A crashing noise behind disrupts the moment. The box of food hits the ground as Sparks turns to Masen. ‘It’s happened.’
Mooney walks over and looks at the screen. The desk bows slightly as his weight presses down. ‘Any news about Coffey or Rodriguez?’
‘Nothing about the agents as yet,’ Sparks says. ‘Footage of John’s car ramming into the back of a car, gunning for the garage. The feed fuzzes a few minutes later after the explosion.’
Bradbury feels Masen’s hand tensing before pulling away. ‘…I’m so sorry.’
He walks over to the screen.
Sparks loops the footage for Masen who watches in horror as his car rams a car in front and continues down the driveway, accelerating all the way into the parking lot. The guard he recognizes squats to a firing position and fires three bursts at the car.
‘Casualties?’ Masen asks as his heart races.
Sparks says nothing.
Mooney steps between Masen and the screen. ‘Okay, show’s over.’
Masen moves to the side of Mooney to continue to watch. ‘Tell me, Sparks.’
‘I don’t know,’ Sparks says. He doesn’t know where to look so looks back at the screen. ‘When I find out more…’
‘We still need to complete our mission,’ Mooney says. ‘That buys time and secures the data from Black and anyone else who has designs on the technology.’
Nash stands. ‘The sooner we complete the test, the sooner this all stops and we can go home.’
‘You’re qualified to make that assumption?’ Masen says. ‘As I see it, the General is running this show. Look around. We can’t leave, go back home. We’re prisoners.’ And points at Nash. ‘What happened to your other team?’
‘I thought about that—’
‘What?’ Masen interrupts. ‘What did you think about? That the General might be the one controlling Black. That he’s a traitor?’
Mooney leans against the wall and pulls out his gun, holds it high. ‘Hold on you two.’ The room flinches in a collective gasp at the silver barrel, ivory handle and four mother of pearl stars imbedded in the handle is waved around pointing at the ceiling.
‘Did you have De Luca and Pascal killed, and Jessica kidnapped?’ Masen stands tall and tenses his body. ‘Well…did you?’
‘You’ve got big ones Masen, I’ll give you that. But no, I’m not behind any of it. But this here will be putting a stop to it.’ Mooney brings the gun down. Masen fixates on the tips of the bullets. ‘That I promise.’
‘Let’s concentrate on the test,’ Nash says trying to ease the tension. ‘We’re ready to proceed.’ And points outside. The sun had started its afternoon drift towards the mountain ranges. And the ocean breeze has picked up, seeding the air with pink flowers.
Nash walks over to the wall opposite the beds and takes down a photo of the President, pulls out a black marker pen from his shirt pocket and looks over at Mooney who is holstering his gun, and starts scribbling. ‘This is what DUST is all about,’ Nash says lifting on his toes, reaching just shy of the ceiling. He starts at the left most side of the wall, scrawling vigorously on the white paint a description of the technology: the maths. The black ink soaking symbols, numbers and letters into the white wall. In no time the writing travels from the top of the wall to just below waist height.
Masen moves to the middle of the room absent-mindedly to get a better view and moans as his wound brushes against a hard corner of the metal bed frame. ‘This was on the blackboard…’
‘Correct.’ Nash steps to the right and starts from the top again as if he’s laying wallpaper. The room is silent. It takes only a few minutes to quickly fill three feet of wall. Masen is spellbound. Equations he recognizes as his own; formulas contained in the journal article co-authored with Nash are being applied into engineered equipment and enhanced beyond what he thought possible. His entire academic life, displayed before him. It pulls him in. Reaches out a hand to touch the wall as if it is some ancient undiscovered cave, etchings of his own secret. Running under Nash’s arm is part of a symbol he can’t place. Nash stops, turns and smiles. Nash steps back and puts an arm on Masen’s shoulder and squeezes hard, then walks forward, puts a cross through the component and inserts a symbol above.
‘What is it?’ Masen asks tilting his head slightly.
