The Machine

by Tom Aston

  Carslake looked at the tiny screen on the data collection set, and as soon as it was finished, went back to staring, looking out over the crater. This was his Nirvana. Stone was glad of the quiet. He made a note to come back in the light, handed Carslake the data unit to carry, and led on through the trees to find the forest track back toward the monastery.

  By the time they’d walked the seven kilometres back to Shanglan, there was a sign of dawn, perhaps an hour away in the East. The gathering blue light was beginning to dim the stars in the impossibly clear sky above. The band of the Milky Way was fading, but Venus stood laser bright on the horizon.

  Perhaps Carslake had never heard of the words “stealthy” or “careful”. He strode along in the undergrowth, thrashing at the spring flowers with a branch. Stone breathed in the cool night air, soughing over from the Great Snow Mountains and the Himalaya. By the time they came in sight of the temple’s gold and red portal, Carslake was talking wildly again. Stone had to virtually gag the man as they made for the living quarters.

  Early prayers had already begun. The smell of incense had met them hundreds of metres from the temple, and Stone could hear the soft chanting from the monks within. The eerie calm of the blue night air above the crater was still with him. He walked around to the temple and stood in silence to drink in the quiet chanting of the older monks, all inside the warm glow of the temple. Giyenchen was in their midst, shaven-headed and ecstatic, eyes closed to the world and cleansing his mind with nothingness. The solitary monk stayed without on the steps of the temple, the old guy with the lined face, spinning scripture reel in hand, humming his omm noises.

  No sign of Panchen. That guy was going to need double helpings of cymbals and chanting to cleanse himself after what he’d done.

  Stone stood tall and walked through shadow, as if from the front of the temple, and then straight inside the sleeping block at the back of the temple. Carslake pushed ahead of him. The blackened, wooden floor creaked, and a single oil lamp burned at the end of the corridor. Silent, undisturbed.

  Then there was another creak in the floor ahead of them. Carslake’s tall figure shoved back past him, scrambling to get out. Idiot.

  Stone span round like a top. It was all over. In the lamplight, the muzzle of an assault rifle peered malignantly round the door where he had just come in with Carslake. There was a determined Chinese eye looking at them over the barrel. Carslake changed tack. He walked straight up on impulse, as if oblivious of the gun. He certainly had some nerve. Or was it stupidity?

  It could have been worse. The soldier smashed the butt of the rifle into Carslake’s solar plexus. He went down gasping in pain, like he couldn’t breathe.

  Stone walked up slowly, and the gun was turned on him. Let’s see what he’s made of. Stone made eye contact with the soldier, and held it. Didn’t raise his arms. The soldier glanced down, and stepped nimbly over Carslake, keeping his weapon on Stone. He was tall, as tall as Stone. He didn’t break the stare, just advanced steadily, till the muzzle of the gun was a few centimetres in front of Stone’s cool, grey eyes. See you and raise you.

  It’s difficult to stare down a bullet. Stone put his hands up.

  Chapter 48 — 3:11am 10 April — Shanglan Monastery, Garze Autonomous Prefecture, Sichuan, China

  Ying Ning came in view with her arms bound tight and high behind her, like a wild animal. She was kicked and force-marched across in front of Stone and Carslake, who were kneeling on the ground outside the accommodation block, cuffed, with their hands on their heads. One guy held the arms high behind Ying Ning’s shoulders, on the point of dislocation, and another was pulling her head back by the hair. A strip of her black T-shirt was tied in a vicious ligature across her mouth. Lips pulled back, red and bleeding at the side. Her teeth protruded around the tight gag, preternaturally white and vulpine despite the darkness. They were ordering her to kneel, pulling the spiky hair back in their fists and shoving her shoulders down. She looked suddenly small and slight with the soldiers towering over her, but still refused to kneel for them. Finally an officer came round and kicked her knees viciously at the back until her legs buckled and her kneecaps thumped into the ground. Stone turned his eyes to her slowly. She stared ahead, a bloody contusion above her left eye. She looked tiny, a thin, bloodied wraith. But undiminished.

