The Shift of Numbers (13 page)

Flipping op
en the plastic cover on the gun
sight
,
he breathed in his quarry, close up for the first time. His heart pumped, hammering adrenaline round his body. It was a scene that he would recall vividly for the rest of his life - with some regret. The farmer and the boy were stood in front o
f the wooden hut next to the dy
ing embers of wha
t looked like a chemical fire, a
n odd glow illuminating the
ir
figures, making them appear to move unevenly in the neon fire of distilled liquid air.

But the moment has come
, he thought,
and into that mom
ent my brother will walk, past
those monstrous trees and the unnatural glow of scorched earth to touch each of them. Why should they go free,
he mused? T
he killers had no m
ercy and why should I?

Fingers clawed at the trigger, the conscious upper body trying to keep the silenced rifle as still as possible, the dry cold eyes fighting against conscious thoughts of blinking.

Then it went click…

Travelling silently out of the barrel, muffled by the silencer
,
the chunk of metal began to spin rapidly. Born into a world of loathing
,
and dripping with malice
,
it didn’t stand much of chance. It
tore through sound and before he
could blink moved 83 metres into a tree, up and some way
to the left of Bill’s head, i
ts short life ended, ruined beyond identification. Its effects
,
however
,
lived on.

Bill and Gordon turned quickly as the tree creaked and moaned its dying breath and attempted to lie down in their direction.

*

“
T
he reason I am down here is I need your help
,
Director. You see, even though we have all this useful technology, we
’re not allowed
to use it. Our leader doesn’t want to alarm the general populace and there are still a few archaic liberal laws floating around
. My department was started up 14
years ago with a directive to utilise this techn
ology to eradicate crime. At it
s conception I had over 250 people working for me, each only aware of a tiny piece of the puzzle. I
t
would have been a sp
ectacular success.” His voice wa
ndered off a little bit, losing some of its
verve. “But it was not to be. M
y department is now me and
Carl,
small and
totally
ineffective. Why do you think I keep sending hi
m down here? Put simply, we had
nothing to do - until today.”

“You all know about the numbers contained on the computer in the basement, the amount of currency in circulation, both digital and real?”
the lecturer continued.

They all nodded
,
feeling a bit swept away by the recent set of revelations.

“Well
, to put it bluntly, the computer is
broke
n. As of 8.
13 this morning
,
a
ll it
says is ‘error’. Our leader is quite literally pulling his hair out. We have
7
days to get it back to no
rmal before he goes before the Sub-C
ommanders asking for increased powers. Those powers will include
unleashing
this technology on an unprepared public. This
will
happen if we don’t act and act f
ast. I am convinced that if it
happens
, the populace
will revolt. Now
,
if you would be so kind as to follow me
,
we can start our investigation.”

They all got up and followed the man out of the office and into the nearest lift.

Tim’s mind was spinning, trying desperately to assimilate all the information that had been injected into it in the last hour. He still didn’t know 1 detail.

“What is your name? I don’t think you said.”

“Oh that,” he replied.
“You can call me
‘
sir
’
if you wish.”

They c
ontinued down in the lift past
the swimming pool and the vast records store until they reached the 1
st
level basement. Putt
ing a key he produced from his pocket in
to
the lift door
,
the man let them through into a long corridor. They walked slowly
,
allowing Carl to keep up. Minutes later they were in a smallish office with no windows and a computer monitor attached to the far wall. 2 men in lab coats were leaning against another door on the near side.
Flashing frantically on the screen was the word – ERROR.

“Good morning gentlemen,” t
he man said
,
politely.

“Good morning
, sir,” they both replied in unison.

Tim noticed
that
they were twins.
“I would like one of you to tell me all you can about this error message
,
please.”

“Yes
,
sir
,
”
t
he nearest one replied.

“It’s never happened before,” said the other.

“1 at a time please
,” the man
added.

“This com
puter is designed for 1 purpose:
to count. It adds the money that is made by the printer and subtracts the money that’s destroyed or broken.”

“Broken?”

“Yes
, sir. W
hen the notes get too dirty they get destroyed by us and
,
when they get torn, a member of the public has broken them.”

“How on earth would you know that?”

“Can I say in front of
them
,
sir?”

