Lie of the Land Page 3

  It had been Sarah’s plan, her idea, to try out the lenses. Now she was getting heavy, and the fun was over. When he’d suggested spraysuits, he thought she’d jump at the chance, but she had resisted the idea, before suggesting a meeting, somehow, of the meatspace sort. Transit endorsements and endless biosecurity bureaucracy would make the 500 miles to Bristol unbridgeable; CivCon could make the separation permanent, and probably would, given Carl’s probable status on one of their watch lists. Surely Sarah knew all that, but still she banged on about meeting up. If only she’d shown some sign of this honest yearning before he’d become too involved.

  No. All things considered it would have been better to keep their relationship a netspace one. Women always want more from you, thought Carl; they’re never content with being content. And when you become the kind of person they want you to be, they crap on you from a great height, from out of the blue. Well, he wasn’t going there again. No chance. He hoped Sarah would leave him alone and not become one of those saddos who couldn’t let go, who keep trying to wheedle their way back in. No point in doing that. Once it’s finished it’s finished: pleading and emotional blackmail just pushes the other person further away, makes them more convinced that they were right to chuck you. It was like some kind of Newtonian law: for every action there is an equal and opposite repulsion. Life would be less complicated without Sarah. It was already complicated enough.

  Carl sipped his fruit tea, studying his reflection in the dark window, flicking through the papers and photos that littered his desk. There wasn’t much he could do about any of it. All the ingredients were there, but he couldn’t do any cooking.

  Back at the bay window he caught sight of lights ascending from the helipad on top of the Hilton. The spires of the uni were black shards against the western sky.

  The wall screen resumed its scan of his crowdmap, drip-feeding the chatter from 457 individuals and organisations, picking out key words and logging the information. Some of it mattered, but Carl wasn’t sure if he could be bothered processing what his wall had to tell him any more. It was like some mythic jug he could never empty, no matter how deeply he drank from it.

  •

  The following morning, sunlight and birdsong awakened the notion of actually going in to the office. He could sit in the flat tweaking press releases and fluffing official announcements. He could lose himself in lensed-up exploration masquerading as research. Or he could leave the flat, walk through the hot dusty streets, and join the bedside vigil for a dying newspaper.

  Today, he wanted to get his hands dirty, see those happy few helping speak truth to power. And it would be better if he spoke to Eric face to face about his latest article, give him the righteous spiel, for old time’s sake. The online contributors were invisible, compliant, but Carl knew Eric was better persuaded in person if there was a hard sell to be sold. He would pick his moment to pounce for a result.

  As if.

  Walking to the bus stop he saw a mini-drone hovering over Queen’s Park, the morning sun glinting from its rotors. There was loud popping and seconds later a large group of ragged men, women and children emerged from the trees, panicked and angry. The mini-drone barked a command, in several languages including English, about no unauthorised settlements and warned that a mobile unit had been despatched and was en route. Carl doubted the mobile unit would turn up within the hour, but if they did there would be more than loud bangs to worry about.

  The bus came and he rode it into town.

  Besides Eric, Caroline was the only other person in the office when Carl arrived, just after nine. She was yawning over supplier invoices. She took her glasses off and rubbed her eyes.

  ‘Too many late nights, my girl.’

  ‘More like far too many jobs,’ Caroline replied. ‘For one person. And this heat’s making me sleepy.’

  ‘It’s only another week till the volunteer accountant starts,’ said Carl. ‘Then you’ll have more time to spend on important stuff, like making me coffee.’

  ‘You’d better be careful, or I might get round to installing that new payroll software,’ said Caroline, smiling. ‘A mistake with someone’s salary could easily happen.’ She returned to her printouts. ‘Don’t you have some pretend work to be getting on with?’

  Carl gave a little bow. ‘But of course, Liebling.’ He straightened. ‘Ajay and Val out and about?’

  Caroline nodded. ‘Yeah. Eric’s in.’

  Of course Eric’s in, Carl felt like saying. Eric hardly ever left his cave.

  An hour later, and Carl had pounced with his story and, amazingly, managed to persuade Eric to phone the Press Liaison Committee. The subject matter made approval unlikely.

