Atomic Swarm

by Unknown

  Jackson inspected the grainy images closely and realized that the two smallest shapes at the bottom of Tug’s feed represented the heads of Brooke and J.P. who were sharing the professor’s oxygen feed in the mouth of the cave. But the luminous splotch of yellow and red above them belonged to something much bigger. It was the Great White. Following his orders, Tug fixed on the large warm mass of the shark.

  ‘SHNT TRGT.’

  Almost as soon as Jackson’s command arrived, Tug’s SHUNT thruster was spooling up. A potent mix of combustible fuel and gases exploded within a blast-proof chamber inside the chisel-shaped machine. The high-tensile steel and woven Kevlar inner-casing, which gave Tug’s nose the strength of a battering ram, drove home the force of his powerful surge through the water. But the blow on the Great White was only glancing. The shark, an agile predator, as practised in avoiding attacks as it was at delivering them, rolled to avoid the full force of the power punch.

  With nothing to absorb the energy of his charge, Tug carried straight on, smashing into a jagged cluster of rock and coral. His logic engine instantly computed the need to reverse, but his relatively weak reverse thrusters were no match for the tight grip of the rocky fissure into which he had wedged himself.

  On the deck of The Oceanaut, Jackson knew that only Punk could help now.

  ‘FLLW TG,’ he ordered.

  ‘FLLW HM USLF,’ replied Punk.

  Jackson had attempted every form of persuasion he could think of, but couldn’t get past Punk’s prudent personality, the personality he himself had created. Jackson had programmed Punk to be cautious of anything that might threaten his optimum functioning and, as he had said several times in the last minute, ‘PNK DNT SWM’.

  With Tug immobilized, the only course of action left to Jackson was to take control himself. Jackson typed ‘I HV CNTRL’ into his mobile-phone keypad and sent it straight to Punk.

  Punk faltered in the air for a moment, before Jackson got the measure of the microscopic accelerometer and digital compass components of his handset, then threw the spiked robot down towards the ocean.

  A gestural input later and Punk’s three rotor blades snapped inside his metal body, milliseconds before he entered the water.

  The shark had completed another one of its quick circuits round the rocks where Brooke and J.P. were hiding. And now it was gathering speed for another run at the cave. It closed at a frightening pace, driven by its primitive impulse to feed, and perhaps, thought Brooke, after meeting Tug, a dose of self-preservation.

  This time, she thought, there was little chance that she and her father would survive.

  In the split second before the shark smashed into the cave, Brooke was sure she could make out surprise in his small black eyes. She didn’t see Punk shooting downwards through the water, or three of his sharp spines piercing the smooth, grey skin and thin layer of blubber that covered the shark’s back. But she couldn’t miss the pulse of electric-blue light that engulfed the creature as Jackson remotely triggered the robot’s cattle-prod function. The shark’s enormous body radiated with a blue-and-white glow. It still smashed into the wall of rock with crushing force, but the stunned animal was too dazed to chase the two swimmers who dived out of its way and started to swim for the surface.

  A few moments later an exhausted Brooke and J.P. were hauled on to the deck of The Oceanaut by Jackson, Matty and Salty.

  ‘You are seriously grounded, young lady!’ said J.P., through quick gulps for breath, hugging his daughter tightly and kissing her soaked head. ‘And as for you, Farley,’ he gasped. ‘Great job!’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Jackson, looking up from his phone.

  ‘The robots!’ Brooke wheezed. ‘Are they going to be OK?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Jackson.

  Jackson crouched by Brooke and shared the view from his handset. It was hard to determine exactly what was going on, as thick plumes of silt clouded the picture, but the serrated triangular blades that were the Great White’s teeth flashed repeatedly across the screen, as the huge fish nudged Punk along the seabed like a football.

  ‘Punk’s already several hundred metres north-east of us,’ said Jackson, rushing over to the remote glove and goggles that lay on the decking. ‘Verne is still functional; there’s a small chance I can use him to recover Punk.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ said Salty. ‘The shark’s takin’ him to Swallow Hole. You’d best dig your other contraption out while you’ve got the chance.’

