Immortal

by Nick M Lloyd

  Piper shrugged. ‘Before MedOp, he invested money into longevity research and cryogenics. But … nothing more than the average billionaire looking for an out.’

  ‘What about the liaison team in SpaceOp?’ asked the prime minister, changing the subject.

  ‘Our on-site inspection team landed in Anglesey a few hours ago. Captain Whaller hasn’t made a substantial report yet.’

  ‘For tomorrow’s briefing,’ continued Timbers, ‘I’m going to openly state that no decision can be made on the subject of plutonium until we have quantified the risks from the gamma ray burst.’

  ‘Quantify is a good word,’ said Martel. ‘It doesn’t imply we don’t believe the Ankor, but it puts pressure on them to tell us where the supernova is.’

  Piper leant forward. ‘My guys think it’s very possible the Ankor have withheld the exact location so that everyone on Earth will be equally incentivised to support the shield development?’

  ‘How so?’ asked Timbers.

  Piper continued. ‘I understand the peak pulse will only last a few minutes. If we knew the exact location and exact time of the explosion, then we could estimate where on Earth the most intense radiation will fall.’

  The prime minister looked at Martel. ‘Colonel?’

  ‘I understand the concept,’ said Martel. ‘But most scientists agree a strong gamma ray blast would render the entire Earth sterile. I’m not sure the epicentre of that initial pulse will be meaningful overall.’

  Piper accepted the point with a nod and then turned to Timbers. ‘Are you getting much civil unrest?’

  From the television reports Martel had seen, the US was suffering hourly riots.

  The prime minister answered Piper directly. ‘We have a two-pronged attack. My daily briefings are getting good feedback; the UK population seem to believe that people and government are in it together. Secondly, we have put a lot more police onto the streets, with clear instructions to calm and reassure.’

  Calm and reassure …

  Martel suspected that reasonable words were only going to soothe the population for so long.

  --------

  Butler Street Offices, Wednesday 17th April

  Approaching the MIDAS offices, Martel rechecked the transcripts of the most recent mobile phone conversations that Tim Boston and Samantha Turner had had. There was nothing remotely suspicious about their behaviour, which was entirely consistent with almost every other adult in London.

  Ringing the buzzer, he waited.

  ‘Hello.’ It was Tim Boston’s voice.

  ‘Colonel Martel. I believe you’re expecting me,’ said Martel, holding his ID up to the video entry lens.

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Tim. ‘SpaceOp background checks?’

  The door buzzed, and Martel found his way upstairs, where he was met at the second security door by Tim and Sam.

  ‘I’d assumed we were going to be summoned,’ said Tim.

  Martel smiled. ‘You’d be surprised how many diary clashes I’m informed about when I try to arrange meetings in advance. I find that doorstepping is the most efficient method.’

  As Martel was led through the main office, his eyes swept the room. Most of the screens were switched off, but there was one showing new information.

  Binding resolution ES-15/1, the United Nations General Assembly by majority vote has disbanded the Security Council. Discussions concerning the alien arrival will only be held in full sessions

  ‘The USA will go mental,’ said Sam, noticing the direction of Martel’s gaze.

  ‘I suspect some smaller countries are worried the big players may cut a deal,’ added Tim.

  ‘A reasonable assumption,’ said Martel, allowing himself to be ushered into a meeting room and sitting down on the proffered chair.

  ‘How can we help?’ asked Tim.

  For the next twenty minutes, Tim talked him through the previous few years’ work. He and his colleague Sam had written most of the code for the MedOp data aggregation tool, MIDAS, but MacKenzie had a separate ‘quant’ team to provide the complex algorithms underlying its natural language processing. Tim and Sam also provided periodic installs of the main MIDAS system which was held in Anglesey but, as far as they knew, none of the MIDAS processing was used for SpaceOp.

  ‘So, you focus on data analysis for MedOp?’ asked Martel. ‘But you’ve never met this quant team who write the more complex analysis routines?’