  One of Ying Ning’s captors walked in front. He looked shaken. Blood on his face and a long fleck of saliva on the shiny, black webbing across his chest. Ying Ning’s eyes followed him, burning. Behind the gag, she was smiling. She was actually trying to taunt him.

  An engine revved harshly and a dark green jeep pulled round in front. Then with another whine of the gearbox, it lurched back towards them and stopped, rear tow bar a metre from their faces, exhaust fumes belching at them. Carslake closed his eyes and coughed fastidiously. There was a bark of command from within and the Gong An officers hauled first Stone, then Carslake in through the tailgate of the jeep. Ying Ning struggled again, trying to kick out, until they lifted her bound shoulders to breaking point and she uttered an animal scream from behind the gag. An officer removed his shiny black belt, tied it hard around her knees, then threw her in. The back door slammed and they were away, bumping and bouncing over the rough ground and then away onto the road.

  Not one of them spoke, but the questions passed through Stone’s mind like a funeral procession. How many monks arrested? Was it possible they’d all escaped through the woods? Possible. Also very unlikely. And what would become of Giyenchen and the others, who were completely blameless?

  The mystery of what was happening in the crater behind that fence, the gravity anomaly, the darkened, unmanned factory in Shanghai for that matter — it was all so fanciful, a world away from the harsh reality of the back of a Chinese truck. They could hardly even complain. Stone had tried to stop Panchen when he killed that truck driver, but not tried hard enough.

  Carslake, meanwhile, had stood by, dreaming of spaceships.

  Stone thought again of his therapist, the psych he’d seen after the army. The one with the “rules for living”. Stone had never told the guy the truth, or anything approaching it, but he had come out with what he said were his own rules — “avoid hypocrisy”, “be judged on your actions, not your words”, “don’t shrink from a fight”, “confront people who are doing wrong”. Had he believed that, even then? Kind of. But his real opinion was that he had a need for confrontation, that he was still seeking the thrill of combat, that his peace campaigns were just a way of seeking danger without a gun in his hand.

  Now cuffed and bound of the floor of that Chinese jeep he could see the therapist had a point. The therapist had claimed Stone was driven by comradeship, even though he was a loner. In some twisted way, the guy said that Stone put himself into danger and got into fights to “win approval”.

  Stone had despised all that stuff at the time. It had been years later before he realised that looking for trouble wins you very few friends, even if you’re a “Peace Professor”. And here’s another “rule for living”. For most people over thirty, “brave” means the same as “stupid”.

  The jeep drove for no more than a few kilometres before it lurched to a stop once more. The engine cut out. They heard steps walking round from the front of the vehicle, and the tailgate door opened once more onto the mountains. The Tibetan star field above once more, fading slightly in the gathering dawn. Mocking them.

  A figure appeared, red-faced in the taillights. His face was wizened and lined with age. He chuckled slightly at them; then, to make his point he pulled out the scripture reel and began to twirl, grating and rattling in the silent forest. He took off his over-sized Gong An peaked hat to reveal his monk’s shaven head, and made a small bow of greeting.

  Venching was the monk’s name. He wasn’t much of a driver, but that was unlikely to bother Stone, Ying Ning or Carslake. He said they would make for the town of Garze and then on to Chengdu.

  There weren’t many roads in this half of Sichuan, and th
ough the area was vast, even rudimentary roadblocks would catch them. Venching acknowledged this.

  ‘Even worse to head West for Batang,’ he said. Batang was the one border crossing with Tibet over the mountains. ‘Many police and Gong An at Batang.’

  This was true. Once they were missed, the Gong An would expect them to head for Tibet. Heading back into the teeming cities of Sichuan was safer. China has far fewer police per head than most countries. If they had a head start on the Gong An troops behind them, they had a chance of getting as far as Garze. After that, the police would have to spread themselves extremely thinly if they were going to find them amongst the hundred million people in the lowlands of Sichuan.

  The old monk’s English was surprisingly good, with something of an American accent. He said had he spent time with American journalists in Tibet back in the 1950’s, and still listened to some BBC radio. His speech was peppered by erudite-sounding journalistic cliches.

  ‘You have been at the monastery for a long time?’ asked Stone.

  ‘Since it was re-opened. 1977.’