Nash smiles. ‘The International Systems of Units doesn’t go that high.’ He is talking about the measurement of computer power, how many calculations can be performed per second.
‘…How fast?'
‘NamFLOPS, after Nash and Masen,’ Nash says. ‘I had to make it up.’
‘That can’t be right,’ Sparks says moving closer to the wall and now standing beside Masen. The magnitude dawns on him. ‘It’s big.’
‘Bigger the bang, bigger the chances of winning,’ Mooney says.
Nash hands Masen the marker, like a master handing down the mantle to his apprentice. Nash closes Masen’s fingers for him, his brain too busy studying the story being told on the wall. Nash backs up and moves over to the bed and leans into it. Pak moves over and sits on the edge. Bradbury inches forward.
‘Impossible,’ Masen mumbles completing part of a formula. ‘You made it faster than ten to the power one hundred.’
Sparks shakes his head. ‘No way, man.’ Almost giggles. ‘This thing could do the computing of all the world’s computers combined in a fraction of a second.’
‘Look closer,’ Nash says. ‘The answer’s there. Trust the math. Half of it’s yours.’
Masen moves into the wall. Nash is right, it is part of his PhD thesis: the footnote. The room’s attention is riveted to the wall as symbols appear only to be scribbled over and new ones created as Masen remembers the exact moment of enlightenment sitting at the booth in Maloney’s, his finger writing DUST in the residue on the table.
He becomes stuck on one section of the equation, part of it is missing. It’s a test.
Nash twists himself onto the bed, willing his former student on. ‘Figure it out,’ Nash says at the point where Masen needs a big leap of the imagination. ‘I know you can.’
Masen stands in silence, is still, willing the marker to complete the task, to fill in the missing piece of the puzzle. He turns, ‘It was only a footnote. It was never going to be possible…’
Nash nods and raises an eyebrow. ‘Go ahead.’
Masen turns and casually writes the six symbols on the left hand side of Nash’s work.
‘By coupling the processors together,’ Masen says, ‘you map the entire space when the magnets disrupt the mass. A sort of quasi-entanglement.’ He started in such excitement, but the reality drains the blood from his face.
Nash senses something is wrong.
‘Tell everyone what we created,’ Nash says fidgeting on the bed with excitement.
Masen steps back and is silent.
‘…John.’ His voice whimpering.
Masen drops the pen. ‘A monster,’ Masen says to himself. Then louder: ‘The world’s worst nightmare. Oppenheimer was wrong. This is the destroyer of worlds.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Nash pushes away from the bed. ‘This is the biggest discovery in human history. This changes everything.’ His voice startled and confused.
‘Now I become Death,’ Masen says to the wall.
Pak is lost in the translation of the symbols. The power of the exponential he understands well enough to know the processing speed is generations ahead of what is thought possible, even with quantum computers. Bradbury also comprehends the speed, even manages to understand a few symbols from her first year of university, but the vast majority remains a mystery.
‘Who’s the destroyer of worlds?’ she asks. ‘What does this all mean?’
Bradbury and Pak look to each other for an answer.
Masen gestures to Nash with both hands. ‘Don’t you see? The world isn’t ready for this insanity. It tips the balance too far in favor of one country.’
Nash is cold, distant, alone. ‘We’re scientists, it’s our job to create.’ Starts to snap out of what is a sucker punch to his chest when Mooney jumps in.
‘It’s the American way, Masen. Don’t try selling me this game theory crap. I lived through the cold war, son. If we had this then, the world would have been a lot safer place. Don’t lecture me about equal balance. We could end all future conflicts. This guarantees—’
‘No general,’ Masen says pointing to the wall. ‘Assured mutual destruction stacks up, no matter how ludicrous it is. We’re living proof the idea works. When word gets out we possess this technology it will be seen as a direct threat. It will start a war.’ Shoots Nash a look. ‘You’re delusional if you think the US would stand by and not attack if the Chinese or Russians had this technology and we didn’t. You think the General wouldn’t hammer a fist to the table and demand to strike first? Do you think the army is going to use this technology for peaceful purposes?’