  The crew watched the feed from Punk for several minutes longer, while Jackson attempted to use Verne’s grapplers to drag Tug out of his hole.

  The last thing Punk transmitted before he disconnected was a tumbling view of rock followed by pitch black.

  It was dusk when The Oceanaut docked in the marina at Oak Bluffs.

  It was immediately obvious to the exhausted crew that something unusual was happening because the quays were empty of the usual tourists and old fishermen paying the setting sun their last respects. It seemed everyone on the island was packed inside the restaurants. What was going on?

  Brooke and Jackson were first off the boat and had to stand on tables outside a cafe in order to look over the heads of people packed inside to see what all the fuss was about.

  There, in the centre of a room crammed to bursting with the thunderstruck spectators, was a large flatscreen. The news channel’s headline was crystal clear:

  MIT’s Nuclear Reactor Attacked!

  CHAPTER 15

  Goulman had made it out of Boston on one of the first flights and had arrived at the Englishs’ house on the island in time for breakfast.

  Brooke’s mother made bacon and pancakes for everyone during the vigil round the television. Every news channel was covering what they were calling a terrorist attack on the university’s reactor. For most of the morning, reporters and news anchors had focused on footage of a large and obvious circular hole, which had been cut into the front door of the reactor building. But, by early afternoon, all the attention was on grainy images released by the authorities, which had reportedly revealed a similar round hole in the wall of the reactor compartment itself.

  The city of Boston had been declared a nuclear disaster zone and helicopter shots showed traffic jamming up every road that led out of the city, every footbridge and pavement clogged up by people – even the Charles River had been turned into an expressway, chock-full of boats ferrying people out of the city.

  After spending all morning and most of the afternoon glued to the television, Brooke and Jackson had decided to walk into town for some fresh air and dinner at Brooke’s favourite diner.

  ‘It was bound to happen,’ drawled the waitress, laying a plate in front of Jackson that contained the biggest burger he had ever seen. ‘The weird thing, as I sees it, is that they left the fuel rods!’

  Jackson thought it sounded weird to hear such scientific words as ‘fuel rods’ said in the old lady’s strong Boston accent – but the news channels and newspapers had used so much nuclear power-related phraseology so often during the course of the day that they were on the lips of everyone on the island.

  ‘Mmm, gimme some of that!’ said Brooke, leaning over the table and grabbing Jackson’s burger with both hands before taking a big bite.

  ‘You could have bought your own, you know. No one forced you to go with the salad.’

  ‘Girl’s gotta watch her figure!’ she mumbled through a mouthful of Jackson’s burger.

  ‘Seems like a guy’s gotta watch his burger!’ Jackson retaliated. ‘She’s right, though – the waitress, that is – it is strange that someone would go to all the trouble of drilling a hole in a reactor wall, but not steal the most precious thing in there.’

  ‘They were spooked. That’s what the news guy said.’

  ‘Yeah, but by what?’ Jackson pointed at the open newspaper in front of him. ‘Look, it says here that all the security cameras in the reactor and neighbouring vicinity were taken out by the attackers.’


  ‘And?’ Brooke had seized the opportunity to snag another mouthful of Jackson’s burger as he focused on the newspaper.

  ‘They have no evidence of anyone being spooked. They’re clutching at straws because they can’t explain why someone would enter a reactor and leave everything alone.’

  ‘Chaos,’ said Brooke, wiping mayonnaise from her chin.

  ‘What do you mean, chaos?’ asked Jackson.

  ‘Isn’t that what all terrorism is about? Creating panic and fear! The city of Boston has virtually shut down. Even people who live and work miles outside the designated danger zone have left the city in droves.’

  ‘A truck bomb I would understand, if panic and confusion were the aim of the exercise,’ said Jackson. ‘But why the precision hole? It says here that the reactor wall was ninety-eight-centimetre-thick steel-reinforced concrete that would have required an industrial-strength drilling machine to get through it. What kind of terrorists have that technology at their disposal?’

