“Wow,” said Simon, retrieving Alfred’s SD card from a slot on a sleek electron microscope behind him. “You must have some great stories to tell.”
“Nothing I can talk about,” smiled Agent K. “Actually, I was on desk work at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia most of the time.”
“Simon, have you downloaded the mission data from Chopper?” said the Professor.
“I was just doing it when you arrived,” said Simon. “I think he got a look at one of those attackers, at least.” He handed the SD card to Alfred.
The Professor nodded sharply. “Good. Ms Maynard will need your report as soon as possible. She’s in the Home Secretary’s office right now.”
“After what happened this morning,” said Alfred, placing the SD card in his laptop, “I wonder how our Queen Bee’s getting on.”
“I’ve never seen such a shambles in all my life!” shouted the Home Secretary.
Queen Bee shifted uncomfortably in her seat. The head of the Secret Intelligence Agency, her boss, was sitting on the Home Secretary’s side of the huge oak desk, and was silent with red-faced embarrassment.
“Well?” cried the Home Secretary. “What are you going to do about the situation? A top-secret weapon has been stolen by goodness-knows-who, I’ve got the Prime Minister demanding to know what’s happening, and I can’t even tell him exactly why it happened because SWARM doesn’t officially exist!” She looked back and forth between Queen Bee and the SIA head. “You people make my blood boil!”
Queen Bee cleared her throat. She was every bit as angry as anyone at the loss of Whiplash, but she wouldn’t let her emotions show. Especially now, when action was called for. She would never, she told herself, allow her feelings to cloud her judgement. She spoke as calmly as she could. “We’re analysing the data recorded by Chopper, our dragonfly. We’re confident of making a positive ID on one of the culprits soon.”
“The sooner the better!” said the Home Secretary. “Didn’t this Whiplash thing even have a homing tracker on it?”
“The risk was assessed as low, and the private company that—”
“Low risk? This is a top-secret project! And yet a bunch of crooks in a BMW knew about it. Come to that, how did SWARM get involved?”
“It’s our job to get involved, Home Secretary,” said Queen Bee.
The Home Secretary stared angrily at her. “That’s supposed to be an answer, is it?”
“It’s all I’m authorized to say.”
“To me?” cried the Home Secretary. “To me? I’m supposed to be in charge here! The intelligence agencies seem to think they have a right to—”
“Yes, but sometimes—” began Queen Bee.
“Don’t interrupt me!” cried the Home Secretary. She shuffled the papers on her desk and took a deep breath. There was a great deal more to be said, and she wanted to say it as clearly and forcefully as possible.
Back in the underground SWARM laboratory, Simon Turing was making adjustments on a touchscreen while Professor Miller ran through the laboratory protocol with the new recruits.
“Queen Bee’s probably got the Home Secretary eating out of her hand,” he muttered. “Or something. I try to keep clear of the political stuff.” He turned to Agent J and Agent K. “Let me introduce you to the stars of our show.”
He flipped a switch on the machine he’d been working at. The top section hissed gently as it opened, revealing a complicated mass of circuits and mechanical rods. In the middle of it all was Chopper, held in a delicate cage of tiny pincers. His wings shone in a hundred colours.
“The insects are all offline at the moment,” said Simon, “so I can talk about them without them overhearing me and getting big-headed.”
“You make them sound like humans,” said Agent J.
Simon raised a finger. “Ah, hold that thought, we’ll get back to it.”
“That’s amazing,” gasped Agent K, leaning in for a closer look. “It looks like a real dragonfly.”
“Of the order Odonata,” said Alfred. “Beautiful creatures.”
“Packed into that tiny shell,” said Simon, “you’ve got telescopic-vision systems, scanning and recording units, even night vision and thermal-imaging capabilities. Ideal for surveillance and gathering information.”
