would need to sanction its continuance and any proposed way forward. Her endorsement was the vital last step in the chain of command. She looked out across the tree line next to the river and watched sightseers on a boat cruising downstream as it passed under Lambeth Bridge. A nice afternoon for taking in the view; seventeen degrees and partly cloudy. Oh, to be a carefree tourist and watch the world go by, she thought, as she came about and focused once more on the weighty issues before her.
***
“And we have evidence that the Russians are trying, once again, to get their hands on BDS technology,” said MI5 officer Kyle Green. He stood next to the wall-sized built-in display at the end of the rectangular conference room. “It’s highly credible evidence, especially in light of previous Russian attempts.”
“So what is the precise plot you say we should be following up on? I mean, we’re all very aware of their intentions, but without a plot and evidence of such I cannot approve the increase in resources I hear you are looking for,” said Maison, her collar-length, red hair now artificially devoid of grey.
“Yes, okay… Let me go forward a few slides … here. So, this is what we think they are planning. This is the prime suspect: Pavel Dasayev. He’s been under surveillance ever since Six pinged him on entry at Heathrow, a year ago. SVR, dangerous man, suspected to have assisted IC in the Nairobi Embassy bombings five years ago. We believe he and his accomplices”—four more mug shots with name captions appeared below Dasayev’s on the presentation wall—“plan a raid on BDS, Doncaster.”
“A raid?” asked Maison, her interest piqued a notch higher. She sat up and adjusted her black suit jacket, leaning forward slightly to focus on the presentation.
“Yes, ma’am, a raid on the warehouse facility where BDS have already amassed over a hundred thousand robots.” A map of the BDS facility and its five huge warehouses appeared on the display. Green clicked his remote and annotations popped on screen showing the double ring of fencing, watch towers and security checkpoints that ringed the robotic army.
“Excellent security, but not invincible,” he continued. “We have reason to believe that Dasayev has shipped in at least one of these…” A photo of a military vehicle appeared. “This is the ATOM-Mk3. It’s a heavy eight-by-eight infantry fighting vehicle of Russian origin. Can take a hit from anything short of a main battle tank or top-of-the-line anti-tank weapon and has a top speed of 120 kph. Current location is in a disused barn near Thorpe Audlin, between Doncaster and Leeds. We think it’s a smash and grab operation, ma’am.”
He went through the evidence, which Maison had to admit was convincing.
“What is it with these Russians and our robotics tech?” asked Green’s more inexperienced colleague, Shaun Pardew.
Maison was feeling charitable so she explained. “Young man, the technology BDS and some other British companies have is coveted the world over. Best power sources, actuators, servos, armour, comms systems—you name it, these companies have the lead in it. It’s a major battlefield advantage and therefore of strategic importance. For the first time a major force of robots will be able to take urban areas without risking British lives. Until now, it’s always been the preserve of the infantry—you want to take a built-up area, whether it’s a city, military base or bunker, then you need boots on the ground. No ifs, no buts. Until the HIUs are ready in force anyway. And it’s no good being second best. The Russians know this and so does everyone else.”
“So, the proposed way forward is to expand the surveillance op on Dasayev and co. Objectives: one, find any links to his cell; two, gather precise timing and operational details of the planned theft; and three, lay the ground to catch them red-handed. For the latter we’re going to need more firepower than the police can lend. So we need permission to start engaging the military, specifically the SAS. That’s all I have, ma’am. Questions?”
“Yes,” said Maison. “How do we know this isn’t something bigger?” She held her hand up to say hold fire, let me finish. “Before you answer, let me tell you where I’m coming from. Next in here will be Ashley and Walsh. Now I don’t know how much you know of their operation, but there is a definite overlap with your own. I’ve read their brief and they’re telling me they think someone plans to use the robots against this country. Now, they have their suspects, but I have to ask: who would gain most from this? And the answer I come up with every time is the Russians. Nothing else makes sense.”
“Well, ma’am, we have no evidence of any wider plot. So it’s hard to draw that conclusion I think,” replied Green.
“Young man, absence of evidence isn’t evidence of absence. You two know Dasayev et al. better than anyone here does—God knows, you’ve been recceing them long enough. What’s your gut feel on this thing? Smash and grab just for the tech or are our vodka-drinking friends trying to hijack the whole damned robot army?”
“Do you really think that’s a possibility, ma’am?” asked a sceptical-sounding Green. He felt out of his depth with a plot of such magnitude and grave implications. He did not want to believe it was true, so argued against it.
“Rule out nothing, young Mr Green. I’ve seen it all and I wouldn’t put anything past the Russians. Our government’s policy and the New Army is a direct threat to their interests in the Middle East and North Africa. They probably wouldn’t even care if we pinned the attempt on them. After all, we’re both nuclear-armed states, which puts the brakes on us retaliating in force. And it’s not like we can do much in terms of diplomacy or sanctions—we hardly even trade with them anymore and since we left the EU we don’t even have that as leverage. No, they’d just laugh in our face and ask us what we’re going to do about it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” answered Green blandly.
“Err… So what’s the way forward?” a
sked a confused looking Pardew.
“Please don’t get me wrong: this is all background info and, if anything, I’m saying we should follow something like your plan, but with even more resources than you’re requesting. This thing could be big, and who knows what other cells they have working on this. In addition, we need to get Six involved again. They have assets in Dasayev’s Motherland that will be vital if we’re to crack this thing.”
***
Dean Ashley and Sophie Walsh entered the same conference room that Green and Pardew had left minutes before. Tea had just been delivered and Maison was enjoying a cup of Earl Grey by the window. She’d mulled over what had been presented and had already made up her mind on what was going on at BDS and the robot army programme.
Ashley coughed, announcing their presence and interrupting Maison’s train of thought.
“Ah, there you are. Please, have a cup of tea if you like,” offered Maison.
“No thanks, ma’am, just had one,” replied Ashley, keen to get going.
“No, I’m good,” said Sophie.
“Right then… Let’s get started shall we?” said Maison.
Sophie stood next to the wall-sized display and Ashley sat opposite Maison, across the long conference table.
“Ma’am, we have reason to believe, contrary to Green and Pardew’s investigation, that it is these men who are plotting a coup,” she revealed sensationally as the photos of Hardcastle, Zane and Becker appeared before them.
She explained how they met at unorthodox times and in unorthodox places; how the three men, with—at first glance—seemingly disparate backgrounds, travelled long distances just to have apparently silent ICS discussions. She revealed that all three men had inside access to technology, the military, and the political establishment; moreover, how all three men vehemently opposed the current government.
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