  The active denial shield was a crowd control weapon – a tightly focused microwave pain stick wielded from 400 metres that caused intense pain by exciting the water molecules in the epidermis, but did not actually damage the skin. At least, that was the manufacturer’s pledge, picked up and parroted by the Emergency Authority. But it wasn’t true. Carl sat at his desk, trying not to listen to his news editor in convo with the Press Liaison Committee.

  There was a photo of a young Asian girl on Carl’s desk screen. If he put his hand over one side of the twelve-year-old girl’s image, she was pretty, but the look in her eye said something was very wrong. That something was the other side of her face, the bubble-blistered, angry red and black-crusted vitrified side, where the active denial shield had been a touch heavy on the dermal excitation. He had another dozen or so photos from the food riot at the Kelvingrove centre, of young and old, male and female. None of the images would see the light of day if the Press Liaison Committee slapped on a Section 4 interdict. Sentinel protocols would have locked down every mobile device in the neighbourhood while the riot was in progress, so that nothing would leak out. But there was always a leak, somewhere in the pipework, and this kind of damage was hard to hide.

  He had the evidence and the testimony and, a fact he knew full well, zero chance of a publishable article.

  The door of Eric’s office opened and Carl knew straight away there was no deal. Eric would have been dancing if Nigel Fuckface at the PLC had agreed to a page two down-pager, voicing concern but nothing too strong. Hints of errant behaviour by the crowd at Kelvingrove. The manufacturer’s spotless safety record. Immediate inquiry. A caring Emergency Authority in action.

  At least the story would have been a start, something to build on. Carl looked at the photo of the disfigured girl on his computer. Tough luck, love.

  ‘Mr Nigel Flitch-Pace,’ said Eric, as he had a weary habit of doing, ‘has the manufacturer’s assurances that the aforementioned product’s “calibration issues” have been resolved and that, as an added safeguard, efforts will be made to explore the inclusion of governors, fitted as standard, on the next generation of active denial devices. Mr Nigel Fuckface regrets resorting to Emergency Order Section 4 but ABC, XYZ, goodnight and fuck off.’

  He studied the crease in his trousers.

  A few workspaces away, Caroline looked up from her invoices.

  ‘Guy’s a prick,’ she called.

  Carl smiled, chewing his lip.

  ‘Efforts to explore,’ he muttered, drumming his fingers on the desk. He looked up at Eric, ‘And what did the board say when you told them?’

  Eric stiffened. ‘I haven’t told the trustees yet.’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Carl. ‘How will the Emergency Authority know if the calibration issues on CivCon’s new toy have been sorted?’

  Eric shrugged, lowered his voice. ‘Nigel . . . um, we didn’t go into that kind of detail.’

  ‘Nice one,’ said Carl. He could see Eric trying not to look at the screen, at the image of a twelve-year-old girl with cheese on toast where the right side of her face should be.

  ‘I’ll tell the family,’ Carl said, looking at the photo. ‘They didn’t really want the exposure anyway.’

  ‘Piss off,’ Eric grumbled, with no real venom. He glanced over at Caroline, l
owering his voice. ‘Do you fancy dinner tonight? Lesley’s cooking, she got hold of a real roast.’

  Carl raised his eyebrows. ‘Should I be worried? The last time you invited me round for dinner we sacked everyone and moved into this leaky shithole.’

  ‘Nothing to worry about this time.’ Eric looked away. ‘Just thought you might fancy some decent food, that’s all.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Lesley said seven. That okay?’

  ‘Fine by me. I’ll try and get hold of something drinkable.’

  Eric nodded and closed his office door. The need for privacy always meant a heated discussion with the board or the Press Liaison Committee was in the offing. Eric was up to something.

  Carl studied the week’s food briefing from the Emergency Authority. He’d introduce some coded ambiguity to leaven the official bullshit. There would be a place within the text where a mote of truth in heavy disguise could be inserted.

  His screen flashed. Carl opened the mail.

  It was Jeff from ScotNet, a low-level mole.

  The email read: ‘Hows trix? That gizmo you sent ovr ystrdy the custmr is a real screamr. Meet?’