He pressed a button on the workbench, and a hatch beside it slid open. Inside was Sabre, hooked up to a set of miniature computers. “Sabre, our mosquito, got damaged on his recent mission. The Professor is in charge of mechanical and electronic components, he’ll get him repaired and back to normal later today. Sabre is one of the smallest in the team, but he packs an almighty punch. Just as real mozzies bite, he can perform a range of stings and extractions. Carbon-fibre injection mechanisms built into his head can be pre-loaded with micro-pellets or used, for example, to test a target’s blood.”
Simon turned and tapped a six-digit number into a box on the wall. With a series of hums and whirs, five metallic cages rose up from the workbench, one by one. An insectoid robot was held in the middle of each, surrounded by circuitry and switches.
“Hercules,” said Simon, indicating an oval-shaped stag beetle. “He’s a heavy-duty agent. That serrated mouthpart claw can cut through solid metal, and he’s tough enough to withstand a direct hit from a sledgehammer. He has an exoskeleton built from the latest in nano-fibre polymers, harder than diamond. As has Nero, our scorpion. You see that sting? That can deliver whatever chemical we give him. And his pincers make him our engineer, able to tap into electronics and carry out mechanical tasks.”
Agent J and Agent K were staring at the robots with blank-faced astonishment. Simon smiled with pride and led them on to the next robot.
“Widow is our spider,” he said. “She can produce threads and webs stronger than steel, and there’s a communications array built into the abdomen that makes MI5 look like a satellite dish. Next, we have our centipede, Morph. He can dig, burrow and squeeze through spaces barely thicker than a sheet of paper, but his main attribute is his strength. Get him wrapped around your thumb and he could crush the bones inside it. Last, but certainly not least, we come to Sirena. She’s a butterfly designed around a super-sensitive set of sensors. She’s built as a kind of mobile analytical unit. She can detect all forms of air contamination, build up a detailed map of her immediate area, and even monitor the internal workings of a human being.”
“You’re calling them ‘he’ and ‘she’,” said Agent J. “Surely you’re not going to tell me they have personalities?”
Simon grinned broadly. “They were only activated for the first time a matter of weeks ago, but they’re already developing as distinct characters. This is where we come back to that point about humans. I think the sheer complexity of their programming has allowed them to have minds not unlike our own.”
Professor Miller groaned loudly. “That’s pure speculation. A few unexpected responses doesn’t add up to a personality.”
“Just before you came in,” said Simon, “Fred was on to something, weren’t you?”
“I know it sounds unlikely,” said Alfred, running a hand through his white hair, “but I’m certain they’re adding sections of code to their own programs. It’s almost as if they’re … well, gaining memories, and experience.”
“They’re machines,” blustered Professor Miller. “Nothing more.”
“They’re some of the most advanced machines ever built,” said Simon. “They’re designed to think for themselves, it makes sense that they’d develop personalities, doesn’t it? After all, we’ve given them names!”
“So, what are they like?” asked Agent K.
“Well,” said Simon, “Chopper is the sensible one. If they were humans I’d call him their leader. Widow is a loner, an observer. Sabre, as you can probably tell from the way he charged in on that mission, tends to be a bit reckless. Hercules is the joker of the pack, Nero can be positively sarcastic at times, and Morph’s a worrier, a bit unsure of himself. He’s the last one to suggest anything rash.�
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“And Sirena?” asked Agent K.
“I think she’s rather a mother figure,” said Alfred. “She definitely keeps a watchful eye on the others.”
“I can’t wait to see these robots in action,” said Agent J.
“Impressive, aren’t they?” said Simon, like an excited kid.
“Speaking of action, let’s return to the matter in hand,” said Professor Miller. “I must make repairs to Sabre, and you, Simon, need to get Chopper’s data analysed. I’m worried that Queen Bee will have some battles to fight inside our own organization as well as out in the real world.”
“Relax, Prof,” said Simon. “We’re pioneers, we’re ahead of our time, I’m sure we’re here to stay.”
