Inkers (6 page)

“Let go,” said Emily, and Amber garbled “fuck you,” as she let go and he dragged her out of the car. She hit the ground hard in a cloud of dust but he had released her and then she was on her feet so fast she hardly knew what had happened. He snarled and stabbed viciously towards her with the long knife. She dodged to the side, avoiding the blade by inches, took his wrist, pulled him hard to break his balance and turned the knife up towards him as he fell. It was so sharp it went through his chestplate without resistance. He dropped with a gasp and she danced back, reaching for her gun, registering the six others closing in. Six?

Emily said
brace
so quickly that it felt like one of her own thoughts. Amber had time to be aware that it meant something bad, which was no help at all, and then without knowing how she had got there she was on one knee, blood pouring down her face, Emily screaming
get up, get up
.

She looked up and became aware that she could no longer feel the right side of her head. She could see some of her blood and hair on the iron bar. The man wielding it looked shocked that she was still conscious. Reinforced brain, friend, she thought abstractedly. He was raising the bar again so she stood up and drew her gun and shot him through the throat. He stumbled back and dropped the bar and she went down to her knees involuntarily, and then there was a great wind and a deafening roar and heat everywhere and loud booming voices echoing from the walls. She fell onto her face as something big and dark descended on the courtyard.

“Shit,” she mumbled into the dirt and blood.

The concrete architecture of Walter Sisulu University
loomed in the darkness. There were a few electrics and one ancient petrol but otherwise the gravel car park was empty. Hardwick sat in his suit in the sleek opulence of his car, looking out into the night, rubbing occasionally at his lined face with both hands.

The note said six o'clock; his watch read 17:49.

Hardwick could see nobody in the area of the car park. There were several sections of concrete piping big enough to stand up in. There was a heap of rubble. He thought he saw a little movement over by one of the university buildings, but it was too dark to be sure, and he had no eye implants to look closer. He checked his watch once more for the route to the library, then rolled his sleeve down so it was completely hidden. The suit, which he had worn to impress the student, now felt like a ridiculous, dangerous choice. Still more dangerous was the vial of ink in the left pocket of his trousers. But it was too late now, unless he backed out; and backing out would mean giving up on the possibility of an incredibly lucrative deal. And he needed the ink in his pocket to test them. There was no other way to be sure.

If it worked, he wanted it, because it would make him much richer, and because the technology the email and the note had hinted at, if it existed at all, would be important enough to make his name. To grant him a kind of immortality, even. And because he had read too many stories of investors turning down opportunities at an early stage and missing out on billions.

Hardwick had not gone to university, not even a poor one like this. It had seemed like a waste of time for him; he was not good enough at maths or science to do something technical, and he didn’t believe that a degree in business would help him. Experience had proved him right. Still, he didn’t mind working with the educated. They invented valuable things, and tended to be naïve and flexible at the negotiating table.

They had contacted him. The email said the inventor, Lwazi, was a student, and he had developed a process and a prototype for detecting certain chemicals at distance. This in itself was not particularly interesting, but what had piqued Hardwick’s interest enough to make him take the meeting was the handwritten note that followed it. It had been delivered to Hardwick’s secretary first thing that morning by a fresh–faced young black man who was, probably, the inventor himself. The note had been written in handwriting so messy as to possibly have been deliberately messy; it said the inventor had developed a method for detecting chemicals with a nanotechnological component at a distance. Post–GSE, the word nanotechnological could mean just one thing: ink.

Hardwick had checked with his most trusted lawyer in the vaguest possible terms. The lawyer had confirmed, in the vaguest possible terms, that there was nothing illegal or unethical about meeting with the boy on an informal basis, just as the note had suggested. The note had said the library at Walter Sisulu University. It had said six o'clock that evening. It had said to come alone. Hardwick was, as a rule, not used to going out of his office to meet investment opportunities, especially not students, particularly not outside working hours. Over a career of fifty years Hardwick had developed a profile as a savvy technology investor, willing to take on big risks and difficult, expensive projects. As a result, those looking for investment or expertise came to him, at his offices, during normal working hours, after successfully arranging an appointment. But Hardwick was interested and he knew his experience and skill should give him a major advantage in any negotiations. That was if he didn’t get jumped trying to get to the library.

