by Unknown
‘Not good!’ thundered J.P. as he slammed the phone down. ‘That guy, the one whose twenty-thousand-dollar, hand-milled, aluminium racing rim you ripped off, is a lawyer!’
‘He’s a schmuck!’ said Brooke.
‘He’s a schmuck who is threatening to sue me!’ raged J.P.
Back when Brooke and Jackson were members of Devlin Lear’s MeX organization, Brooke had hijacked two of her father’s prototype mining robots, Punk and Tug. She was supposed to have provided assistance for a demonstration of the robots in the Mojave Desert to investors. Instead, she had hijacked the machines, and she and Jackson had used them to uncover damning evidence about Lear’s criminal operations.
Brooke had come clean with her father about having been duped by Lear into working for MeX. He had forgiven her for stealing his robots, but he would not bend to her demands that they set up their own international robot rescue team, and he made her agree to keep the work they did in the lab completely secret. Brooke, however, was a very determined girl. Only in the last year, she had arranged to have Punk and Tug shipped back to Boston, restored them both to working order and had also designed and built two new robots, Tread and Fist. Tread was designed as a high-speed pursuit vehicle – a miniature robotic road-traffic cop housed inside a single car wheel, which Brooke hoped police could use to sneak up and neutralize stolen cars and criminals without endangering highway patrolmen and the public with dangerous high-speed chases.
J.P. might have had other ideas, but, as far as Brooke was concerned, Fist was a super-strong multipurpose manipulator, designed to rescue anyone from just about anything.
However, the fact that J.P. was already being sued by a bystander of another of Brooke’s previous escapades did not help matters. One night, four months ago, Brooke had been alerted to a fire in a university laboratory building, a block from their own lab. When she had arrived at the burning house with Punk and Fist, a distraught janitor was about to rush into the flames to try to rescue a student trapped in a stairwell. Brooke successfully deployed Fist and rescued the girl. But on the robot’s way out of the inferno, parts of a window frame it had torn away fell to the ground, causing minor injuries to a few onlookers.
The news headlines that followed – MAD PROFESSOR’S ROBOT RAMPAGE CAUSES FIRESTORM OF DANGEROUS DEBRIS – landed J.P. in deep trouble with the MIT board of governors, not to mention a lawsuit from one of the injured bystanders, which was rumoured to have cost him close to a million dollars.
He’d been mad then, but, having been disobeyed again, he was even madder today. The fact that Brooke had her head down texting as J.P. ranted probably didn’t do much to calm him down either.
Jackson, who was sitting at a desk next to Brooke’s, was doing his best not to attract J.P.’s attention, a plan which wasn’t helped by the fact that his phone kept warming his hand in short pulses. It was something Brooke had named a thermal alert. Instead of the vibrations and sounds that standard phones used, Brooke had devised a tiny thermal emitter that could turn the phone hot and cold to indicate incoming text messages and calls. Jackson uncomfortably juggled his phone like a hot potato under his desk, away from J.P.’s gaze, as yet another text arrived from Brooke.
With her feet up on her desk and her hands in her lap, Brooke had been continually texting Jackson her responses to what her father was saying. They read like a running commentary: ‘HE DSRVD IT’, ‘BG DEAL’, ‘LKE I SAID, SCHMCK!!!’ It was her way of giving him space to vent, without answering back.
As J.P.’s rant continued, Jackson sent Brooke his own message: ‘U R QCK. U SHUD ENTR TH WRLD TXTNG CHMPNSHP.’ Brooke’s reply came back quicker than Jackson imagined was possible. ‘I KNW. LST YRS WNNR TOOK 42 SECS 2 TYP TH WNNNG SNTNC.’ There was a momentary pause, then another message arrived: ‘I CN DO IT IN 35 ;-)’.
Jackson’s snigger caught in his throat as J.P. bellowed even louder at Brooke.
‘Are you hearing this, young lady? I am seriously considering putting the robots under lock and key, so you can’t take them on any more of your misadventures.’
