by Chris Dolley
What did they want with him now?
Graham climbed the stairs hesitatingly, trying to push back the moment of his arrival. A security guard stood motionless outside the conference room door. He watched Graham's approach for a few seconds before leaning to the side and pushing open the door.
Graham walked through. The room was as impressive as he'd remembered it. The huge table, the panelling, the paintings—but this time the room had a more lived-in feel. Jackets were strewn on the backs of chairs, cups and plates and papers were lying haphazardly about. And the people—he counted five of them—looked as though they'd been up all night.
Graham hovered by the door.
"Come straight in, Mr. Smith," said a tall man Graham vaguely recognized. "Don't stand on ceremony. Did you get the disk?"
Graham was about to shrug when he remembered the computer disk he'd found in his pocket. He took it out and handed it over.
"Good man. We thought we'd lost you during the power cut." He took the disk and handed it to someone Graham hadn't seen for two years—Roger Tyler, used to work on the fourth floor, very small handwriting.
"Have you had breakfast?"
Graham shook his head. He didn't think so, he felt hungry.
"There's plenty over there," the tall man said, pointing to a table against the wall. "Help yourself. You deserve it."
Graham sidled over to the table. There was a pot of coffee, milk, plates of croissants and bread rolls, a rack of cold toast, butter. Graham stood over the table, wondering whether he was meant to grab a handful and leave or stay, silently, in the background and eat.
The disk was slid into the computer in the corner, a few taps on the keyboard, a long pause, more taps and then a long, relieved sigh.
"It's all here," said Roger. "The Japanese have accepted the amendments to the energy proposals and suggested a rewording to the section on patent extension."
"Excellent. To recap, gentlemen. I want the updated tariff proposals evaluated, changes noted and the draft ministerial briefing revised for discussion at nine. I'll be leaving for the trade talks at nine-thirty."
The tall man picked up his jacket and walked towards the door. Graham poured himself half a cup of coffee and prepared to drink it very quickly.
"You think they'll still go ahead with the talks?" asked a short, middle-aged man.
"Until we hear different, the assumption is the talks start as planned."
"Even with the Japanese delegation stuck in Knightsbridge?"
The tall man stood by the door and shrugged. "It's not our decision."
The door clicked closed. Graham quietly buttered a piece of toast and listened to the conversation behind him, hoping to discover how a Japanese disk had found its way into his pocket. Had he been sent to Knightsbridge to collect it? Was that part of a messenger's duties in this thread of reality?
"I still don't understand why the army hasn't been sent in." A different voice this time, Graham couldn't tell who. "It seems madness to sit back and let a few hundred rioters have the run of London. Have you seen the TV pictures? They're laughing at us."
"That may be what they want," said Roger. "I was talking to the captain outside. He thinks they're trying to lure the army into a trap."
"How?"
"You've seen the pictures. That's no random mob. A mob would take out all the cameras and street detectors. But this lot don't. They want to be seen. They rampage through a small area, then disappear and another group springs up in front of the cameras a mile away. It's organized. They want to provoke a reaction. The army think they may have planted several large devices around the city—ready to detonate if they can get the security forces to take the bait."
"They'd do that?" Graham could hear the shock and incredulity in the man's voice.
"The army reckons they have a hardcore who will. And you don't have to be a rocket scientist to use New Tech weapons."
"Then why haven't they cancelled the trade talks?"
"Haven't you heard? They've set up a New Tech defensive perimeter all around the talks and Westminster. Nothing can get through."
"Are we inside the perimeter?"
"I didn't ask."
* * *
Graham stuffed two extra bread rolls into his jacket pocket—stepping out for lunch might not be an option today. He slipped out of the conference room unnoticed and made his way back downstairs to the Post Room.
A television was on, the screen flashing with images of riots and mayhem. He'd never seen a television in the Post Room before. And this one was large and hung like a picture on the wall—exactly the same as the one he'd seen earlier.
Three people were perched on desks watching, their heads swung round guiltily as Graham walked in.
"Relax, it's only Mr. Post-it," said Ray to the other two men—security guards from the look of their uniforms.
Graham groaned inwardly and forced a smile. Could the day get any worse?
Ray's smirk told him it could. It followed Graham across the room. The television and the riots forsaken in favor of more immediate entertainment.
"You found your desk all right then?"
Graham didn't bother to turn round. It would only prolong the ordeal. He'd check his desk, see what he could find, then leave.
"You don't want to walk around the room a couple of times to get your bearings?"
Graham pushed Ray's words to the back of his mind and opened the top drawer. There were several notes inside—reminders of jobs he'd agreed to do, procedures he should know about, his tube route home.
"This is the bloke I was telling you about. You know, the one on TV a half hour back? All he had to do was pick up a disk from a hotel in Knightsbridge and the muppet gets lost."
A reporter reeled off another list of statistics and Graham continued reading his notes. It looked like he worked on the van deliveries as well as in the office. There was a schedule of deliveries and routes and a list of contacts at the other buildings.