  Tim smiled. ‘Not quite how I would put it. The quant team provided some very specific natural language processing code. Most of the analysis routines were written by Sam and me.’

  ‘So, MacKenzie is using MIDAS to analyse and sell survey data that he gets as payment from MedOp applicants?’

  ‘Not just survey data,’ said Tim. ‘MIDAS pulls relevant public information from the internet and can be pointed at any database to do the same.’

  Sam spoke. ‘It’s not just MedOp applicants. MacKenzie has deals with all sorts of survey companies. They all send him data.’

  ‘Can I see a MedOp survey?’

  ‘Unfortunately, not from here. You’d have to be in MacKenzie’s Park Royal office,’ said Tim. ‘We’re just the development site.’

  ‘So none of the live data is produced in Butler Street?’

  ‘None,’ said Tim. ‘The production system is split between Park Royal and Anglesey.’

  ‘Well …’ said Sam. ‘Currently, we do have the production encryption servers here.’

  ‘So,’ said Martel. ‘Francis MacKenzie sets up his data search categories in Park Royal, they are encrypted using some technology here, and then they are sent to Anglesey for execution.’

  ‘Correct,’ said Tim.

  ‘Do you keep any data here at all?’ asked Martel.

  ‘Nothing sensitive,’ said Tim. ‘We create BinCubes as part of the test runs. It’s all public data and we don’t keep them.’

  ‘Are his systems in Anglesey entirely secure?’ asked Martel.

  Tim nodded. ‘As good as I have ever seen. Obviously anything networked has some level of vulnerability, but all his systems have constant key encryption changes, passive data intrusion monitoring, hard-wiring, and lock-down circuit breakers. Everything possible to stop an inbound attack that could result in data loss.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Martel, deciding to switch subjects. ‘What do you know about MacKenzie’s work in Colombia?’

  ‘Only what I’ve read in the newspapers. It was before our time working for him,’ said Tim. ‘He was angry that the US government appeared to be throttling SETI data and so bought his own radio array.’

  ‘You weren’t involved in any of the technology there?’

  ‘No,’ said Tim.

  ‘When did you start working for MacKenzie?’ Martel asked.

  ‘We started here June 2016,’ said Sam.

  ‘You worked together before that?’ asked Martel.

  ‘Since 2011,’ said Tim. ‘We worked at DataFact together.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Martel, making a note. ‘Can I now ask you about Charles Taylor?’

  ‘He and I are currently … an item,’ said Sam. ‘He does all sorts for Francis MacKenzie but tends not to speak about it.’

  ‘Not even to you?’ asked Martel.

  Sam smiled. ‘Especially not to me.’

  ‘Do you know what he did for MacKenzie in Chile?’

  ‘I know he went there,’ Sam frowned. ‘But he hasn’t talked about it to me.’

  ‘Apologies,’ said Martel. ‘Investigations usually involve asking multiple people the same questions.’

  Tim glanced at Sam. ‘Charlie was in Chile from late 2012 through to early 2014. Working for Francis MacKenzie, he was doing low energy physics experiments down a salt mine – hidden from cosmic rays and other electromagnetic disturbances.’

  During which time, Mr Boston, you were involved in a car crash that crippled your colleague Samantha Turner.

  Obviously, Martel wouldn’t mention that. ‘Has he been to Chile recently?’<
br />
  Tim took a deep breath. ‘No. As far as I know, Charlie’s work has been entirely in the UK. A mixture of MedOp and SpaceOp.’

  ‘Understood, thank you,’ said Martel. It was clear that they were not able to add anything further regarding MacKenzie’s activities in Anglesey.

  Martel stood up and shook hands with them both. ‘Many thanks. I will let you know if I have follow-ups and if you think of anything just call, or email.’

  ‘Thank you, Colonel. I’ll show you out,’ said Tim.

  CHAPTER 6

  Leicester, Thursday 11th April

  It was beyond comprehension to Xandra Kusr that they would demand she kept to the terms of the original agreement.