  ‘A robot could do that.’ Brooke stopped eating, suddenly interested in the debate. ‘A drilling platform like they use for oil and gas exploration. Dad used to design them.’ Then she checked herself. ‘But they’re too big. It’s unlikely someone could roll up with one of those babies without anyone seeing it.’

  ‘What about a robot swarm?’ asked Jackson excitedly.

  Brooke’s forehead creased. ‘For someone who walked out of Singer’s lecture, you seem to have been inspired by an awful lot of his ideas!’

  Jackson ignored her. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, if you’re right, and there’s a terrorist group with that kind of tech, we’re in a lot of trouble. If next time they decide to take the fuel rods, they could make a portable radioactive device –’

  ‘A dirty bomb?’ Jackson interrupted.

  ‘Yep! One they could set off anywhere in America.’

  It was a nightmare scenario: even a small amount of explosive could be used to blow radioactive material into thousands of tiny pieces, scattering deadly irradiated debris around a populated area.

  ‘What are the chances someone could have developed a robot swarm?’

  ‘Ask Goulman,’ said Brooke, looking up at her father’s assistant as he walked into the diner.

  ‘Dad? In custody?’ Brooke gasped ‘How can he be?’

  ‘The sheriff just turned up at the house,’ Goulman said gravely, ushering the two of them into her father’s jeep. ‘He had two FBI agents with him. They took him away.’

  ‘Sheriff Townsend?’ Brooke asked, dumfounded.

  ‘Yes. The agents said they think the reactor was attacked by a drilling robot.’

  Jackson and Brooke stared at each other, stupefied.

  ‘As you know, Brooke, J.P. used to work on robots like that and his name came up in connection with damaging university property.’

  ‘Damaging university property?’ Brooke said stonily. Then her eyes widened as she seemed to make a connection. ‘Not the dorm fire case?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Goulman. ‘They think he might have a grudge.’

  ‘You have to be kidding!’ Brooke looked on the verge of tears. ‘But… but that was my fault – and Fist and I saved lives!’

  ‘You’ve seen the news,’ Goulman continued as he drove. ‘The police are desperate to find someone responsible for all this. Right now, Brooke, they’re questioning your father.’

  ‘Where have they taken him?’ Brooke demanded.

  ‘He’s being questioned at the sheriff’s office,’ said Goulman.

  ‘Put your foot down and get me there now!’ Brooke insisted. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and punched in some numbers. ‘Sheriff Townsend, please,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘Yes, in the Vineyard Haven police office…’

  As Brooke bawled at someone in the sheriff’s office who had obviously made the mistake of not perceiving her need for urgency, Jackson edged forward towards Goulman.

  ‘You’ve done some work on swarm robotics, right?’ he asked him quietly.

  ‘What?’ said Goulman, taken aback by Jackson’s question.

  ‘You made some swarm robot prototypes?’

  ‘What has that got to do with anything, Jackson?’ Goulman said, punching the words out. He frowned at Jackson for a moment before turning his attention back to the road, then added, ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that with everything that’s going on, I’d rather focus on J.P.’

  ‘I just wondered…’ Jackson let his sentence drift away. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  Perhaps this wasn’t the right time to test his theory, thought Jackson. Things were, after all, pretty bad for Brooke and Goulman right now. Plus he didn’t want to get Brooke into any more trouble by raising Goulman’s suspicions about why he was asking. But as the jeep raced along the causeway, he noticed Goulman in the mirror, watching him.

  Tokyo, Japan. 9 p.m.

  ‘Miss Kojima, is there any truth in the reports that you and your brother plan to launch a pop career if you win next week’s competition?’

  Miss Kojima looked at the journalist who had just asked the question. She was sure that every time the ten-year-old professional gamer and her brother agreed to do an interview, the questions they were asked got dumber.

