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Onboard an oil platform near Rockall, in a corner of the control room, a member of the project team was busy working on the new uploads for the Silent Wave system. One of the software programmes was designed by Professor Burke. With one touch of a button the virus corrupted the ship’s command and control system. The malware copied and corrupted every digital code, spread to the system’s hardware and corrupted it. The connection was lost and the detonation was cancelled. Professor Burke’s contact made a call.
“I’m happy to report that there will be no surfing today Sir, and all specified surfers have been located and safely extracted as per your instructions.”
Raymond McIntyre ended the call and sighed. He looked out the reinforced window of his Whitehall office. Another storm was brewing. There was nothing he could do about the weather, but ruining the career of a dangerous upstart called Myrone Clone and finding his brother, Robert, all in the same day, filled him with a satisfying feeling. He switched on his Shackle and watched an emergency news bulletin, presented by inadequately dressed computer generated animation. It was reported that the Prime Minister had suddenly resigned due to health reasons, and that the Secretary of Defence would be acting as interim leader with new emergency powers. He would be addressing the nation about a clear up operation in St Kilda after an unusually powerful fracking earthquake caused a devastating tsunami. Raymond McIntyre picked up the quaich his brother gave him nine years ago, after he was promoted to Permanent Secretary. He read the Latin engraving quoting the Roman poet, Juvenal: Quis custodiet ipos custodes? Who will guard the guards themselves. Beside the pewter cup was a photograph of his brother. Raymond McIntyre smiled.
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On the Island of St Kilda, Saffron walked from Mullach Geal stopping only once to study the sea and the horizon for signs of activity. Nothing. But in the village she could see people congregating outside the community hall. After a time, most of them started walking the various uphill paths to higher ground on the island. She smiled. They were safe, the island was safe, but they didn't know it yet: the second wave wouldn't be coming after all. She knew this now. She had work to do. She continued her walk until she found a path which led to Glen Mὁr. Walking towards the shore, her eyes settled on a concrete facade built onto the hill. She now knew what lay beyond the myrtle green door: an underground bunker, leading to a silo and adjoined to a littoral cave one hundred metres below. She knew from the data files that the storm gates would be left open to allow the wave to rush in and wash away the evidence.
She had friends to rescue, friends laid out in floatation tanks, linked up to life support systems, fed through tubes, their waste carried away by more tubes and then dumped into the sea. On the shore Saffron found the kayak Sheila from the village had lent her. After casting off, she paddled to the entrance of the cave the Islanders called Geo nan Plaidean. The ominous mouth to the natural hollow was dominated by the dark overhanging basalt cliff, stretching up to the summit of Conachair, where the seagulls screamed above her head as if to acknowledge her presence. She made her way to the back of the cave until she found a place to land. Taking care not to slip on the wet rocks, she made her way to the back of the fissure. As expected her way was not barred, the doors were left open. She found a spiral staircase and climbed until she came to a vast chamber. It reminded her of a tomb, but tombs were for the dead, the people laid out in rows, as far as her eyes could see were still living.
We Float Upon a Painted Sea Page 32