“The big score,” effused the would-be lecturer, clearly enjoying himself. “This is where it gets very interesting. I want you to imagine that the mastermind behind this deal wasn’t actually at the deal himself. See all those other dots on the screen at the same time as the deal was going down. They are the other people at the meeting who are carrying money. I’m going to ask the computer to give me a likely ID of them by following the money back to where it originated, which is either at a bank or from someone who went to a bank.” He clicked a few buttons and the computer computed for a moment. Then, a number of names appeared on the screen.
“There we go. Of the 5 people at the deal and, discounting the 1 we already know of, the computer gives us a 96% match on the top name with the other 3 receiving their cash via this company, owned by this man.” He pointed to a subject number and brought up his details. It was a university-educated accountant.
“Someone is trying to cover their tracks.” He smiled and typed again. “It seems our accountant gets most of his funds via small companies who all seem to link back to this man.” He pointed to the screen as a well-groomed face appeared, along with a record for suspected drug trafficking and extortion. Red letters under the face flashed ‘Current open file’.
“You see its power now?”
*
“Gather round, please. We have a lot of patients to see and not enough time.”
Fluffy metallic-tasting heaviness - filling all space surrounding him. Waves of feeling without pain lapping around the island of his body. A new state of flux carrying an awareness of the self…
“Differential diagnosis. The patient was admitted yesterday after being hit by a bus. He presents with facial bruising, concussion and several cracked ribs. His left ulna and fibula are fractured. The MRI and ultrasound showed no internal bleeding or swelling. Seemingly unrelated to the trauma are patches of orange skin on his lower extremities, in particular his feet. Questions?”
“TOX screen?”
“Negative for opiates and alcohol. Positive for fluoxetine and valproate.”
“Bipolar disorder?”
“Yes, but doesn’t explain the orange skin.”
“Wilson’s disease?”
“I’m not even going to answer that…”
“Anything in the patient history?”
“He’s a John Doe.”
“Beta carotene?”
“Raised, 40 times the norm. Good question.”
“But he should be orange all over…”
“He should. Any ideas as to why he’s not?”
“Carotenoids deposit themselves in the outer layer of the skin. Why the selectivity?”
“Perhaps they’re binding to another molecule? Heavy metals?”
“Add the test to the chart.”
“What about pesticides?
“I want you to do a full work-up. The next patient is less of a mystery, presented in a comatose state, brought on by a massive electric shock. See the burn marks radiating from the hands up to the chest and neck. Tachycardia on lower doses of pain relief, all we can do is make him more comfortable. Recommendations for pain mana…”
I’m awake, I’m Pete, I can’t see, I’m trapped, I can’t move, pain, burning pain, blistering scorching pain.
“Prolonged PT waves. He’s going to crash. Call a code.”
Beep beep beep
“Push 10 milligrams IV epinephrine stat.”
Beeeeeeeeep
“Charging to 200. CLEAR.”
*
The Scientist crawled, scraping his belly across the cold mud and grass, slowly approaching his prey, wincing every so often from the pain radiating from his bandaged thigh. He used a thin, meandering column of smoke from an old fire as a compass bearing. The crest of a small hill to the southeast with a glorious view of the valley was picked as the ‘spot’, the hut, the killing field. He figured the shot would be about 80 metres. Relaxing down into the soft grass, shielded from view by several prickly gorse bushes and the camouflage suit, he had calculated that a late afternoon winter sun would be at his 10 o’clock and low, not enough for the keen observer to spot any glare from the scope but enough to highlight the primary target. He could smell the tang of cheap aftershave and cabbage mixed with the earthy tones of ‘real’ fertiliser rising from the fields directly in front and to the east. Each field was a near perfect square stacked symmetrically and fading surreally into the winter mist. The hut sat at the far end of the field closest to his position in a clearing of surrounding trees. As he gazed down, fighting to suppress his anger, he noticed that the trees nearest the hut were misshapen and deformed. Parts of them, roots and branches were twisted and gnarled into oddly comic shapes, growing too quickly for the rest of the tree, mutated by some unknown force. He knew the reason immediately.
Flipping open the plastic cover on the gun sight, he breathed in his quarry, close up for the first time. His heart pumped, hammering adrenaline round his body. It was a scene that he would recall vividly for the rest of his life - with some regret. The farmer and the boy were stood in front of the wooden hut next to the dying embers of what looked like a chemical fire, an odd glow illuminating their figures, making them appear to move unevenly in the neon fire of distilled liquid air.
But the moment has come, he thought, and into that moment my brother will walk, past those monstrous trees and the unnatural glow of scorched earth to touch each of them. Why should they go free, he mused? The killers had no mercy and why should I?
Fingers clawed at the trigger, the conscious upper body trying to keep the silenced rifle as still as possible, the dry cold eyes fighting against conscious thoughts of blinking.