  ‘What are they thinking of?’ she asked the blank wall of the clinic’s bedroom as she stuffed clothes into her suitcase.

  The clinic, in an industrial park on the outskirts of Leicester, had been Kusr’s home for the previous six months … and she’d signed up for six more.

  Signed up to what …?

  The contract had been for an exorbitant amount of money – and offered a route back to respectability – but had severely restricted her movements. She’d been allowed to use internet video-calls to keep in touch daily with her husband and children, but had only been allowed to visit them once a month.

  Neither was she allowed to discuss any of her responsibilities at the clinic.

  The MedOp Revolution

  That was how Charlie Taylor continually described it, but he never gave any more details than were required for each immediate task.

  Some of the work Kusr had done was revolutionary – the ongoing neural grafting work, creating stable links between mammalian brains and computers with silver wires, had never been done to the level of complexity she’d achieved at MedOp. The cataract operation for Francis MacKenzie himself and the series of immune response tests on Charles Taylor, were less ground-breaking, but at least showed that her two bosses had skin in the game.

  The real work was due to start the following week, as far Kusr knew. Taylor had explained that a research team in Seoul would be providing the specifications for a new mix of enzymes and proteins that would allow stable interfaces. All the ones she’d used so far had decayed after a few minutes.

  It would be revolutionary.

  However, with the Ankor arrival, Kusr felt she simply couldn’t stay to fulfil her part of the bargain. They would have to understand – and either find a replacement surgeon or delay their plans. After all, the rest of the world had put its plans on hold. Why shouldn’t MedOp?

  Amber and Jada, her darling daughters, needed their mother in this time of turmoil.

  Footsteps down the corridor drew Kusr’s attention.

  ‘Dr Kusr,’ said one of the clinic’s orderlies, ‘your car is ready. However, I have this for you.’

  Since yesterday, when she’d informed Taylor of her final decision to leave, it had been Taylor trying to make Kusr change her mind. She had not been moved.

  Now the big guns were out. A handwritten note from Francis MacKenzie himself, assuming the signature – which looked like something a seismograph might produce – was genuine.

  Xandra

  Please reconsider your decision

  Work at MedOp cannot stop at this point

  The research team have discovered some potentially paradigm-changing behaviours in nerve regrowth. I need to test them within the week. We have patients in urgent need of treatment.

  I am happy to double your remuneration and allow extended family visits.

  Francis

  Tempting.

  If MacKenzie’s research claims were true, this story would be a wonderful one to be part of. Although MacKenzie was not well known for sharing the credit for his achievements, and most people’s short-term priorities were fairly fluid at the moment.

  Her duty was to be with her family.

  ‘Lead me to the car,’ said Kusr to the orderly, folding the letter and putting it in her pocket.

  The orderly nodded and, picking up Kusr’s bag, started walking through the maze of corridors.

  I may regret this …

  There was no doubt in her mind that MacKenzie would not forgive the slight, and that she would now be excluded from all further research.

  She ground her teeth. She’d been excluded before. Her previous job at the Royal Mary Institute for Neural Repair had not ended well. A lawsuit citing surgical malpractice had forced her into a ‘leave of absence’ which had quietly turned into a voluntary redundancy. To make it worse, she had been forbidden to re-examine the patient who’d supposedly been in so much pain after the procedure she’d performed.

  It had been a simple trapped nerve in the neck, nothing more.

  A few minutes later, after signing out at reception, Kusr followed the orderly into the underground car park – the same one she used for her monthly visits home.

  A heavy-duty SUV with blacked-out windows was waiting.

  The back seats were piled high with blankets and junk, so Kusr climbed into the front passenger seat. She didn’t recognise the driver. Certainly, it was not the usual one, or any of the orderlies multitasking.

  ‘Hello,’ said Kusr, strapping into her seatbelt.

  The driver grunted a response and they set off.

  Waiting for the first of two barriers to rise, Kusr thought back over her time at the clinic. She would miss it. She’d miss the cutting-edge technology and the responsive nature of the team. In fairness, she had been treated like royalty whilst she’d been there.