  ‘What about Lin Biao?’ asked Carslake. Back on his favourite topic. ‘What was he doing up here in 1969?’

  The old monk laughed gently. ‘You heard the story of Lin Biao too?’ he said. ‘I have no idea. It is true that he had deep shelters built here. Luxury apartments with swimming pools underground. Food and water to last for years. But Lin Biao did many strange things.’

  ‘Strange? Like Steven Semyonov?’ asked Carslake again. Had he never heard of the term “leading question”?

  Venching was bemused. ‘I have no idea who is this Steven. Lin Biao was brilliant, charming. But he did nothing for Chinese people. He was obsessed. This is no secret. He was obsessed to be the ruler of China. He said he knew how to make China strong.’

  ‘And they believed he could do what he said?’

  ‘He used fear. Fear of outsiders, fear of technology,’ said Venching. ‘Lin Biao stoked up the fear that the Americans could destroy China with their computers and missiles. If only he were in charge of China, said Lin Biao in 1969, they would have the technology to beat the Americans. Historians pay no attention to this boast by Lin Biao. But perhaps Lin Biao really believed what he said,’ said Venching. ‘In any case, you have visited the place yourself, have you not?’

  Nothing got past this guy.

  ‘What have you discovered?’ asked Venching driving on into the dawn.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Stone, reflexively.

  ‘Something’s down there,’ said Carslake, proudly. ‘I’ve seen it.’

  ‘You seem very certain. But what is it?’ asked Venching.

  Stone was surprised for a second, if he was honest. ‘Is this it then?’ he said. ‘Radar images finally prove Doug Carslake right about his alien theories?’

  ‘Clear as day, man,’ said Carslake, looking smug. ‘Incontrovertible. It’s right there on those 3D images of the site.’

  Venching didn’t seem surprised. ‘Shi zheiyangzi?’ he muttered to himself. Is that so?

  ‘A large metal object,’ said Carslake out of the blue. ‘Almost one kilometre in diameter and lying two thousand feet beneath the surface of that crater.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Venching, mildly. No surprise in his voice. Either he didn’t believe a word, or he knew all about the Death Hole already.

  Chapter 49 — 8:04pm 10 April — Chengdu, Sichuan, China

  It was after dark when they made it back to Chengdu. Ying Ning had the old monk pull up at the side of thegaosuexpressway, and then stepped out with the headlights flying past and the sound of horns honking from the other vehicles. They climbed over a fence and began to walk back to Ying Ning’s place which they’d left a couple of days before.

  It had been a good opportunity for Stone to talk to Carslake. He was knowledgeable, especially about Semyonov, and especially about his background. What little Carlisle had told Stone about Semyonov’s past turned out to be wrong — according to Carslake at any rate. Semyonov must have hidden his real background, while feeding a narrative to Carlisle and the others in the media. For one thing, his real name was not Semyonov. It was Starkfield — Steven Starkfield.

  ‘You never wrote about that on your blog,’ said Stone.

  ‘Like I said,’ said Carslake. ‘You can say all sortsa shit online. But it’s gotta be interesting. The Semyonov name I thought was kinda cool. Like he was Russian, all intellectual and mysterious, fat, with this smooth, white skin and those crazy red eyes. Then I find out his name is Starkfield, and he’s a regular American guy. People don’t read my blog to learn he’s a regular American guy.’

  ‘Sorry he’s such a disappointment to you,’ said Stone. ‘You’re going to tell me his IQ was average as well.’

  ‘Nooooooo sir,’ said Carslake, shaking his head enthusiastically. ‘He’s not a disappointment. In fact, I think it makes him more interesting. He was in jail, for one thing, and he never got a college degree. I guess that’s why he changed his name.’

  ‘He was an ex-con? What did he do?’

  ‘Nothing bad. Nothing you or I would call bad, anyhow. You can guess.’

  ‘Hacking? Starkfield was a hacker?’

  ‘You got it. Doesn’t change much, does it?’

  ‘No,’ said Stone. But it gave him plenty to think about — the name change thing especially. If Carslake had Semyonov’s real name, and Semyonov was a regular American person, Carslake would have been able to research him properly. Family, high school yearbook- the whole nine yards. But if Carslake had already looked at those things, he wasn’t letting on. Why not?