"You can't blame the bloke for walking into a riot," said one of the security guards.
"I didn't walk into a riot," said Ray indignantly. "I had to go all the way to Earl's Court for my pickup but you didn't see me get caught up in any riot, did you?" He paused, calming down. "You get in quick and you get out quick. And you keep your ears open. Course, it doesn't help if you're deaf as well as stupid."
Graham closed the drawer and leaned forward to check the array of Post-it notes on his notice board.
"What do they want with disks, anyway?" asked the other security guard. "I thought everything was sent electronically these days."
"You haven't heard?"
"Heard what?"
Ray lowered his voice in a conspiratorial way. Graham stopped reading and listened.
"You know that New Tech phone system? The one that was going to revolutionize everyone's lives?"
"The ParaDim NG?"
"That's the one. Infinite bandwidth, infinite capacity. A friend of mine overheard some of the IT guys talking last week. They reckon ParaDim scan every call."
"I thought that was impossible."
"It is. To everyone but ParaDim. You got to admire the bastards. They practically give away their system to make sure everyone uses it. They show everyone this amazing code that no one can crack and all the time they have the program to do just that."
"But they can't scan every call, can they?"
"What's the matter? Guilty conscience?" Ray laughed. "Those buggers have technology that can do anything they frigging want."
Graham wondered if Ray was telling the truth. Was this another of his stories to impress people? Or was it true? And was that why Gary and Kevin were so circumspect whenever they called Annalise? Because they knew all calls were routinely scanned?
He checked the last of his Post-its—nothing to say why he was sleeping at work or for how long. Presumably it was something to do with the riots and the trade talks rather than a specific danger to him at Wealdstone Lane.
If only he could find Annalise.
Gunfire blared out from the television as Graham walked over to the trolley and swung it around towards the door.
"Where do you think you're going?" asked Ray.
Graham tapped his watch and pointed towards the door.
"You'll be lucky. There's no post and no one to deliver it to. Essential staff only since yesterday afternoon. Well," he paused, "essential staff and you."
* * *
Graham went to the cloakroom instead. Choosing the fifth floor even though it wasn't a Friday—anything to put the greatest distance between him and Ray.
He wandered empty corridors, checked empty out-trays in empty offices and gazed out windows over an empty London.
What the hell was happening out there? It all seemed so unreal.
Maybe that was the problem—it wasn't real. Maybe he was trapped inside a decaying virtual world—the program degrading so fast it could no longer populate the streets. The riot no more than a device to cover the fact that the world was collapsing in on itself.
He stared towards the horizon. Was it getting closer? Was that why he had to sleep at work—because Wealdstone Lane no longer existed? The world having shrunk to a few square miles?
He shook his head. So much was happening. Every time the world shifted, ParaDim became more prominent. It was like he was moving into the future watching ParaDim grow from concept to company to threat to the world's stability. And yet the year never altered. Time flowed as normal. Yesterday was June 20, tomorrow would be June 22. But tomorrow for ParaDim? It could be the equivalent of years in the future. Was that the resonance wave? Something that ParaDim used to extricate itself from the constraints of time?
And where would it end? Would ParaDim grow and grow or collapse? What would this world be like in another year? More riots, more advanced weapons, more chaos?
He closed his eyes and tried to blink the world away. Maybe if he refused to believe in its existence . . .
The same world stared back. Real or not, it wasn't going anywhere.
Yet.
Twenty-Four
Graham took the long way back to the Post Room, walking every floor and corridor, peering into offices and seeing who was about. There was a strange mix of noise and silence, calm and bustle. Some people scurried from room to room with papers and briefcases while others sat staring blankly into space, or at the televisions on the wall.
Graham hovered outside the Post Room door and listened. He couldn't hear Ray. He took a deep breath and walked inside. The room was empty. The television flashed and boomed in the corner of his vision. A reporter broke in occasionally with background information and statistics but mostly let the pictures do the talking. And the screaming, and the wailing.
Suddenly a voice broke Graham's concentration. A voice he recognized. He turned. The man was there, on the wall, talking to the camera—the tall, gaunt man. A caption came up with his name. Adam Sylvestrus, CEO ParaDim.
"The world is not the same place it was three years ago," he said. "The pace of change has been unprecedented. Yes, established industries have become obsolete. Yes, this has caused problems. But the gains far outweigh the losses. We have synthetic food processing plants that can alleviate famine and drugs that can enhance and prolong life. For the first time in history, disease and famine have been tamed. How can that be bad for the world?"
The camera cut immediately to a close-up of a young male reporter. His question fired back at Sylvestrus almost before the older man had stopped speaking.
"Isn't it true that Sylvestrus Industries has released untested drugs into the Third World?"
Sylvestrus smiled and shook his head as though dismissing a child.
"Every one of our drugs is thoroughly tested. Why waste four years testing products by outdated means when new technology can carry out those tests in days? We have saved millions of lives by getting our products into hospitals when they are needed and where they are needed."
