Inkers

by Alex Rudall

“Doesn’t matter now.” He shook his backpack. “She got me too, but the armour caught it.” He patted his back.

  They went down out of the night.

  In one of the schoolrooms in the empty centre, Ret showed them footage of the farm on a big screen. The barn with the three figures hanging oblivious in their VR suits. The tanks containing more ink than Ret or Lwazi or Hardwick had ever seen in their lives.

  “That’s it,” Hardwick said. “The source of the signal. If we destroy it we stop the GSE.”

  Ret reached in his backpack and pulled out a suction–pack, its transparent sack filled with black. He held it up in front of them.

  “Wow,” Lwazi said.

  “Jesus Christ,” Hardwick said. “How much is that worth?”

  Ret nodded. “Something liken two hundred thousand dollars. They probably won’t even notice it.”

  “We must destroy the barn,” Lwazi said.

  “If we just destroy it, nobody will know,” Hardwick said. “We’ll have gained nothing.”

  “We will have saved our lives,” Lwazi said. “And the world.”

  “Apart from that,” Hardwick said.

  “Destroy it, nothing,” Ret said. “ITSA will deal with the GSE. We should collect the ink, get the biggest bounty in history and retire.”

  Lwazi and Hardwick stared at him.

  “Ret,” Hardwick said, “The GSE has absorbed Jupiter. Do you have any idea how big Jupiter is? All the nuclear missiles in the world won’t make the slightest bit of difference.”

  “I’m not an astronomer,” Ret said. “I’m not giving up a haul like this.”

  He left the room. Hardwick listened to him tramping back up to the roof in his heavy boots.

  “I’ve got to go to ITSA,” Hardwick said. “I’ll say we saw the video of the immune and just got lucky.”

  Lwazi nodded.

  Hardwick went up to the roof of the building.

  Ret was crouched on the low wall that surrounded the roof, staring across the darkness. There was little light pollution out here and the interior of the Milky Way could be clearly seen, a great swathe across the sky, polluted only by the bright spot of the GSE.

  He turned and dropped down when he heard Hardwick.

  “Alright,” he said, quietly.

  “Hi,” Hardwick said, searching for the words. “We need to go to ITSA. They’ll be able to deal with this the proper way. They’ll have the best chance of using it all to stop the GSE. And we’ll be heroes. You’ll be a hero, you’ll be the one who actually went and found the place, got the proof. Forget the money, you won’t need it.”

  “Forget the money?” Ret said. “Forget the money? My girlfriend, my kid, they have to have money!”

  “No, that’s what I mean!” Hardwick said. “We’ll be heroes, we’ll have saved the world, we’ll be able to get anything we want.”

  “No,” Ret said, “I killed an immune today. I thought we were just going to get the bounty, get the money and disappear. I won’t be a hero, they’ll throw me in jail.”

  “We’ll keep it a secret,” Hardwick said. “We’ll protect you, I’ll protect you, I promise you, I always always protect my own. And we’ll keep the ink tech a secret, we can use it again, afterwards. We’ll be the best ink–hunters in the world, we’ll make ITSA obsolete.”

  “Nah,” Ret said, turning and walking past Hardwick to the black drone on its pad, resting one hand on it. Hardwick leaned against the wall where Ret had been stood. “Nah, she got me on her implants. They’ll put two and two together, they’ll figure it out and they’ll just take the tech.”

  “Ret, we’ll be heroes, they won’t be able to take from us. Trust me, I know how this stuff works. I’ve been in business long enough, and politics is a business, it’s all a business, even heroism. The GSE is almost on top of us! We can’t just collect the ink like it was a normal den!”

  Ret shook his head. “ITSA or the Chinese will take care of the GSE. They’ve got singularities of their own. Everyone knows it. They’ll fire one of them up and it’ll eat it. It’s probably on the way already.”

  “I won’t take that risk!” Hardwick said. “Give me the video, come with me to ITSA. We’ll make you a hero, you’ll go down in history as the man who found the ink. You’ll be the Neil Armstrong of ink hunting.”