‘Full of hot air, Masen,’ Mooney says. ‘But we have it.’
‘What does this all mean,’ Bradbury asks with an annoyed tone. ‘What’s the technology?’
‘In it’s simplest form, teleportation,’ Masen says. ‘The first two tests resulted in successfully teleporting simple inanimate metallic objects.’ Masen poses the statement as a question to Nash. Nash nods. ‘The stuff of science fiction,’ Masen continues. ‘It uses quantum superposition to teleport complex structures, including living organisms. It doesn’t travel through normal space-time. A whole tank, plane or bomb can be teleported to the other side of the world, instantaneously.’
‘Cool,’ Sparks injects his thoughts out loud. ‘The magnets tear matter apart at a sub-atomic level, entangling them in a wave function mapped by quantum computers and collapses it somewhere, anywhere.’ His finger points mid air.
‘Yes,’ Masen says. ‘We will be able to invade any object into any space we wish, instantly and without warning.’
‘DUal State superposition Teleportation…DUST,’ Nash says monotone. ‘And it’s waiting for you, John.’
32
The Barn, Technology Square, Boston
Black hurls himself up the stairs two at a time, towards the Barn. Heavy breathing and a hand slapping the cold handrail echoes through the stairwell. At the third floor, casually walks out. He doesn’t know how Masen did it, but he knows he’s involved. The run through traffic and tussle with the agent outside has left him exhausted. The corridors mist with the sprinkler system blindly putting out a fire that isn’t there. The sirens have silenced and yellow backup lights replace the starkness of white fluorescents.
A woman rushes out of an office, bundles of folders under her arm and nearly collides with him as he rests hands on knees in the middle of the corridor, grateful for the cooling water.
‘Excuse me,’ she says clumsily, some folders unknowingly fall from her grasp as she runs to the stairs; shoulders hunch sheltering from the artificial rain.
Black stands and rakes a hand through soaked hair and brushes it to one side righting himself and laughs. A laugh that releases the energy of all that has been sacrificed, a guttural laugh born deep down that resonates to a strong baritone as he arches over. He has done it. The Barn is at the end of the corridor. He isn’t going to rush the last few feet. There’s no need. He walks slowly with the authority the Director has given him, pats himself down, straightens tie and jacket.
‘This area is secured.’ A voice cuts through the haze up ahead. ‘Leave this area immediately. You need to go down the stairs.’
Black covers his eyes peering ahead and steals himself from the moment, like a lion that’s been spotted, he is still, trying to work out what the threat is. Moving closer he sees keys dangling from a heavy belt, military boots and matching uniform.
Security.
As soon as the guard sees the outline of a person he flicks the leather strap that secures his sidearm and clicks off the safety.
Black’s eyes narrow as he approaches. Thinks, violence is dangerous here, and continues walking, rubs water from his eyes.
The guard clutches his gun with an unambiguous gesture, his left hand halting the potential threat. The ID maneuver worked outside, Black thinks as his hand reaches for it in his pocket, and holds it high and out in front of his face. ‘Assistant Director Zane Black. Stand aside.’ And points to the door. ‘I’m in charge of the Barn.’
‘No access,’ the guard matches the projection of authority. ‘I won’t tell you a third time to leave this area.’
The guard doesn’t budge. His orders are simple and clear. After the recent discovery of the dead guard at the perimeter outside, there is no entry into any sensitive areas.
Black stops. He knows he is outmatched. The closer you are to a valuable secret the better trained and equipped security. This is no walkover. And imagines his team back at the Yellow Room in Shanghai, readying themselves to access the data so tantalizingly close, a matter of feet. Being this close feels like he is on fire and struggling to breathe.
‘I need access,’ teeth grind, nostrils flare, ‘to see if there has been any breaches.’
The guard raises his gun and moves one step forward. ‘Not today you don’t.’ Both hands on the weapon, trained on Black’s chest. ‘I need to hear it from the Director.’
‘I’ll call him myself.’ Black inches forward. Puts his ID away. ‘Where’s your radio?’