  Perhaps I should stay?

  But as the steel gate rolled up – the final barrier to the outside world – Kusr saw the blue sky and her resolve hardened.

  ‘An hour?’ asked Kusr.

  The driver half-turned. ‘A little longer,’ he said. ‘Traffic conditions.’

  Kusr struggled to place the accent.

  They pulled out into the traffic, which was light despite what the driver had said. The journey home, to a small village outside Cambridge, really couldn’t take more than an hour.

  And then I will see my jewels.

  Kusr pulled out her purse and looked at her favourite family photo of the four of them eating ice-creams on a windy beach in Cornwall.

  They will be surprised to see me.

  She hadn’t called ahead. Right up to the last moment, she hadn’t been sure if she would change her mind.

  As they headed east, the roads were even quieter.

  Kusr was surprised when the driver took a turning for Corby. ‘You know where we’re going?’ she asked.

  The driver nodded. ‘Traffic issue.’

  Instinctively Kusr wanted to argue, but she let it go. There would be no benefit in annoying the drive unnecessarily, and in any case, they were still heading towards her home – just not taking the most direct route.

  They drove on, Kusr looking out the window, imagining the look of glee of her daughter’s face when she gave her the pocketful of boiled sweets she’d been saving from the clinic’s canteen.

  Margrot?

  She knew Margrot, of course; it was an old air force base on the banks of the largest reservoir in Northamptonshire. It wasn’t the right direction.

  Kusr turned to the driver. ‘Hey!’

  The car stopped. Kusr felt movement behind her.

  Hands grabbed her from behind and the driver leant over, a hypodermic needle clearly visible in his hand.

  Kusr’s eyes met those of the driver. There was no surprise in the driver’s eyes, only resolve.

  What?

  Kusr tried to raise her hands to fight off the needle, but the person behind her had pinned her arms.

  She looked left, wondering if she could throw herself out. The passenger door didn’t seem to have a handle.

  A sharp prick in her neck indicated she’d been injected.

  Fight!

  But suddenly there was no fight in her. A cool feeling spread down her right side and up into her face. Kusr’s eyes
, feeling heavy, started to close. The last thing she saw was a sign for the reservoir.

  CHAPTER 7

  Butler Street Offices, Friday 12th April

  Waiting in the Butler Street server room for Tim to call, Sam double-checked she had all the encryption keys ready. She did. In fact, it wasn’t a hard job to reset the security software and if MacKenzie had allowed them to have an automated process it would have only taken five or six seconds. MacKenzie, however, did not allow the automation and in order to ensure there was absolute protection for the MIDAS Production system in Anglesey Tim had to physically be there to perform the reset.

  In the background, the Radio Juice talk show was trawling through the bad news from the last twenty-four hours.

  ‘So you don’t think the heroin addict deaths a tragedy?’

  ‘Nah. They’re a drain on society. We’re better off without them.’

  ‘Well, caller, I disagree. Those addicts have a chance to … heal?’

  ‘Bollocks!’

  Heroin Addicts?

  No stranger to pain killers – Sam continued to have a constant fight with the opiate lure – Sam kicked off a MIDAS search.

  Moments later it came back. The police had released a statement saying that an ex-serviceman had been linked to a series of suspected murders. Twenty heroin addicts had been killed with contaminated heroin from the same supplier.

  The next caller drew Sam’s attention back to the radio.

  ‘Hi, Andy, this is Marcus from Sunderland. It’s appeasement …’

  There was the word again. Appeasement. Over the last weeks there’d been a growing number of commentators talking about preparation for the Ankor arrival and how some groups were thinking that some sort of cleansing activity was required to prove humanity’s worthiness.

  For fuck’s sake …

  The phone rang. Tim.

  ‘Hey buddy, how was the trip?’ asked Sam.

  ‘Bumper to bumper, replied Tim. ‘You’d not believe the amount of traffic heading into SpaceOp.’