‘You’d love that, wouldn’t you?’ Brooke retorted, suddenly and stubbornly engaging with her father’s scolding. ‘Lock them up, so they are nice and sparkly for your fund-raising events.’
‘You need to get real, Brooke. You were only able to develop Fist because of the money I secured from the Defence Advanced Research Projects Agency.’
‘Exactly,’ said Brooke. ‘We could be saving lives with Fist – that’s what he was designed for, not helping the military to destroy them!’
‘Ultimately, he will. But only once the defence industry has had their use of the Fist technology, which they paid for!’
‘And what about Verne?’ Brooke spat, jabbing her finger at the white spherical robot that hung on a hook and chain in the robot pens next to Fist and Punk. ‘When you first pitched the idea of an underwater robot, it was to monitor the effects of deep-sea drilling and factory fishing on the underwater ecology. Then you’re offered a fat cheque from an oil company and, hey presto, my design brief for Verne is to make a sniffer dog for offshore oil prospecting. You sold out, Dad!’
As the argument between father and daughter intensified, Jackson let his attention drift to the rest of the massive underground laboratory. It was a treasure trove of exotic machinery, most of which Jackson still didn’t understand after almost a year of working here. As far as he was concerned, J.P. had a point about funding it whichever way he could; the kind of high-end scientific equipment required to fabricate advanced nano-composite materials, or ‘smart materials’ as the professor called them, didn’t come cheap.
Jackson glanced at the robot pens across the lab. Verne, J.P.’s own RUV or Remote Underwater Vehicle, was made of a combination of super-strong and super-buoyant syntactic foam and J.P.’s own patented, indestructible plastic, which enabled it to withstand the crushing pressures of the deep sea.
The pen to the left of Verne belonged to Punk, and on the right was Fist. In the next pen was Tug, an ultra-strong, high-tensile steel, chisel-shaped flying battering ram. Along with Punk, he’d helped Brooke and Jackson fight Lear. At the end of the row lived a robot called Tread. Tread looked just like a spare wheel, but inside his steel hub was cutting-edge technology that included gyro-stabilized ultra high-definition cameras, a side-ejecting barbed-stinger for stopping cars and wirelessly powered taser darts to stun runaway criminals.
The super computers, photonic crystal lasers and scanning electron microscopes required to invent all this were incredibly expensive – even more than a millionaire robotics-engineering professor could afford. Without the financial help of corporations and government grants, Brooke’s dream of developing emergency robots to help humanity would never be anything more than pure fantasy.
Deep down, of course, Brooke knew this. She just couldn’t resist an emergency and a chance to test her technology – and her father couldn’t resist reprimanding her for it.
Both, however, stopped arguing pretty quickly when a two-metre-tall giant wearing multicoloured shorts and sandals walked into the room. Father and daughter rushed over to greet Nathaniel Goulman – J.P.’s charismatic laboratory assistant.
The Australian had been the professor’s right-hand man, ever since finishing a chemistry PhD five years before. Goulman’s passion for chemistry and materials was exceeded only by his love of sailing and he had just returned from a sailing trip around South America.
‘Good to have you back, Nathaniel,’ said the professor, shaking his muscular assistant by the hand, the grip he received making him visibly flinch. ‘How was your trip?’
‘Amazing, mate!’ Goulman declared. ‘Unfortunately, we didn’t encounter pirates. I’ve always found the idea of defending my yacht against pirates strangely romantic. But South America did yield a couple of pieces of treasure.’ He swung a large waterproof sailing bag from behind his back, opened its sealed top and pulled out a couple of objects.
‘For you, Brooke!’ h
e said, handing Brooke a crumpled carrier bag. ‘And a little something for my English friend too,’ he smiled, handing Jackson a parcel wrapped in newspaper.
‘I’d hardly describe it as treasure, Ghoul!’ laughed Brooke warmly as she unfurled a black T-shirt with MY FRIEND WENT TO RIO AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT written on it. ‘Once I’ve ripped the arms off and put a few tears in it, it’ll be more my style!’
Jackson unwrapped the newspaper and found a mug with a small football on it and the Brazilian flag.
‘You Brits love your footie, right?’ said the Australian. ‘And Brazil are the best.’
