Atomic Swarm Read online

  Jackson allowed his brain to juggle all the variables involved with the reactor attack – the fact that no one saw anything, the lack of any evidence on the CCTV, the size of the holes. Whatever he read about the attack, the swarm robot theory he’d mentioned to Brooke in the diner seemed to fit. And whatever newspaper images and TV news footage he saw of the holes in the door and reactor, the cartoon-like pictures from Singer’s lecture came back to him.

  It was regrettable for J.P., Jackson decided, that his fortunes had been made in the oil industry. His revolutionary ideas for automated drill-bots that could seek out pockets of valuable black gold were the main reason his lawyer had, as yet, failed to quash the preposterous allegations against him. The fact he had no oil-drilling robotics in his laboratory when the FBI searched it was considered evidence that the machines used on the reactor had been hidden. And his alibi, namely that he was out on the boat during the attack, with no less than four witnesses, including Jackson, was countered by the Feds’ assertion that he didn’t need to be at the scene of the attack because his drilling robots could have been autonomous.

  The good news was that he hadn’t been charged yet and was only helping police with their enquiries. According to the English family lawyer, it was likely that J.P. would be released any day soon.

  That just left the question of who actually had carried out the attack. The FBI had made up their mind, but Jackson was determined to prove them wrong. He focused, as he had so many times, on the shape of the hole. He had several images of it that he’d kept from the newspapers, the more detailed of which showed that the edge of the hole undulated with curved teeth all around. Jackson visualized the collection of tiny robots that Singer spoke about, joined together to form different shapes. What if Singer’s swarm bots weren’t small cubes as his artist’s impression had shown – what if they were spherical instead? A ring of spherical robots would fit the shape of the reactor hole perfectly.

  Was that what had attacked the reactor? he thought. A ring of drill-bots each sharing the task of chewing their way through the one-metre-thick reactor wall?

  And what about the question of who was behind them? Terrorists? A master criminal? Someone who’d known Lear? Since Singer had mentioned him in the context of swarm robotics, Jackson couldn’t help feeling that the dead man’s presence kept cropping up.

  Jackson salvaged the screwed-up piece of newspaper given to him by Goulman and re-read the diamond robbery article.

  He had stared at the photograph of the diamond mine guards holding their stomachs and checked it against the horrible images he carried in his head of men squirming with the effects of Bass Bombs he himself had detonated while flying MeX machines for Lear. Had someone taken up Lear’s reins at MeX?

  But if this diamond heist was their work, then how did it relate to an attack on a reactor, just a few hundred metres from where he was sitting?

  Jackson pulled up every article he could find on the Internet relating to the events surrounding Lear’s disappearance. Most intriguing were the blogs and forums that featured supposed sightings of Lear himself, his boats and, most ridiculously, a luxury motorhome – in Paraguay, Argentina and Brazil.

  Jackson felt sick as he let surface the one thought he’d been trying to squash: What if it was Lear himself? Ignoring every sensible bone in his body that was telling him this was just the old paranoia, Jackson sketched out a scenario in his head. Suppose Lear had staged his own death, he thought. Most official reports seemed to agree that his yacht had vanished off the coast of Spain, but the majority of unofficial sightings after that, the ones Jackson had found on the Internet, suggested the possibility that Lear had surfaced again in South America. Was it so preposterous that Lear’s death was a fake and that he’d been living ever since in South America? A rich, dead man with a talent for designing robots had all the time and resources required to finish development of a miniature robotic swarm. And what better way for a criminal to put them to the test than with a daring diamond heist?

  In Jackson’s opinion, it was possible that Lear’s swarm was behind a South American diamond heist and a North American reactor attack. What Jackson couldn’t understand was the connection between the two.

  But he knew someone who might.

  Atticus79 had greeted Jackson’s knock with a beaming smile. Jackson loved that about the skinny geologist at the end of his corridor: he was always so pleased to see him.