  “No!” Ret said. “That’s not how it’ll be! I killed a “kunter!”

  “I’ll make it be that way! For god’s sake, remember who’s paying you!”

  “No,” Ret said, a dangerous glint in his eye. “I’ve told you, I don’t like being interfered with like that.”

  Hardwick suddenly became aware of the drop behind him.

  “Ret,” he said, “Doesn’t your family need the money?”

  “Don’t ever threaten my family!” Ret screamed, and he charged towards Hardwick, who tried to leap to the side.

  “Stop!” a voice shouted from the stairwell. It was Lwazi. His brother was with with him with a rifle pointed at Ret.

  “Fuck you!” Ret shouted, and he ducked behind the drone, slid back the cockpit and climbed on and in almost in one movement. Hardwick heard him shouting commands inside. With a roar the drone rose up and tilted away, the heat and pressure from the engines making them all cover their faces. It blasted away into the night sky.

  Lwazi looked at his brother, who sprinted back inside and down the stairs.

  “Are you OK?” Lwazi said, walking slowly towards Hardwick.

  “Yeah,” Hardwick said, watching the receding burn of the drone.

  “You are welcome,” Lwazi said. “So. We have the ink.”

  “And he’s got the video,” Hardwick said.

  Hardwick sat in the waiting room of the ITSA office in Johannesburg. He had been waiting for forty–five minutes. He adjusted his tie, which felt unusually constricting, and resisted the urge to play on his watch.

  The room was grey, rectangular, with grey plastic chairs bound together with plastic–coated steel tubing. There was a single large, grimy window on one wall, webbed with wires to prevent it shattering inwards if hit by a rock. The view outside showed the tops of street lamps and a row of second–floor shop windows.

  Even now he could walk away. Until he went into an office and sat down and showed them all the details, he could still pretend to receive a phone call saying the haul was smaller than they had thought. If the police were suspicious then he could even get Lwazi to find just such a haul. If they questioned why he had brought it to the police instead of collecting the full bounty for himself, he could claim naivety. He was, after all, brand new to the ink–hunting business. He had two litres of black in his briefcase, but they’d never have to know.

  It wasn’t even as if they would definitely believe him. He didn’t have the video, the real proof. Maybe they’d send him away and the world would just end. Lwazi and the guards were doing everything they could to find Ret, but the drone had been built to be untrackable. By this point he could be in China or South America. Even back in Scotland, collecting all the ink for himself. And maybe Ret was right. Maybe ITSA would just arrest them all, just guess about the ink detection technology and take it all.

  Hardwick always felt uneasy about the apparatus of government, particularly the police. Such institutions had a certain kind of inherent legitimacy, a by–the–people–for–the–people kind of thing, and no amount of branding or PR or sales technique could replicate it in business. Somehow, whatever you did, people always knew you were into something for selfish reasons. The trick was to play on their greed. People were much worse at intuiting what would actually benefit their own interests than they were at detecting the nefarious purposes of others.

  For the first time in a long time he was doing something for reasons other than his own profit. He wanted to save the world, first of all; and while that would certainly come with wealth, fame and accolades beyond imagining, it was not just for himself. No, he had a certain fondness for the earth for its own sake. On the whole it had trea
ted him well.

  He was doing the Right Thing. Why was he so nervous? He’d got the story straight with Lwazi. They followed the immune’s hints and got lucky. He was not frightened of being found out and criminalised for techban infringements.

  He realised he was frightened of doing something for reasons that could feasibly be described as ethical. This was certainly outside his comfort zone, at least in his professional life. And he only really had a professional life. Of course, Hardwick had always done the Right Thing whenever people might find out about it – but this was different, this was a secret he was giving up, a valuable secret, the most valuable secret he had ever owned. And there was no guarantee of a return. He was coming clean, to an extent, and it terrified him.

  A white door swung open and a tall, yellow–haired ITSA commander stepped through, clad in a black uniform with epaulettes.

  “Mr. Hardwick?” she said, with a smile. Hardwick was the only person in the room.

  “Yes,” he said. For once, he did not smile.