“Open up,” he said, and without sound the door slid up to let him out. He stepped out, said, ‘drive away if someone other than me comes near, but don’t go more than half a mile, and be ready to come back and get me as fast as possible if I call.”

The big black car’s door slid shut without response.

Hardwick crossed the car–park, umbrella in hand in case the rain started again. There was an expanse of grass ahead of him – he couldn’t see a path to the buildings, so he set off across the grass with a sigh. After a few steps he felt dampness start to set in around his ankles. A few steps later he half–fell into a dip, going down on one knee and a hand, pain shooting through his joints. He managed to stand again, swearing, sweating, breathing hard, and limped more carefully across the rest of the grass until he reached tarmac. There was a gap like a canyon between two of the high buildings, with a single streetlight picking out a vending machine, a closed door, a disabled access ramp. Out of the darkness a pair of female students trotted past, wearing hooded jackets and carrying backpacks, staring at him. Another tall, thin young man followed, walking slowly towards him, carrying a huge suitcase in one hand. He passed, watching Hardwick out of the side of his eyes.

Once he was gone, Hardwick checked his watch —a green arrow pointed left up a ramp and into a large glass doorway, lit from the inside.

“Hey, rich man. You lost?” The high–pitched voice came from close behind, and Hardwick turned to look. The thin man was standing quite close to him, carefully putting his suitcase down on the floor. The man took a step towards Hardwick. He was wearing a thick leather jacket. He had long fingers.

“You lost?” he repeated. “You got implants, rich man?” He came closer, faster than Hardwick’s slow steps away, looking into Hardwick’s eyes for the glint of implant tech. He had black marks all over his face. “Got some implants in here?” The boy raised a finger and tapped his head.

Hardwick tried not to flinch, shook his head. “No, no implants,” Hardwick said.

This wasn’t true, but the emergency GPS and injury–survival implants were, the surgeons had assured him, completely undetectable until activated. This had the advantage that it did not appear to be profitable to street thugs to remove your eyeballs and brain. The man smiled widely but did not move away.

“I just use a watch. Like yours,” Hardwick said, pointing at the man’s cheap watch. “I’m going to go in, now,” he said, backing towards the library. “I’m meeting some friends.” The man watched him go.

Hardwick turned and climbed the ramp and pushed through the heavy glass doors, resisting the urge to look back over his shoulder. The air was warmer inside and smelled of cleaning chemicals. He was in an atrium decorated with posters of happy students, a few shelves for returned books, and a ten–foot high painting of Walter Sisulu. The floor was slick and polished. There was an empty desk with a sign above marked
Reception
in English and Afrikaans. Hardwick checked his watch again —the arrow pointed left at a small doorway; as he got close he could read the small bronze plaque next to the door,
Stairs To Levels 1–4
. Hardwick ascended the dark concrete stairwell, limping a little from the fall in the grass, still breathing quickly.

He exited onto Level 1, hoping he wouldn’t have to search through all four levels, hoping Lwazi was there, hoping he wasn’t about to get attacked. The library was wide and dark, with shelving stretching everywhere stuffed with hardbacks bound in dull colours. In the centre of the shelves was an area filled with tables, and around several of the central tables was a small group of seven or eight black students, the only people in the library, talking softly. Several of them turned to look at him, and then they all did and their conversation stopped. Hardwick swallowed and crossed the floor towards them, weaving awkwardly between the tables, resisting the urge to straighten his tie.

“Hi there,” he said, feeling incredibly old. “I’m looking for Lwazi.”

One of the students stood up. He was quite short and muscular, wearing a t–shirt and jeans and thick–rimmed black glasses, the latter indicating either fashionable affectation or extreme poverty.

“So, you’ve come,” the man said, his voice deeper than Hardwick had expected.