  Time-check. The word ‘screamer’ meant a same-day meeting, 4 p.m. at the usual place. It also meant something big. He had two hours before he saw Jeff – the stupid prick. ‘That gizmo you sent over yesterday.’ Carl shook his head. Why even write that? Why give Sentinel anything to work with? Keep the exchange to a minimum, the bare bones, and don’t use any key words or phrases that might alert the system.

  Gizmo. For fuck’s sake. It was time to tell Eric.

  Carl opened a drawer and took out a postcard of a smiling cartoon Loch Ness Monster wearing a tartan hat. He rapped on Eric’s door and went in.

  ‘I got this,’ Carl said, and handed the postcard to Eric.

  SCOPE

  Inverlair Hotel

  IV54

  Thursday

  There was no name or address.

  Eric handed back the postcard. ‘This a joke?’

  Carl shook his head. ‘The card came in an envelope with some kind of chipset. I’m meeting someone from ScotNet at four – an IT guy. He’s gonna give me the lowdown on it, thinks it’s something big, something that might be part of an upgraded version of SCOPE. He couldn’t tell me much more on the phone, but we have this code word. Anyway, there’s a new hydroelectricity scheme being opened in the area – it’s in the Highlands – so I could kill two birds – an on-the-spot colour piece, lots of crunchy figures and a good news story for the Emergency Authority.’ Carl smiled. ‘They’ll like that. Then I’ll swing by Inverlair Hotel and have a word with Deep Throat, or whoever the contact is. And on the way back down to Glasgow I’ll swing by and have a look at the Ardmonie Yard – KBS are the new tenants there . . .’

  Eric folded his arms and sat back. ‘That’s a lot of swinging by you’ve got planned.’ He pursed his lips. ‘What kind of “big” did this IT guy say the chipset was?’

  Carl shrugged. ‘No idea. He’ll tell me at four.’

  Eric sighed. ‘No story is going to come out of this, got that? You’ll end up under a control order, at this rate. I’m not having another run-in with Nigel, or his prick of a boss, about SCOPE. Not again.’

  Carl nodded. ‘A simple reconnaissance mission.’ He put his hand over his heart. ‘Word of honour.’

  Eric shook his head. ‘Where is IV54? Inverness?’

  ‘Yes,’ lied Carl. ‘Just outside.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Eric frowned. ‘Transit clearance will be difficult.’

  ‘No, it won’t,’ said Carl. ‘The car hasn’t been on the road for six months, and I’m heading north within Area 1 on work-related business, not on a jolly. The nearest white rust infection is in North Yorkshire wheat crops. It ticks all the biosec boxes. If you ask Nigel Fuckface nicely I’m sure he could expedite my transit application, just for the new hydro plant.’

  Eric tried not to laugh. ‘You’ve got it all figured out, eh?’ His face fell and he leant forward. ‘If you cause any trouble at all – if you chase the story – I will let you go, this time. I will. Got that? The board will be delighted if I find some more fat to trim, and you’ll be queuing for polycarb rations at Kelvingrove with the rest of them. Capisce?’

  As one of only three staffers, Carl felt he could push his luck with Eric, not that it had done him much good story-wise, of late. This time, though, he figured the guy was in no mood for further aggravation. The Emergency Authority could intervene at any time and put its own press people in charge. They could turn the paper into a mouthpiece, if it wasn’t that already.

  ‘If this chipset proves to be significant, I’ll meet the contact, see what he or she has to say, then leave and do a nice piece up north,’ said Carl, meaning every word. ‘No more than two nights. Straight up and back.’

  There was no sign on his face that Carl was being disingenuous. With a bit of blagging – once up there – he could make it three or even four nights away.

  Eric nodded. ‘Good,’ he said. Grinning, he added, ‘By the way, our friend Nigel says we can refer to injuries sustained by rioters at Kelvingrove, but we can’t go into any details. The phrase “microwave pain stick” is definitely off-limits. Think you can do something with that?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Carl. ‘I’ll work up some carefully nuanced truth. Between the lines is where the action is.’

  5

  The cellar bar was quiet, lights on low, all comfy booths and jazzfunk fusion. Carl let Jeff buy the drinks. They sat in one of the booths at the back.

  ‘How’s the dynamic world of cochlear implants?’

  Jeff giggled into his half lager and lime. ‘Barely enough. How’s the grubby world of journalism?’