The Home Secretary leaned across her desk and glared directly at Queen Bee. “If this Whiplash weapon isn’t recovered within the next forty-eight hours, I’m closing the SWARM programme down. Is that clear? This Department of Microwave Whatever-it-is—”
“Micro-robotic Intelligence,” interjected Queen Bee.
“—will be closed down before it’s even got going. This meeting is over!”
At that same moment, the stolen metal case containing Whiplash was sitting on a battered-looking wooden table, located in a secret hideout. Standing around the table were fifteen men and women. Some were highly qualified scientists and the rest of the group were mercenaries, soldiers for hire, who wore khaki combat outfits and heavy boots.
The only light came from two bare electric bulbs, dangling on long wires. The large, dusty room was littered with packing crates and cardboard boxes.
“My heart’s racing,” murmured one of the scientists. “I’ve never got involved in anything like this before. I wasn’t sure they’d actually do it.”
“We’re all in this together now,” muttered another. “There’s no going back.”
“Aren’t we going to open it, then?” called one of the men in combat gear.
Another of the uniformed men stepped forward, pulling a screwdriver from his pocket. He was short and heavily built, with a green kepi cap pulled tightly over his dark, straggly hair. He picked up the case and turned it around a few times, examining it. Then, with a couple of sniffs, he poised the screwdriver at a point where the two halves of the case met. Gritting his yellowing teeth, he dug the screwdriver into the join and began to lever it sharply. He grunted with effort. The case buckled slightly, but didn’t break or open.
“Bullman!” cried a deep voice from behind him.
Everyone turned to see two figures enter the room. Bullman stopped what he was doing and stuck the screwdriver back into his pocket. His expression became sheepish. Nervously, he wiped the palms of his hands against his jacket. All those gathered around the table fell silent.
The first of the two figures stepped forward, out of the darkness and into the pale glow of the hanging bulbs. His name was Williams, and his thick, pebble-like spectacles turned his eyes into dark, glittering globes. A thin smile split across his face.
The man he was with remained in the shadows. He was known to the group only as “the Insider”. All they knew was that he had some kind of connection to the creation of Whiplash and that their operation depended on him.
Williams walked slowly over to Bullman, his shoes tapping on the concrete floor. Bullman drew back a little as he approached. Finally, Williams came to a halt with his nose barely three centimetres from Bullman’s.
“Bullman,” said Williams softly, in his Cockney accent, “I’d like you to reassure me.”
Bullman blinked at him. “I d-don’t quite follow you, boss,” he stammered.
Williams’s smile broadened. “I’d like you to reassure me. Put my mind at ease.”
“W-what about, boss?”
“Couple of things,” said Williams quietly. “Item one: you weren’t really trying to break that case open with a screwdriver, were you? I mean, we’ve planned this robbery carefully, we’ve carried it out and now we’ve got the case, and inside it is an item worth millions and millions. You weren’t really having a go at it with a screwdriver, were you, Bullman? If you were, then I’d separate your legs from your body using an assortment of garden tools. But you weren’t, were you?”
“N-n-no, boss!” gabbled Bullman. “N-no way, boss, I w-was joking, boss, just mucking about.”
Williams didn’t move a muscle. His smile remained creepily wide and his voice remained calm. “That is good news, Bullman. I’m reassured on that point, thank you very much indeed. Now, item two: as I understand it, during the robbery, one of your boys fell over. Or fainted. Or something. Had to be carried back into the car. Could have ruined the whole thing. Reassure me that this was all down to the guy with the case being armed with a weapon. Reassure me that it’s not a case of one of my squad being a wimp.”
“I-i-it was Fraser!” cried Bullman, pointing to another of the men dressed in combat gear. “Not me!”
Williams slowly turned his attention to the other man. Fraser suddenly felt an icy sensation run down his spine. No way was he going to admit that he thought he’d been stung by an insect!
“I was hit, Mr Williams!” cried Fraser. “Something hit me. Really hard. That guy must have stunned me with a Taser!”