‘Back down the stairs, now!’ The guard surges forward and looks down at something on the ground.
‘Didn’t you hear me?’ Black takes a step back. ‘I need to use your radio.’ Thinks, you’re not stopping me. Not today. Senses the guard anticipating his move. Eyes are studying his face, clothes. Something on the ground holds his attention for a fraction of a second. Not wanting to let the guard get the upper hand, Black backs up two more paces and notices the guard lower his hand. Then his head leans to one side. He knows what the guard sees on the ground, he too sees it in front of him, the light casting a shadow of a bulge. Something common and concealed. The guard shoots a look of surprise. He knows the threat, and has the upper hand. With no time to think, Black moves for his gun, but knows he isn’t going to be fast enough.
The guard raises his gun, aims, fires.
33
Bozeman taps the glass with his gun and says, ‘Good morning.’ Slides open the window separating the business end of the ambulance and driver’s compartment.
‘Whooo,’ the driver says turning to the unfamiliar voice, eyes widen confronted with the barrel of a gun. ‘Take any drugs you want.’ Swerves uncontrollably into the next lane.
Bozeman’s head slams in the frame. The driver’s attention snaps forward to the road, the ambulance slows and starts pulling over.
‘Keep driving,’ Bozeman says gathering thoughts and snaking his hand through the opening. ‘And keep your eyes on the road. I’m not after any drugs, just a ride.’
The driver nods.
Bozeman watches as the driver, sitting more upright and griping the steering with renewed vigor does as he’s told. Sees how ridiculous he looks in the reflection on the windscreen, like he’s trying to squeeze out of an old fashioned TV.
The ambulance swings back into traffic.
It’s lucky Coffey survived. Bozeman suspects when they rammed the car in front and lost momentum, Rodriguez had no choice but to floor it before the door shut. But they must have been going too fast to turn in the confined parking lot and slammed into the concrete column. Coffey was in the back. Not lucky for Rodriguez in the driver’s seat who copped a whole lot of concrete in the face.
Bozeman blindly surveys his leg. Runs fingers over sticky blood that in places have congealed and hardened over the bandage. And points and waves his gun at the radio. ‘And don’t do anything stupid.’
Bozeman eases down on the bench. ‘I’m thinking,’ he says tapping the gun against forehead, and lets out a sustained moan. He hadn’t planned for
this. Any of it. His job was to simply supply the bomb, some clothes and Masen’s car. Rubs his face, takes in the scene and nervously shifts his weight as the ambulance bumps and sways. Now he has to come up with a plan to get them both away from the city and Coffey much needed medical attention. He can see Coffey is struggling, his body limp.
The paramedic is busy looking after his patient, adjusting drip lines, tightening straps. Unravels a stethoscope from around his neck and listens to Coffey’s inner workings.
The airport will be swarming with cops, Bozeman thinks. The car will have to stay there until things cool down. ‘How is he Doc?’ Bozeman asks looking over to the nervous wreck of a woman next to him: hands clutching themselves, shaking in her lap. The man turns, his jaw grinding away, punishing something. The name-tag above his left breast pocket reads Tagan.
‘Internal bleeding.’ Tagan wipes his brow. ‘Multiple facial lacerations, broken ribs, tibia…’ Throws up his hands looking at Bozeman. ‘Nothing to think about. If he was close enough to the explosion…’ Shakes his head. ‘We need to get him to an ER ASAP.’
A strap with some kind of monitor is placed over Coffey’s heart and secured with velcro, it flashes to life and starts beeping out of phase with the sirens. Tagan had watched Bozeman produce a gun, but was powerless to act. He has a patient in need of immediate medical attention.
Bozeman wedges the gun down his back.
‘He could die,’ Tagan says and looks over to the woman trying to place her involvement, and fidgets around his breast pocket for a small torch, peels back eyelids and instructs Coffey to follow it.
‘Blood transfusion?’ Bozeman guesses.
‘Stat.’
Iris Rising Page 19