‘Yeah, great!’ said Jackson. A Brazil mug for an England supporter. It was a nice thought, sort of.
‘Was your yacht any quicker?’ asked Brooke.
‘Abso-bloody-lutely! Your designs for the hull and the new hydrophobic sail material were great! I need to check the data, but I’d say she was givin’ up heaps more speed.’
‘Well, that’s great,’ said J.P. ‘I’m hoping the same water-repellent nano-coating will work for Verne. I was just explaining to Brooke how important it is that our next underwater test is a successful one.’ He cast a flinty stare at his daughter.
Brooke glared defiantly back at J.P. as he ushered Goulman away. She turned to Jackson, fuming. ‘Explain to me why I put up with that man!’
‘Er, because he’s your dad and, unlike most dads, he lets you build robots in his laboratory.’ Jackson tried not to get too excited at the thought of his own dad arriving in only a couple of days. ‘Besides, you shouldn’t have messed with that guy’s car and you know it.’
They looked at each other and burst out laughing.
CHAPTER 5
The barbed fence was never going to hold back a hungry rainforest.
The soil in this part of Brazil was so thin and saturated with water that the roots of the trees around the Guillet Diamond Mine had risen up and become part of the perimeter.
Things grew so quickly here that the men guarding the entrance to the mining compound carried machetes – as well as machine guns, grenades and side arms. Hacking away the vines and roots that threatened to prevent the front gate from opening was a daily chore.
Inside the compound, in the middle of the night, a group of hardened and tired-looking men were loading wooden boxes on to a small flatbed lorry.
They had a uniform of sorts. All five of them wore flip-flops and jeans they’d cut off at the knees. Automatic weapons dangled on straps in front of T-shirts sporting phrases like CHILLAX and SKATE MONKEY.
One guard was chatting while he watched the other four loading wooden crates on to the truck, when an arm appeared round his neck and a machete blade at his throat.
‘Do you get paid to talk?’ whispered a deep, crackly voice in Spanish.
‘No, sir,’ said the guard, his voice quivering.
‘Correct. You get paid to guard. Now, either shut your mouth and do what I pay you for, or talk to my blade.’
‘Yes, Boss!’ said the guard, looking at his own petrified reflection in the polished steel in front of his face.
The blade belonged to Señor Guppy, the longest-serving head of security for the mine, an accolade earned by the fact that all previous security heads had died within a year of taking on the job. The mine had been attacked twelve times in its ten-year history, thirteen if you included the revolution, which had started with mining staff themselves and spread to the surrounding countryside.
Guppy’s team had already fought off two raids and he was convinced that the only reason his forty-year-old body wasn’t currently nourishing rainforest roots was because he was forever vigilant.
Guppy and two of his men joined the cargo in the back of the truck, then signalled to the two guards in the driver’s cabin to move the vehicle out of the compound. As the gates swung open, two more guards on motocross bikes formed up in convoy, one in front and one behind the lorry.
The rainforest was at its most beautiful at night. Guppy looked up. With the trees stretching straight up either side of the firebreak along which the convoy sped, he could clearly see a full moon.
Suddenly the engines on all three vehicles cut out, without warning, and Guppy jolted forward, knocking into the man next to him. The men on the truck started to talk, one of them calling to the outriders, until Guppy bellowed for them all to be quiet.
‘Go on my command,’ whispered Guppy to the two men beside him. ‘I’ll stay with the cargo.’
He cupped his hands and blew across his two thumbs forming the sound of a Great Horned Owl. The men in the cabin and on the motorcycles knew the sign.
The six guards fanned out around the truck in rehearsed formation, each man taking cover in the thick wall of trees and vegetation that surrounded them. No sooner had they assumed position than each of them became aware of the faint sound of air rushing all around them.
Guppy heard the first man scream and assumed one of his men had been knifed. He could see no sign of the man through the sights of his Steyr AUG assault rifle, but just caught a glimpse of a second of his men staggering from behind a tree, gripping his stomach before dropping to the ground and joining in the moans of pain. Soon he was followed by a third, until Guppy could no longer see any of his six comrades; he only heard them groaning all around him.