Then it went click…
Travelling silently out of the barrel, muffled by the silencer, the chunk of metal began to spin rapidly. Born into a world of loathing, and dripping with malice, it didn’t stand much of chance. It tore through sound and before he could blink moved 83 metres into a tree, up and some way to the left of Bill’s head, its short life ended, ruined beyond identification. Its effects, however, lived on.
Bill and Gordon turned quickly as the tree creaked and moaned its dying breath and attempted to lie down in their direction.
*
“The reason I am down here is I need your help, Director. You see, even though we have all this useful technology, we’re not allowed to use it. Our leader doesn’t want to alarm the general populace and there are still a few archaic liberal laws floating around. My department was started up 14 years ago with a directive to utilise this technology to eradicate crime. At its conception I had over 250 people working for me, each only aware of a tiny piece of the puzzle. It would have been a spectacular success.” His voice wandered off a little bit, losing some of its verve. “But it was not to be. My department is now me and Carl, small and totally ineffective. Why do you think I keep sending him down here? Put simply, we had nothing to do - until today.”
“You all know about the numbers contained on the computer in the basement, the amount of currency in circulation, both digital and real?” the lecturer continued.
They all nodded, feeling a bit swept away by the recent set of revelations.
“Well, to put it bluntly, the computer is broken. As of 8.13 this morning, all it says is ‘error’. Our leader is quite literally pulling his hair out. We have 7 days to get it back to normal before he goes before the Sub-Commanders asking for increased powers. Those powers will include unleashing this technology on an unprepared public. This will happen if we don’t act and act fast. I am convinced that if it happens, the populace will revolt. Now, if you would be so kind as to follow me, we can start our investigation.”
They all got up and followed the man out of the office and into the nearest lift.
Tim’s mind was spinning, trying desperately to assimilate all the information that had been injected into it in the last hour. He still didn’t know 1 detail.
“What is your name? I don’t think you said.”
They continued down in the lift past the swimming pool and the vast records store until they reached the 1st level basement. Putting a key he produced from his pocket into the lift door, the man let them through into a long corridor. They walked slowly, allowing Carl to keep up. Minutes later they were in a smallish office with no windows and a computer monitor attached to the far wall. 2 men in lab coats were leaning against another door on the near side. Flashing frantically on the screen was the word – ERROR.
“Good morning gentlemen,” the man said, politely.
“Good morning, sir,” they both replied in unison.
Tim noticed that they were twins. “I would like one of you to tell me all you can about this error message, please.”
“Yes, sir,” the nearest one replied.
“It’s never happened before,” said the other.
“1 at a time please,” the man added.
“This computer is designed for 1 purpose: to count. It adds the money that is made by the printer and subtracts the money that’s destroyed or broken.”
“Broken?”
“Yes, sir. When the notes get too dirty they get destroyed by us and, when they get torn, a member of the public has broken them.”
“How on earth would you know that?”
“Can I say in front of them, sir?”
“Yes.”
“The GPS device uses the metallic strip to boost its signal. When it is separated we lose it on the map and it becomes worthless.”
“Ah…I see. I wondered why he added that little caveat.” He chuckled.
“Sir, I’m getting a little lost,” piped up the Director, mirroring Tim’s feelings exactly.
“You know that money, when torn, is worthless? And shopkeepers won’t accept it?” he replied, patiently.
“Yes.”
“Now you know why.” He turned back to the twins. “Continue telling me about the number, please.”
“Yes, sir. The number on the screen is derived from data collected via 100s of different inputs - including the GPS locators. There is a negative feedback loop program that calculates losses from broken and destroyed money and calculates the correct amount to produce at the printers. Its fully automated as it is too complicated for humans to calculate.”
“Then why the error message?”
“The message is released if the circumstances of the loop are not met within a given margin of error. That is why it says error.” He said the last part as if explaining a concept to a child.
“What is the margin?”
“That percentage is a meaningless figure to you, sir, but it is very low.”
“How can we fix it?”
“Find out where the addition or deficit is coming from and correct it. This will bring the actual amount to within the agreed margin of error and the feedback loop will begin again.”
“How can we possibly find out where it has gone to?”
“I suggest you start at the edges. Look at the printer and the factory that destroys. If you have no success, move to the middle and examine the GPS data.”
“Does anyone else have any questions for these gentlemen?” the man said after a long pause.
Tim thought carefully before asking, “Cannot someone just taking some money out of the country screw up the system?”
“No. There are 32 satellites in geo-synchronous orbit around the world tracking the GPS signals.”
“How about if the money was buried? Would it not lose its signal?”
“The satellites cannot track anything buried over 9ft deep but the computer compensates. Any monies buried or taken into areas of no signal are logged.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“If you bury £100 10ft deep in your garden the computer will make a log of its last location and the fact that it was probably buried. When you retrieve the money, the computer knows where it came from,” came the tired mechanical response.