“Did he?” said Williams softly. “Aw, that’s all right, then.” He paused for a moment, then suddenly clapped his hands together and let out a long, braying laugh. The tension in the room was broken. Everyone laughed and realized they’d barely taken a breath in the last couple of minutes.
“Come on, ladies and gentlemen,” cried Williams, “we’ve got some celebrating to do!”
He picked up the metal case with one hand, and extended the other towards the mysterious man who was still lurking in the shadows. The Insider stepped forward and placed a small plastic card in Williams’s outstretched hand.
Williams placed the card close to the handle of the case. The card transmitted a code, and the case bleeped. It clicked and opened.
With great care, Williams lifted the lid of the case and removed Whiplash from where it rested in a smooth pad of protective plastic. Slightly smaller than a mobile phone, it was a plain brushed metal box with a set of connecting ports at one end and some words stamped in small black letters along the side.
“PROTOTYPE – copyright © Techna-Stik”
“Here it is,” declared Williams, “the key to our future. This little box. We carry around a lot of little boxes, don’t we? We talk to each other with them, we store our music on them, we watch telly on them. But this one is very different. This one is unlike any other on this precious planet of ours. Who would ever have thought that something this small could contain such power? And it’s a power we now possess.”
A murmured ripple of agreement went through the people standing around the table. In the pale light from the overhead bulbs, what could be seen of their faces showed a mixture of anticipation, apprehension and pride.
Williams continued. “In the crates and boxes stored in this room is all the equipment we’ve been quietly piecing together for many months. Today, our plans are complete. We have everything we need to put Operation New Age into effect!”
Everyone cheered.
Williams held Whiplash high above his head. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he grinned, “we can begin!”
Queen Bee and her boss, the head of the UK’s Secret Intelligence Agency, were arriving back at SWARM headquarters. They looked like business executives returning to their office, as they approached the bustle and noise of Trafalgar Square. None of the hundreds of people they passed had the slightest clue to their true identities, or to the dangerous problem they had to solve.
In the centre of Trafalgar Square stood Nelson’s Column, rising high above the crowds and the traffic, as it had for over one hundred and eighty years. Briskly, they walked across to the fourth of the huge stone plinths that bordered the square. They stood at the sheltered lower corner of the plinth, beside a walled topped with a balustrade high above. Tucked aw
ay behind some benches was a spot few passers-by ever noticed.
They stood, as if quietly minding their own business, with their backs to the immense bulk of the plinth. Queen Bee glanced around, then touched her hand to the flat, cold stone. Palm-print recognition systems built into the stone verified who she was. In the blink of an eye, a holographic projector created a solid-looking image of the corner in front of them, masking them from view and giving the appearance of an empty corner.
Safely hidden from view, a narrow section of the plinth slid aside and they stepped inside. The slab settled back into place behind them, the projector switched off, and everything was back to normal.
Inside the plinth, Queen Bee and her boss had entered an elegantly designed lift. Queen Bee lifted her head slightly and spoke clearly. “This is Queen Bee, access T-alpha-324, confirm.”
“Confirmed,” said an electronic voice. The lift began to descend.
The head of the SIA’s voice sounded muffled in the confines of the elevator. “You don’t need me to tell you how serious the situation is.”
“No, sir,” said Queen Bee.
“I can’t protect you, Beatrice. They’ll shut you down unless those robots of yours succeed.”
“Believe me, sir, I’m extremely angry, and extremely worried.”
The head of the SIA shot a glance at her, his eyebrows raised. She seemed so calm.
The lift glided to a halt, and while the SIA chief headed deeper into the depths of the secret base, Queen Bee walked past the sliding doors marked “SWARM – Department Of Micro-robotic Intelligence” and headed for her office.
Once she was behind her desk, her calm mask dropped for a moment. She sat with her head in her hands, trying to clear her mind and think logically. At last she sat upright, pulled the hem of her jacket straight and tapped at the touchscreen in front of her. The face of Agent J, one of SWARM’s new human agents, appeared on the screen.
“Online, Ms Maynard,” said Agent J.
Operation Sting Page 2