Guppy swept the treeline with his gun sight, but could see no sign at all of the attackers.
Then the lights appeared.
A multitude of small dim red lights, spinning in a wide circle, traced the circumference of the fallen guards. They began to close slowly in, towards the truck – and towards Guppy.
As the burning lights wailed around him, Guppy could think of only one thing: Christ the Redeemer, the thirty-metre statue overlooking the barrio in which he’d been born and brought up. Only God could save him from the devil’s own flying banshees now.
Guppy let his rifle clatter to the floor of the truck and crossed himself, at which point he suddenly understood what all the groaning was about. An invisible wave of pressure hit him. It seemed to be coming from the mysterious ring of lights, but Guppy was in no mood to worry about how or why, as he was gripped by a terrible and overwhelming agony in his stomach.
Just when it felt like his insides might actually explode, Señor Guppy spontaneously defecated.
CHAPTER 6
Only a few lights spoiled the uniform black of the building that rose against the fading sky like a big cliff.
As Jackson approached the entrance to the building, he punched some numbers into his phone and a single light – the one for his room on the seventh floor – came on.
In his first week on campus, Simmons Hall, the enormous dormitory building in which Jackson lived, had been the subject of an MIT hack. Among the university’s students, famous examples of this tradition of large-scale practical jokes, or hacks, included a lifesize replica police car being placed on top of the Great Dome, the addition of two letters to the large chrome MIT sign so it read VOMIT, and glass boxes with chainsaws in them that appeared in lobbies with IN CASE OF ZOMBIE ATTACK! written on them.
For the Simmons Hall hack, a first-year electronics student had written a software program that could control the building’s lighting from a web browser. One evening, he had made every light in all three hundred rooms flash simultaneously, turning the building into a giant lighthouse. Jackson, who by chance had met the boy the following day, had quietly suggested that by sequencing the lights mathematically they could be used to create a giant game of Tetris. The boy had given Jackson the codes to this secret server and the hack had been planned for the end of term. Jackson had finished the grid calculations for the building-sized computer game a few weeks ago; he just couldn’t resist testing the system.
When he opened the door to his room, Jackson wished the phone’s application extended to tidying up. If it weren’t for the fact his dad was arriving tomorrow, he wouldn’t have given the randomly distributed pants and socks on the floor a second glance.
Tomorrow would be the first time Jackson had seen his father in almost a year. They kept in regular contact; not as regular as Jackson would like, but then his father was resistant to anything he deemed more complicated than email and their weekly phone call.
As he tidied, he thought about his dad’s words the last time they had spoken: There’s something I want to talk to you about. It all sounded a bit ominous, but his dad had told him not to worry. It was probably nothing.
He began unpacking Goulman’s mug from his bag. The newspaper wrapping fell to the floor and Jackson sighed – more stuff to clear up! But, as he bent down to pick it up, something caught his eye. It was a picture of two military guards curled up on what looked like a jungle floor, holding their stomachs in obvious pain. The tagline below the picture read: GAS ATTACK!
Jackson flattened out the newspaper page on his desk. The picture accompanied an article about a diamond robbery.
Police are investigating a diamond heist, which took place near one of Brazil’s largest diamond mines. The precious stones, which were in transit from the Guillet Diamond Mine, were intercepted by what local police suspect was a small mercenary force.
Police Commissioner Enrico Sanchez said that he believes everyone in the armoured convoy transporting the stones had been gassed. ‘The men were in a terrible state. All seven men had defecated and discharged so much bodily fluid that two of them were critically dehydrated and needed urgent hospital attention. We are looking at the possibility that the men were attacked using some form of gas or chemical.’
Sir Barry Scott, Security Director for the London-based company that owns the diamond mine, said that the haul of plain white diamonds, estimated at a value of around one hundred million dollars, was untraceable. ‘These diamonds were raw and unprocessed. If they are cut, or subjected to the various colouring processes the industry uses to enhance raw stones, our investigators will have no way of identifying them once they pop up on the market.’