  Carl girned at his orange juice. ‘A lot grubbier than you could possibly imagine, young man.’

  Jeff asked about the new polycarb factory at Hamilton and the latest on the white rust fungus. The guy was looking for fresh insight, for solid news. Instead, scraps of reliable information were sewn together with educated guesswork, and Carl passed it off, adroitly, as incontrovertible truth. Jeff was impressed. The Emergency Authority would tell Carl the real story, and expect it to be published as they had given it, just as soon as they had decided what the real story was to be. One thing he did know about for certain was the arrival of an aerostat that was to hover over the Central Belt, bristling with all sorts of total awareness kit. It would be the seventh such blimp deployed in the UK. Jeff was suitably impressed, but unconcerned.

  Carl sipped his drink and cut to the chase. ‘So what’s the score with the chipset?’

  ‘Well,’ began Jeff, pushing his glasses up his nose. ‘This is a plasmoid board, the smallest I’ve ever seen. Something special all right – a high-temperature superconducting microwave filter. Or at least part of an HTS filter.’ He drooled over the tiny rectangle in his hand. ‘Superb architecture. Doing a bit of reverse engineering, I would say that the whole thing can provide enhanced tunability right into the terahertz wavebands . . .’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Carl, glancing at the few punters sharing the gloomy bar. ‘What does all that mean?’

  ‘Well, HTS filters are used in base stations and repeaters to filter out noise and give high front-end sensitivity . . .’

  Attention wandering, Carl’s eye was caught by the barmaid, in jeans and a cut-off T-shirt, a spiral tattoo around her belly button, a stud in her eyebrow. She was bending over to pick a cloth up off the floor. She moved to another table and wiped down the dark wood surface, her breasts swaying as she cleaned. He turned back to Jeff’s noise.

  ‘. . . the RF channel time delay on this is configured to some extremely low frequencies.’ Jeff nodded, held the thin sheet of plasmoid in his hands, like it was alive. ‘Yeah,’ he murmured, smiling in awe. ‘It’s a beauty.’

  The barmaid moved away.

  ‘So it’s comms?’ said Carl.

  Jeff looked up, open-mouthed. ‘Yeah, a small part of it,
but the HTS filter has an unusual crystalline component that . . .’

  ‘Is it part of something really new and advanced that’s designed to cover a large area, like Wimax?’

  Jeff nodded. ‘Yeah, but . . .’

  Carl held out his hand. ‘Thanks.’

  With obvious reluctance, Jeff handed the chipset back to Carl like a kid being forced to hand over sweets to the teacher.

  ‘Thanks for that, Jeff. Much appreciated.’

  Jeff fiddled with his glass. ‘Am I going to get paid this time?’ He watched Carl sink the last of his orange juice.

  ‘You know, Jeff, that’s what I like about you. You’re very direct. It’s a rare quality these days.’ Carl put the chipset in his inside pocket and stood up.

  ‘Thanks for the drink.’ He tossed two unopened packets of tobacco onto the table, four ounces in total. ‘Don’t say I’m not good to you.’

  Jeff stared at the packets. ‘You’re having a fucking laugh – I don’t even smoke.’

  ‘Then it’s money in the pocket for you,’ said Carl. ‘It’s just a question of finding a buyer.’

  Groaning, Jeff pocketed the tobacco.

  They climbed the narrow staircase back to street level. It was pissing down, but Jeff didn’t seem to mind; he just turned his collar up and strode off through the downpour along Sauchiehall Street, hands jammed in his trouser pockets. Carl wasn’t so sure about getting soaked, so he stood in the doorway, under the tiny awning, looking up at the grey sky. Summer in fucking Glasgow. There were jobs he could have taken, years ago when travel was easy. Jobs in hot places like Cyprus or the Costa Brava; plenty of expats there, enough to warrant a newspaper or two; local drama clubs and breast cancer fundraisers. That would do him now. Away from CivCon and the pissing rain, to settle down near the beach with some hot young Spanish nymph, or Greek, or Navajo, who’d ride him all day and then make him dinner. It really didn’t matter what race she was. The only girl he didn’t really want to do it with was Sarah. Why did they always make things difficult? What do women want? The answer is a million things, every day. And it’s a man’s job to guess the right one at the right time. That’s all any man had to do.