  “Come through,” she said.

  Hardwick went through.

  She led him down grey corridors to her cramped office, which inexplicably had no windows whatsover. There was a large poster on the wall of the ITSA symbol, half green wreath, half donut space headquarters. Freedom through security. There was a strong smell of mouthwash and an old, soiled VR suit draped over what looked like a vintage hat–stand.

  “OK,” the ITSA commander said, when they had sat down on the small chairs either side of her desk, which was so narrow that they had to be careful not to touch legs.

  “You have good contacts, and they assured me that you would not request this appointment without good reason. So let me hear what you’ve got. Just call me Mary.”

  “No problem,” Hardwick replied. “I know the source of the signal that was sent out on the eleventh of November. It is in Scotland, just as the Jupiter broadcast suggested. My head ink–hunter has been there, and we have proof. We believe that destroying the source of the signal stands a very good chance of turning the GSE away and saving the world.”

  Mary frowned.

  “You need to get in touch with ITSA EU and they can check it out. We have heard a lot of conspiracy theories, but the Jupiter broadcast has been largely discounted. We believe it was the Chinese who sent the original signal, but in any case the cat is out of the bag. The GSE is coming. We must focus our efforts elsewhere. The reception drone can get you the contact details for Europe if you want to talk to them.”

  “Please, listen to me. We have proof that this place has a vast quantity of ink. We must act now. My only condition is that myself and my partner, Lwazi, come with you when you destroy the ink, so that we can see it and help if we can.”

  “Proof?” Mary said, leaning forward in her seat. “What proof do you have?”

  “I have this,” Hardwick said, leaning back slightly. He reached into his rucksack and withdrew the sack of black with some flourish. His hand slipped and he made an undignified grasp to prevent it falling to the floor, splitting open and killing them both.

  Mary leapt to her feet, knocking her chair over backwards. He held the bag up to her with two hands as if it were a report card.

  “Is that black?” she said.

  “It is,” Hardwick replied, with some satisfaction. “Don’t worry, it’s safe in this container. It’s made of synthetic skin, it simulates the inside of a blood vessel. The ink won’t leave.”

  “That’s incredibly dangerous,” she said, picking up her chair and sitting back down on it. “You’ll have to leave that here. And this is proof of nothing except that you are in possession of a massive quantity of black ink without a permit.”

  “There’s a video,” he said. “There is a video of the barn where the signal emanated from! There was a girl who sent a message for help from it, it’s all over the darknet, there was talk of a photograph, but our man has actually been there today, and he has a video.”

  Mary checked her watch. “Then please show me this video.”

  “I would love to,” Hardwick said, “Unfortunately our inkhunter has temporarily absconded with the only copy.”

  Mary laughed. “If you can’t bring me the video I can’t do anything. That’s all I have time for.”

  “We can find Ret!” Hardwick said. “He’s just a bit upset because he didn’t understand the ramifications of what we’re dealing with here, in terms of the world ending and all, frankly he’s more concerned with the bounty from the thing, which I told him not to worry about, I said the whole world would be our bounty.”

  Mary raised a plucked eyebrow. The VR suit slipped off the hat–stand and fell to the floor.

  “I mean the survival of the whole world, rather. That would be the true bounty. For all mankind.”

  “Then, please, get him here!” Mary said. “Otherwise there is nothing whatsoever I can do for you. I am sorry. Please get out.”

  “I – there really is not much time,” Hardwick said.

  He ran from her office, leaving the ink on her desk, his forehead colliding with the crossbeam at the top of the small door on the way out.

  Hardwick picked himself up and ran out of the office complex, shouting for his car. It took a few seconds to get to him, roaring up onto the pavement with its door open. He leapt inside and shouted for it to get him home as fast as possible. He pulled his VR hood on and linked with Lwazi.

  Hardwick dropped into Lwazi’s VR construct, an endless multi–coloured vision of computer wiring and sub–atomic mechanisms whirling and sparking. Lwazi had six arms, all working quickly on the mass of circuitry he was bent over.