  Setting foot inside Atticus79’s dorm room was like venturing into a cave – rocks sparkled from floor to ceiling and the light from his window hit hundreds of crystal formations, some the size of melons, which he used for bookends, doorstops and paperweights, shattering the sunlight into a million colourful shards.

  ‘Please come and sit down,’ said Atticus79, waving Jackson inside. ‘Chess?’

  ‘Sit where?’ said Jackson, unable to see a single place among the shallow wooden boxes of rock samples, maps and books that encrusted the cave floor.

  ‘Excuse the mess,’ Atticus79 said, snapping cases shut and shifting piles of books to reveal a beanbag. ‘I’m using all this madness on campus to get ahead in my studies. What about that? A terrorist attack on our university! I know a few students who thought they deserved an ‘A’, but getting their revenge with a dirty bomb? That’s overkill!’ Atticus79 guffawed until his glasses almost fell off.

  Jackson couldn’t bring himself to even pretend to laugh along with Atticus79; things were still too messed up. Instead he got straight to the point of why he’d come here. ‘Do you know anything about diamonds?’

  If Atticus79 noticed the dramatic change in subject, he didn’t show it. ‘Diamond, from the ancient Greek adámas, meaning “proper” or “unalterable”.’ He pulled down a large heavy book from one of the shelves with the words Manual of Mineralogy stamped in gold on the cover. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Just general stuff,’ said Jackson. He actually had no idea what he was looking for exactly, just a hunch that Atticus79 might be able to give him some clue as to why, if it was Lear, he would be pulling off such an audacious heist and appearing in Jackson’s life again.

  ‘General stuff?’ Atticus79 frowned.

  Jackson thought on his feet; he did not want to rouse his friend’s suspicion. ‘Yeah. Brooke has asked me to research new materials,’ he replied as nonchalantly as he could.

  ‘Well, I know diamonds are used in some semiconductors because they conduct heat extremely well.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. As silicon computer processors are becoming smaller and more powerful, they are becoming hotter. A diamond computer processor, on the other hand, doesn’t get as hot and that makes it more efficient.’

  Atticus79 leafed quickly through a few pages of the book and then gave it to Jackson.

  ‘There. Look!’ he said, stabbing at a page of graphs. ‘Look at those heat coefficient figures for diamonds!’ For once, Jackson wasn’t interested in the maths; he was more interested in a diagram on the facing page of a big fat blue diamond with the words ‘Largest irradiated diamond’ written below it.

  ‘What’s an irradiated diamond?’ asked Jackson.

  ‘Diamond companies have been exposing diamonds to radiation for years to colour plain white diamonds.’

  Plain white diamonds. Jackson remembered the words from the Brazilian newspaper article.

  ‘They put the white diamonds in the reactor,’ Atticus79 continued. ‘And when they come out, they’re a different colour, usually blue, then other colours like yellow or pink can be achieved by continuing the process.’

  ‘Why turn a plain diamond blue?’ Jackson asked.

  Atticus79 laughed. ‘Why do you think? To increase its value, of course!’

  ‘How long does the process take?’ Jackson asked.

  ‘Just a few days,’ replied Atticus79.

  The jigsaw pieces in Jackson’s mind suddenly began to click together. Could Lear have come out of hiding to steal a shipment of white diamonds and t
hen, using swarm technology, break into the nuclear reactor on Jackson’s very doorstep to let the gemstones cook?

  To anyone else that might have sounded like the paranoid worries of an overanxious teenager. But Jackson had dealt with Lear before and he knew he would be capable of something like this.

  If it’s true, and Lear is still alive, Jackson thought, any day now, his swarm will be returning to the reactor to collect the diamonds.

  CHAPTER 17

  Jackson peeled away from the traffic on his Cannondale Bad Boy and took a short cut to the Fire Proof building that would take him around a network of old warehouses. He wanted to get to the laboratory as quickly as possible and tell Brooke what he thought he might have pieced together.

  As he entered the maze of alleyways, he noticed that another cyclist had turned in behind him, the whizz of the other bike’s gears echoing between the walls of the buildings. When Jackson glanced round, he could only just see the shadowy figure of the cyclist as, unlike him, his headlights were not on.