The camera cut back and forth, Sylvestrus taking his time, calm and assured. The reporter trying to unsettle him, interrupting, sneering and shaking his head to camera whenever Sylvestrus made a point.
"Isn't it more truthful to say that, so far, you've been lucky and that Sylvestrus Industries is a disaster waiting to happen?"
"Luck has nothing to do with it. The world has moved on. We have models and simulations that can compress centuries of study into a handful of hours. It's the Western World who are endangering their people by clinging to outdated methodologies and refusing to accept the benefits that New Technology can bring. Death rates in what you call the Third World will soon be lower than in the Developed World."
"But what about weapons proliferation? You can't deny that ParaDim has been responsible for making weapons of mass destruction freely available."
"As I have said many times before, neither ParaDim nor Sylvestrus Industries deal in weapons of mass destruction. For every new offensive weapon we bring to market, we introduce twice as many defensive products."
"But people don't buy the defensive products, do they? They buy the weapons. Last year, you sold twenty offensive weapons for every countermeasure sold."
"That will change."
"Don't you feel any responsibility for the riots in London? They're your weapons being used against the police."
"And they are our weapons being used to protect the trade talks. A more pertinent question would be to ask the British government why the New Tech shields are only in place around selected government buildings and not the whole of London."
"Do you think that ParaDim is above the law? You don't like the antitrust legislation so you pick up your ball and leave."
"What I don't like is politically motivated legislation. Do you really think that breaking up ParaDim will stimulate competition and help the consumer?" He shook his head and smiled warmly into the camera. "It's a thinly disguised attempt to nationalize ParaDim Defense and gain control of our artificial intelligence system."
"So you ship all your assets out of the country? Take jobs away from the countries that back the breakup of ParaDim and open new factories in countries that support you?"
Sylvestrus shrugged. "It's a natural progression. New jobs go to the areas with the greatest prospect for growth. If America and Europe are bent on protectionism and the suppression of New Technology, then what else can we do?"
"But isn't it financial suicide to take on the regulators of the world's biggest market?"
"America and Europe are no longer the world's biggest market. Things have changed. The West has to realize that it can't dictate to the rest of the world any more. Money will follow the new economy wherever we decide to locate it. ParaDim isn't about bricks and mortar—it never has been—it's about ideas. And ideas are mobile. As is money. If America and Europe don't recognize that, then in ten years time they'll be nothing more than a backwater . . ."
The interview ended abruptly as a new picture flashed across the screen—a bird's eye view of London, shot from roof height. Two helicopters were flying ahead, skimming low over rooftops. They began to open fire on the streets below, the target out of camera shot. The camera swooped down and to the left. There were people on the streets. Smoke, fire, a sudden flash, two flashes coming up from ground level. The lead helicopter exploded, the other pulled hard to the right and out of shot. A second explosion. A blur of cloud as the camera swung violently through 180 degrees.
"These pictures were taken a few minutes ago," a breathless female voice reported. "Two military helicopters have been shot down over Knightsbridge."
The picture changed again. An office block, the camera zooming in and out, panning wildly, windows coming into and out of focus. A flash. The camera swept back, zoomed in, a window, the outline of a face, another flash.
"He's over there!" A shout off camera. The sound of heavy breathing, running feet and a microphone rubbing against fabric.
The shot changed again. A woman—young, worried, breathless�
�talking to the camera. "A sniper has opened fire from the top floor of—"
An explosion. The woman ducked. The camera panned to the smoking remains of a vehicle.
The picture changed again. An aerial shot, looking down on the southern tip of Hyde Park. A convoy of military vehicles spread out along a road. One was on fire, then another. Beams of light arrowed down on the convoy from the tops of office buildings. Every vehicle they hit glowed for an instant before exploding in a shimmering ball of flame.
Graham stood transfixed. He'd never seen anything like it.
Another explosion, louder this time and not from the television. The Post Room windows rattled, the floor shook, glass shattered somewhere in the building. Graham clung to his desk and looked back towards the door.
"Help! Somebody!" A cry from the foyer. More voices. "We've got wounded here!" Confusion, smoke, screams. Graham ran into the foyer. People everywhere—soldiers, reporters, wounded. Bodies lying on the ground by the lift, by the door, being carried in from the street. More people arriving from the stairs, from outside. Everyone shocked. So much blood, so many burns. And the noise, everyone talking at once. Where's a doctor? Help me! There's more outside!
Graham stood at the back, unable to help, not knowing what to do.
Another explosion. A rush of air from outside, a cloud of smoke blew past the door. Screams, engines revving, panic and flight.
Someone shouted from the main entrance. "They got the second tank!"
"Stand away from the door, you idiot!"
Another explosion, smaller, further away this time.
"Jesus, it's a weapons drone. The bastards have got a weapons drone out there! It's taking out everything that moves."
A soldier ran to the door. "Can't be! They're not supposed to have anything like that."
"It's firing again!"
Graham winced automatically and turned his body away from the door. A small explosion, a stifled scream from a woman hunched up against the wall next to him.
"What's a weapons drone?" someone asked in a quiet voice.