  As finalists in the Japan Cyber Olympics, the toughest and most prestigious computing-gaming competition in all of East Asia, this press conference was unavoidable.

  Miss Kojima looked at the slightly balding, moustached Japanese TV reporter who had asked the question, and the mass of faces around him that waited to ask more. She had a great answer lined up – one that involved her leaping to her feet in front of all the cameras and proving how stupid the question was by demonstrating just how badly she could sing the Japanese translation of ‘Hit Me Baby One More Time’ by Britney Spears. Just as well for everyone, her father answered the question for her.

  ‘No,’ said Mr Kojima, his stony expression unmoving. ‘These rumours are just silly. Next question.’

  It was as if a piece of meat had been thrown into a pool of piranhas – questions snapped up at the stage on which the twins and their father sat with an entourage that included press consultants, fashion stylists, brand managers, a nutritionist and two personal trainers.

  ‘Have you planned your competition tactics?’

  ‘Is it true you’re going to buy an island if you win the tournament?’

  ‘Which of the other teams do you fear most?

  ‘What if you lose?’

  ‘How’s the movie coming along?’

  ‘How many Ferraris do you own now?’

  As her father selected which of the hundreds of questions he wanted to answer, Miss Kojima turned her attention to her smartphone. Her father had had them practising so hard over the last few days for the forthcoming competition that she hadn’t had time to check her emails. The first few were from journalists. More questions. Unbelievable! she thought. Then one from yesterday caught her attention.

  Email from: Jackson Farley

  While her father refused to confirm either way that the twins had or hadn’t done a deal with Nike, she opened the email and read its contents. She then slid the phone along the table, until it was under her brother’s nose.

  Master Kojima had been slouched, listening to music on his personalized brand of gaming headphones, for the entire press conference. He lifted his shades on to his forehead and read the email on the phone.

  Both twins stood up at the same time, bowed to the audience of journalists, and then to their astonished father, before walking straight out of the room.

  CHAPTER 16

  Cambridge was on virtual lock-down for a week. The news had shown little else but soldiers in masks wearing special protective clothing while manning roadblocks. Brooke and Jackson had stayed on Martha’s Vineyard, where J.P. remained in custody, his daughter allowed an hour a day to visit him.

  With the breach to the nuclear reactor sealed and Cambridge’s hot-zone status finally removed, J.P. was mov
ed to a bigger police facility on the mainland, in Boston city.

  Brooke and Jackson left the island too, Jackson returning to his dorm, and Brooke opting to sleep in the lab. J.P.’s lab had been ransacked by FBI investigators, every inch of it turned upside down. All the robots had been taken away for examination, but when police found no trace of the reactor building’s dust or radioactivity on them, J.P.’s lawyer had filed a court order demanding that they be returned. The robots were back in their pens now and Brooke had pulled her couch up and slept beside them ever since, like a faithful guard dog.

  Jackson knew she felt responsible. From what he could gather, one of the pieces of evidence that was keeping J.P. in custody was his previous record of criminal damage to university property. He had taken the blame for the university dorm fire in which Brooke had unwittingly caused damage in her rescue attempt, to protect his daughter. And now, as far as Brooke was concerned, her father was behind bars for something she had done.

  Brooke would have owned up to the whole thing if J.P.’s lawyer hadn’t been around to advise her of the consequences of revisiting the million-dollar lawsuit. His advice was that she be patient – a quality that didn’t come naturally to Brooke.

  When Jackson wasn’t keeping Brooke company, he spent most of his time in his dorm room. With lectures cancelled for a couple of weeks, only about half of the students had returned to Simmons Hall and the building was more peaceful than usual – less music vibrating through the walls from the other rooms and fewer cries from the sports fields. He’d consciously decided to stop thinking about his mother and real father and concentrate his efforts on trying to get to the bottom of the nuclear reactor mystery to help J.P. The mathematics course papers he needed to work through for MIT didn’t get in the way of his research into what had happened – he always found number-crunching to be a great way of focusing his mind.