  Several turns later and the old paranoia was back, but, with his new theory about Lear, Jackson wasn’t going to discount anything. There were enough intersecting alleyways in this part of Cambridge to send a cyclist anywhere in the city – so what were the chances that the guy behind was going to the exact same destination as Jackson?

  Jackson decided to put him to the test. He threw a right, shaving the side of a second-hand car dealership, then another right, followed by a third, until he was back to where he’d started. Sure enough, as he headed away from the car lot, the figure of a man on a bike hovered behind him.

  So, he thought, I’m not going mad after all. Someone is following me!

  But who was it? One thing he knew for sure was that he wasn’t going to wait around to find out. Jackson pressed down hard on the pedals and pushed the red button on his handlebars. He could feel the electric hub urging his back wheel forward, as a torrent of electrons gushed from the chemical reaction inside his bike frame. In four seconds he had gone from 30 kilometres an hour to 60. The next turn would bring him on to the main road and then he could really let rip.

  Jackson leaned into the corner, which took him round the edge of a shady office block and… a dead end!

  What had happened to the main road? Somewhere behind, he must have taken a wrong turn.

  Jackson slammed on the bike’s hydraulic brakes and a shuddering shockwave spread throughout the frame as it stopped, millimetres from a brick wall.

  Jackson looked up in horror as his pursuer rounded the corner. Then he let out a huge sigh of relief – it was an MIT bike cop.

  ‘Wow, am I pleased to see you, officer,’ said Jackson, sweat dripping down the side of his face.

  ‘Really?’ said the police officer, raising an eyebrow and pulling a notebook from his breast pocket. ‘Most speeding cyclists have the opposite reaction when they see me.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that, sir.’ Jackson pushed out his words between deep breaths. ‘I thought you were someone else. Someone chasing me.’

  The cop smiled. ‘Lucky for you then, you’re just getting a speeding ticket.’

  Jackson watched the cop as he slowly scrawled notes on his pad. He asked where Jackson had been and where he was going. Jackson mentioned he was going to visit a friend but left it at that. But the police officer continued to ask the same questions, going over Jackson’s plans for the evening, and questioning every detail. It was odd. As the officer continued to scribble, Jackson cast a glance over the man’s bike. Not only did it not have any headlights, it didn’t have the siren and police hazard lights like the other MIT police mountain bikes he’d seen. There was no waterproof battery-pack rack on the back – in fact, there was no rack there at all. And now that Jackson looked more closely, there was a lot about the bike that didn’t seem to add up. Although the colour was right and it said ‘Specialized’ on the side, next to ‘MIT Police’, in Jackson’s bike-geek opinion it wasn’t a Specialized frame – the angle of the top tube was wrong and it was too thin to be aluminium, but was more like steel alloy tubing.

  ‘Nice bike,’ said Jackson.

  ‘Thank you,’ the cop replied, smiling.

  ‘Full aluminium frame?’

  ‘You bet!’ replied the cop.

  He didn’t want to guess at the reason, but Jackson knew the cop was lying. And he also knew he needed to get out of the alleyway – fast.

  Jackson pushed past the policeman, knocking the man’s bike to the ground. He pressed the power button while he was still running and jumped on to his bike’s seat, forcing his legs to power down on to the pedals. Jackson was already passing 30 kilometres an hour when he looked behind and saw the bogus police officer struggling to get moving – there was no way he was going to catch Jackson.

  But focused on losing the fraudulent cop, Jackson failed to turn his eyes back to the road in time to see the black van that had pulled across, blocking his exit.

  The front wheel of Jackson’s bike buckled as it rammed the side of the van. Jackson catapulted over his handle-bars and slammed head first into the sliding door on the side of the vehicle.

  He was unconscious before he hit the road.

  Jackson saw the yellow strip lights first, passing like a night train.