“Lwazi?” Hardwick said. There was too much table and too many students to reach across to shake his hand. The man didn’t indicate agreement, but smiled at him a little, and nodded at a chair that one of the other students pushed out opposite him. Hardwick sat down carefully, setting his umbrella on the table like a gun.

“Is it raining?” the man said, laughing suddenly, not sitting down yet. His friends laughed too.

“No,” Hardwick said, forcing a laugh. “Just in case,” he said, lifting the umbrella up and putting it down again.

Lwazi laughed again. Hardwick felt tense in his chest and legs. Lwazi sat down slowly.

Hardwick realised these were perhaps the most challenging circumstances in which he had ever entered negotiations. He was alone, improperly dressed, slightly scared for his physical well–being, against a large group of friends with presumably similar aims, on their terms, on their territory.

He cleared his throat. “My name is Mike Hardwick,” he said. “You sent me a message, I’ve come, I want to hear what you’ve got.” He cleared his throat again.

“Ah,” Lwazi said. “But I don’t want to sell.” All his friends laughed. “I am afraid your journey was wasted. I have changed my mind.” His friends chuckled again.

Hardwick frowned.

“It was you who sent me the messages, yes? An email and then the hand–written note this morning?”

Lwazi nodded, smiling.

“That was a good way of getting my attention. Good marketing sense. Now listen,” Hardwick said, “I think you do want to sell. Can I talk openly?” Hardwick indicated the students sat around the table. Several of them were chewing gum.

Lwazi nodded. “They are my friends,” he said.

His friends stared at Hardwick.

“OK. Good. OK. Let’s just assume you have actually built something. Now that’s very good, a very good achievement. But you should know —just because you’ve invented something, well maybe you know this already, but inventing something, it’s just, it’s not even half the battle.”

Lwazi tilted his head to one side.

“I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I would honestly say, and I think most successful people would agree, that the invention is five percent of success. Just five percent. Maybe even less. Look at
Coca–Cola
. Their product is basically worthless in itself. At least now it doesn’t have actual cocaine in it. Their product isn’t what makes them rich – what makes them rich, the ninety–five percent, is the hard work of marketing and selling it. That’s the expensive part, that’s the part that needs hundreds or thousands of people working full–time for years and years, that’s the part that actually brings in the money which validates the whole enterprise.”

Lwazi’s smile was gone. He appeared to be staring at a point on the table. The table was covered in tiny ball–point writing and drawings. Hardwick tried to remember where he was going with this.

“That’s where I can help you. That is what I do, what I’ve done my whole career. I invest in new technology, yes, I provide or find funding for it. But I also help to manage the businesses I invest in, help them succeed. And I’m very good at it. My results prove that. Most of my projects do succeed, make money for everyone. I think you know that, that’s why you invited me here. So if it does work, that’s what I can do, I can help you actually make some money from it. So I’m here. So I want to hear what you have got to say.”

There was an extended pause. One of Lwazi’s friends coughed into his hand, away from the group, a hacking cough.

“I do not want to work with you,” Lwazi said. “We have been reading about some of the things you have done in your career. The net you have paid to be cleaned up, but you cannot do that on the darknet.”

“What you’ve read on the
darknet
?” Hardwick said. “What have you read?”

“Yes. You buy people’s work for very cheap and sell it very high. You leave people out in the dirt. You would do that to us. So I will not work with you.”

“That,” Hardwick said, “Is wrong. I am always honest and fair with people. Always, I have been my whole career, for fifty years, before you were born I was working, maybe when your parents were young or not even born I started working. I always tell people exactly what they’re getting into and what they’ll get out of it. Now listen, I couldn’t have been as successful as I have been if I wasn’t fair and honest. It just wouldn’t have worked. When people have lost out it’s because of their own dishonesty, sometimes people have tried to take without working, without contributing, or tried to go to my competitors and get more money – and that’s fine, that’s business. But if they try to do that I won’t help them any more. I’ll use what power I have to get rid of them. That’s business too. Those are the people who write the bad reviews. But I have made a lot of people very rich. You should know that too.”