  When they made it back to the little house on the outskirts of Chengdu, Carslake finally asked Stone outright. ‘Come on, Stone. You were surprised, weren’t you?’ ‘Surprised about what?’ ‘The thing underneath the crater,’ said Carslake. ‘The large metal object down there. You asked me to bring the radar set with me, because you thought there was something down there. But still you’re surprised.’ ‘I guess I was,’ said Stone. ‘But why?’ asked Carslake. ‘You knew there was something down there. You knew about the gravity anomaly. And you said those figures and names were in Semyonov’s handwriting.’ ‘I know,’ said Stone. ‘It was Oyang.’ ‘What about him?’ ‘The more I think about him, the more I think he’s pulling the strings. I got the idea in my head that Oyang was sending us up there to Sichuan to get us out of the way. Get us off the scent.’ ‘He gave you details of where to find the Machine, showed you where to go — how can that be putting us off the scent?’ ‘Oyang would assume we wouldn’t find anything. He knew about the anomaly. Must have done. He knew it would be intriguing for me, that it would look like something. He knew it would be interesting enough for me to go looking for. But it could be nothing, Doug. Just some natural phenomenon. We still have no idea whatsoever what this mysterious Machine is. Or if it exists at all.’ ‘All that time you thought Oyang’s fucking with us? You even got me over from the US?’ ‘Thought you might enjoy it,’ said Stone, flashing a smile. ‘No seriously. I’ve only really thought about it since you told me what you saw down there. Besides, going to Sichuan was only one part of the research plan. I also sent off to my students in England to look into some stuff. Not quite as exciting as what we’ve been doing, but that research was just as important.’ Carslake was half-angry, half-intrigued. He didn’t mind being used by Stone. But he hated feeling he was out of the loop. On the other hand, after Carslake had posted online about the Machine before he even arrived in China, what the hell did he expect? ‘Research about what?’ asked Carslake, guardedly. ‘What did you get your students to look at?’ ‘The true ownership of New Machine Technology — the people who are making the weapons, filing all the patents, and making all the money. It’s the number one unanswered question.’ ‘But it’s owned by the Chinese — the Chinese government.’ ‘Yeah, I’ve heard that. But that’s just an assumption — as if everything is state-owned in China. I also heard it’s owned by ShinComm, and ShinComm has
regular shareholders — one of whom was Semyonov. Semyonov put in the money for sure, but like all Chinese joint ventures, New Machine must be at least fifty-one percent owned by a Chinese person or company.’ ‘OK. So ShinComm owned fifty-one percent. Even though Semyonov supplied all the cash and the ideas.’ ‘So you’d think,’ said Stone. ‘But I don’t think it’s as simple as that. Oyang knows the answer. He was in there when New Machine was set up, and he told me it’s a subsidiary of ShinComm — but he also likes to tell stories. He makes things up. Tells us what we want to hear. So we can’t rely on him. What I do know is that that none of the shares are owned simply by Semyonov or ShinComm. They’re held through mysterious nominee companies.’ Carslake looked confused, but Stone was busy. He had already retrieved his laptop from the closet at the house and was logging into the NotFutile.com system. ‘You left your computer here?’ cried Carslake. ‘What if the house got raided?’ ‘It’s all online,’ said Stone. ‘On the secure server. They’d get the hardware, but nothing else.’ ‘So what’s the answer? Your team in England found who owns New Machine yet?’ Stone opened his email and scanned over it. ‘No,’ said Stone, looking intently at the screen. ‘I didn’t think they would. Someone has been hiding his tracks too well for us to find the ownerships that easily. It’s one of those complex web of ownerships that investigators take months to uncover. It just means someone's hiding something.’ Stone’s fingers rippled across the keyboard as he began to write a blog post on the site. ‘My students had a couple of days and got nowhere. We’re not going to do any better. I’m going to try something else. I’m going to experiment with Oyang. I’m going to do things to him, and see how he reacts.’ Carslake watched the words as Stone typed the blog post for the NotFutile.com web site.