“How does it make the distinction between buried and broken?” asked the man.
“Broken money gives off what we call a ‘last yawn’, a gentle death of signal that tapers off. This is different to the lack of signal associated with burying in soils or water.” Both of the twins walked to the far door. “Sir, we have to go back to the computer and examine the GPS data. If you have any more questions, we can be reached at our extension number. Before we go, though, you must understand that the error is human and not with the machine.” They shuffled through the door not looking back.
“What do we do?” asked Tim puzzled.
“We do what they say. The Director and Carl will bring in the printer. Tim and I will take a visit to the factory.”
*
“Who are you?”
“The porter.”
“You taking him down to radiology?”
“Er…yeah, radiology.”
“Make sure they do an MRI of his feet. That man’s going to get me published…oh, and when you’re done, take the other one downstairs.”
“Will do.”
“And get a move on.”
“Come on, Richard. Let’s go.”
*
“Who are you?”
“The porter.”
“You guys working in pairs now?”
“What?”
“The other porter’s already been up.”
“There’s only me…there are no other porters.”
*
“Richard, I know you can hear me. I’m going to tell you who did this to us…you and my brother.”
8
"What is food to one, is to others bitter poison.”
Lucretius
Tim and ‘Sir’ sat in the Director’s office, both lost in thought. Minutes earlier, Carl and the Director had left on their own investigation into the printer.
“Any thoughts on how we should proceed?” asked the man with the cartoon cats on his tie. Tim thought for a moment.
“Let’s go through it first… If the error is coming from the factory, then it seems most likely that someone has stolen some money, yes?”
“I concur.”
“Do you know anything about their security?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“We can find that out later, but I’m convinced it’s got to be pretty good. In that case it means that our thief is very clever or it was an opportunistic crime.” Tim paused for a moment his brow furrowed in thought. “The theft would most likely have occurred about the time of the black-out. Gives opportunity…” Tim shrugged.
“It could also point to some sort of error in 1 of the machines.”
“We can rule it out. I have an idea.” Tim turned to the monitor, still showing the drug baron’s smiling face. “Can you bring up some information?”
“What do you want to know?”
“How much money came out of the factory between the time of the power cut and now?” He typed on the keyboard for a few moments. The map zoomed in on a building Tim presumed was the factory and this was confirmed as the building’s details were displayed.
“We can’t see inside as the roof seems to be made from reinforced concrete.” He drew a red square round the building and pressed a few more buttons. “I’m instructing the computer to tell us how much money goes in and out of this box over the time frame you gave me.” 2 columns appeared on the right hand side of the screen, titled ‘Incoming’ and ‘Outgoing’. Black dots flitted around the screen indicating that time was moving swiftly forwards.
“It should only take a few moments.” And it did. “Over 300 thousand coming in, obviously the delivery money, but only 87 pound coming out.”
“The money in the workers’ pockets…” Tim said dismally.
“Good thinking, though.”
“I suppose the missing money could still be on the premises?”
“It could… I’ll send a search team down there.”
*
Gordo
n was beginning to enjoy himself. For the first time in his life he had a skill that was in demand. Granted, he was the agricultural equivalent of a drug dealer but he still felt needed, part of something larger than himself. This contented sense of belonging was being hampered by the fact that his body didn’t seem to want to behave itself. His list of symptoms seemed to grow each day. At first it was a slight cough, which grew steadily worse, then came the headaches, neck pain, joint pain, muscle spasms and cloudy vision. His anxiety reached fever pitch when he stubbed his toe and the nail fell off. In a kind of panicky daze he tested its neighbour, gently tugging at it, until it was painlessly removed from his foot. His new morning ritual, after a hot shower, was to poke and prod various parts of his body to check for lumps, bumps, and discolouration, or just to see if they came off in his hand.
Emerging from the hut and followed by pungent smoke, Gordon began to guess at the root cause of all his medical conditions. He vowed to himself that later that day he would talk to Bill about getting some safety equipment, goggles and such-like. He blinked, coughed loudly, and turned to go back inside the small hut. To steady himself, his hand reached out to the partially-rotten doorframe. His vision began to tunnel, compressing the periphery of sight into a small central circle. Unsteady on his feet, he turned, pressing his back into the outside wall of the hut. A tree filled his vision, like looking through invisible binoculars. Slowly, his focus was drawn to the shadows cast in and among the rough bark and under the branches, each 1 taking on a different, unnatural shade of colour and then returning back to black. The circle expanded in his eyes until the surroundings melted back into the centre. Blinking rapidly, all appeared normal, until he focused back on the tree. The shadows were filled with symbols, unclear and unfocused at first, then after a few blinks, unmistakeable, row upon row of numbers, stacked chaotically on top of each other.
The Shift of Numbers Page 9