  “Sorry to disturb,” Hardwick said. “ITSA won’t do anything without the video. Your brothers found him?”

  “Maybe,” Lwazi said, looking up, two of his arms still working away. “They’ve heard of a white man with a flying car and a lot of cash drinking in Kumbu. I’m on my way now.”

  “Oh Christ,” Hardwick said. “Send me the location?”

  Lwazi nodded and Hardwick logged out.

  The car took him there as quickly as was possible without incurring an immediate prison sentence. There was a decent road all the way to the tavern and it was a smooth ride. The roads were quite empty: most people had given up on rioting and were with their loved ones or getting drunk and high. When Hardwick arrived, Lwazi’s car was already parked outside. Hardwick’s jet was sat in the field alongside the tavern. A group of locals were sat on it smoking. One was stood on the cockpit. Hardwick decided that under the circumstances, that was the lesser battle, and headed straight inside.

  Inside stank of alcohol. Lwazi and his three brothers were standing in the middle of the room, talking animatedly to each other. Ret was ignoring them, sat on some crates, surrounded by a large group of locals. He was telling some kind of story, and the locals were laughing a lot.

  “Ret!” Hardwick shouted.

  Ret paused mid–flow, glanced up, and then, seeing Hardwick, burst to his feet, slopping drink from his bottle. He looked drunk out of his mind.

  “What do you want?” he said, listing to one side somewhat.

  “It’s time to go! We’re going to– we’re going to get the bounty, they need to see the video though! And they want you there to collect!”

  “My bounty!” Ret shouted. “Fuck you!” he said. “And fuck you!” he said, pointing at Lwazi.

  “Yes, yes,” Hardwick said, hurrying to him, pushing through the group and gently grabbing Ret’s arm. “It’s time to go now, come on now.”

  Ret flung his arm off, raised the bottle.

  “Fuck you!” Ret said.

  “Ret, you idiot, if you don’t come with us you’ll lose all your money. This is your only chance to get your bounty.”

  Hardwick watched him computing.

  “OK, fine,” Ret shouted. He let go of his still–raised bottle and it smashed behind him, sending people jumping back.

  “No, stay and drink with us!” one of the l
ocals said, to a chorus of approval and laughter.

  “No,” Ret said. “No, I must go and collect my – my money.”

  His closed his eyes and dropped to the floor like a sack of manure. Hardwick and Lwazi and Lwazi’s brothers carried him out.

  They rushed back to Johannesburg, Ret in Lwazi’s car with his brothers, Hardwick and Lwazi in Hardwick’s. The receptionist said Mary was unavailable so Hardwick just walked straight in, pushing his way into Mary’s tiny office. He showed her the video. She watched closely, then asked to see it again. Then she made some calls and things started to happen. ITSA flew the three of them to mainland Scotland in a sub–orbital. It took less than three hours. Ret slept across four seats in the back of the plane.

  The journey through the thinning atmosphere, just on the edge of space, one Hardwick had taken many times before, seemed particularly beautiful and peaceful. The GSE could not be seen. The earth looked quiet, healthy and whole. Hardwick could see vast rain–clouds moving over central Africa, drenching the land below with life–giving water.

  They crossed Spain and England and landed in Glasgow at ITSA Scotland where armoured cars and ITSA troops were already massing. There seemed to be a constant stream of drones landing on the roof and taking off again. As soon as dusk came they rushed towards Arran in convoy. Radar–silent Scots Navy troop and vehicle carriers were waiting on the shore to take them across, around the top of the island to minimise the chances of being spotted.

  By ten o”clock that night the remains of ITSA’s European and South African might were lined up on the shore opposite the island, looking out over the water, drones and armoured vehicles and hundreds of armed men and women. Their orders were to move in at midnight with a single mission: find and destroy the singularity.

  Hardwick stood next to Mary, looking out over the black water through his ITSA–issue night vision goggles. A few lights were visible in the farmhouse. Hardwick checked his watch – 11:55. He wondered what they would find over there. An ITSA grunt walked up to Mary, saluted and said “The immune’s starting to wake up.”

  Hardwick’s heart stopped.