  He could hear the squeak of the tiny wheels under the trolley he believed he was lying on, and felt the cold chrome of its framework under his forearm. The faceless silhouettes of the people pushing him blocked the lights for a moment and then vanished. He heard voices, but they had no meaning and he was too dizzy to concentrate on them.

  Suddenly the lights were much brighter – almost white – illuminating the whole space. Faces, obscured behind masks, peered over him. The prick of a needle caused a searing pain in his forehead, but then he was sure it was followed by someone saying his name. The voice was familiar, but in his hazy stupor Jackson couldn’t make the connection. The face of a surgeon, with a clinical mask on, slowly came into focus.

  ‘You had a nasty cut on your head, Jackson.’

  That’s reassuring, thought Jackson. He knows my name.

  ‘I’m going to stitch it up, best I can,’ the man continued.

  ‘Best I can?’ Jackson contemplated. Less reassuring. And that voice – a memory from the past that, try as he might, Jackson was just too groggy to place.

  The surgeon removed the cotton mask around his mouth and smiled.

  ‘You’ve been asleep for a while – but you need to sleep more. You should start to feel the effects of the anaesthetic I’ve given you kick in.’

  Anaesthetic? Jackson forced his delirious head around the word. Good, at least he wouldn’t have to endure the pain in his forehead for much longer – damn, it hurt.

  It was hard to see the surgeon clearly, the light above him was so bright, but what a face he had. Either the drugs were affecting his eyes, or this was one seriously ugly doctor. The harsh lights cast shadows in the deep furrows of skin on the man’s cheeks and nose. If Jackson had to describe his surgeon’s appearance, he would say that his face looked like it had melted.

  Then the man was gone and Jackson’s eyelids felt too heavy to keep from closing.

  Jackson’s sleep was fitful. Several times he thought he was awake, watching the surgeon attending to his forehead, feeling the sharp pain of a needle, but then the room would merge with memories of people and places until everything blacked out.

  Jackson knew when he was properly awake. The lights weren’t so harsh, he could feel the aches in his body and the way the skin on his forehead tugged and felt tight around what he suspected were stitches.

  ‘You’re awake!’

  The voice of the surgeon was startling. Jackson didn’t even know he was sitting next to his bed.

  Jackson turned to see him, but nothing could have prepared him for what he saw.

  Rising from the chair with a smile was the man who had tended to Jackson for however long he’d been in this place. But this man was no surgeon. Now that
Jackson was completely clearheaded, even the melted skin on the face of the man couldn’t distract him from his conclusion. That voice. Those eyes. It was Devlin Lear!

  Jackson instinctively tried to get up. But a strap across his stomach kept him secured to the bed, and both his arms were also tied down with rope.

  ‘I apologize for the need to strap you down, Jackson,’ Lear said. ‘I figured you might find my presence a little… alarming.’

  Even though Jackson himself had concluded that Lear was still alive, he was astonished to be looking at him. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ he said, pain pulsing from the wound on his forehead.

  ‘I could ask you the same question,’ Lear replied. ‘Or, rather, what were you about to do? Do you think I could have let you pass on what you know?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Please, let’s not play games,’ Lear continued. ‘I’ve been watching you, Jackson. Manual of Mineralogy? I thought Miss English was the only one who was into rock! And I’ve been looking over your shoulder while you surfed all those pathetic sightings of me.’

  Jackson shivered. How could he know? Brooke had designed her handsets with high-level encryption. There was virtually no way anyone could be sniffing the data on them. Jackson’s heart sank as he realized – anyone but Lear.

  ‘You’ve been focusing on my swarm!’ said Lear, in that uncanny way Jackson remembered he had of almost mind reading. ‘But a single small silent robot can be extremely useful when snooping.’ Lear mouthed each word slowly in a sibilant whisper – Jackson also remembered his liking for theatrics and the sound of his own voice. Jackson was too amazed to say anything.

  ‘In your dorm building, in the Englishs’ laboratory – just one of my machines enables me to see what you’re seeing on those clever phones of yours and listen to your conversations.’