“Yes
.
”

“The GPS device uses the metallic strip to boost its signal. When it is separated we lose it on the map and it becomes worthless.”

“Ah…I see. I wondered why he
added that little caveat.” He chuckled.

“Sir, I’m getting a little lost,” p
iped up the Dir
ector, mirroring Tim’s feelings exactly
.

“You know that money
,
when torn
,
is worthless? And
shopkeepers won’t accept it?” h
e replied
,
patiently.

“Yes
.
”

“Now you know why.” He turned back to the twins. “Continue telling me about the number
,
please.”

“Yes
,
sir. The number on the screen is derived from data collected via 100s of different inputs - including the GPS locators. There is a negative feedback loop program that calculates losses from broken and destroyed money and calculates the correct amount to produce at the printers. Its fully automated as it is too complicated for humans to calculate.”

“Then why the error message?”

“The message is released if the circumstances of the loop are not met within a given margin of error. That is why it says error.” He said the last part as if explaining a concept to a child.

“What is the margin?”

“That percentage is a meaningless figure to you
,
sir, but it is very low.”

“How can we fix it?”

“Find out where the addition or deficit is coming from and correct it. This will bring the actual amount to within the agreed margin of error and the feedback loop will begin again.”

“How can we possibly find out where it has gone to?”

“I suggest you start at the edges. Look at the printe
r and the factory that destroys.
If you have no success
,
move to the middle and examine the GPS data.”

“Does anyone else have any q
uestions for these gentlemen?” t
he man said after a long pause.

Tim
thought carefully before asking,
“Can
not someone just taking
some mo
ney out of the country
screw up the system?”

“No. T
here are 32 satellites in geo-synchronous orbit around the world tracking the GPS signals.”

“How about if the mo
ney was buried? Would it not lo
se
its
signal?”

“The satellites cannot track anything buried over 9ft deep but the computer compensates. Any monies buried or taken into areas of no signal are logged.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“If you bury £100 10ft deep in your garden the computer will make a log of its last location and the fact
that
it was probably buried. When you retrieve the money
,
the computer knows where it
came from,” c
ame the tired mechanical response.

“How does it make the distinction between buried and broken?” asked the man.

“Broken money gives off what we call a ‘last yawn’, a gentle de
ath of signal that tapers off. This is d
ifferent to the lack of signal associated with burying in soils or water.” Both of the twins walked to the far door. “Sir
,
we have to go back to the computer and examine the GPS data. If you have any
more questions
,
we can be reached at our extension number. Before we go
,
though, you
must
understand that the error
is
human and not with the machine.” They shuffled through the door not looking back.

“What do we do?” asked Tim puzzled.

“We do what they say. The Director and Carl will brin
g in the printer. Tim and I
will take a visit to the factory.”

*

“Who are you?”

“The porter.”

“You taking him down to radiology?”

“Er…yeah, radiology.”

“Make sure
they do an MRI of his feet. T
hat man
’
s going to get me published…oh
,
and when you
’
r
e
done
,
take the other one downstairs.”

“Will do.”

“And get a move on.”

“Come on
, Richard. L
et’s go.”

*

“Who are you?”

“The porter.”

“You guys working in pairs now?”

“What?”

“The other porter’s already been up.”

“There’s only me…there are no other porters.”

*

“Richard, I know you can hear me. I’m going to tell you who did this to us…you and my brother.”

"What is food to one, is to others bitter poison.
”

Lucretius

Tim and ‘Sir’ sat in the Director
’
s office, both lost in thought. Minutes earlier
,
Carl and the Director had left on the
ir
own investigation into the printer.

“Any thoug
hts on how we should proceed?” a
sked the man with the cartoon cats on his tie. Tim thought for a moment.

“Let
’
s go through it first… If the error is coming from the factory
, then it seems most likely that
someone has stolen some money, yes?”

“I concur.”

“Do you know anything about the
i
r security?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“We can find that out later, but I’m convinced it’s got to be pretty good. In that case it means that our thief is very clever or it was an opportunistic crime.” Tim paused for a moment his brow furrowed in thought. “The theft would most likely have occurred
about the time of the black-out.
G
ives opportunity…”
Tim shrugged.

“It c
ould also point to some sort of error in 1 of the machines.”

“We can rule it out.
I have an idea.” Tim turned to the monitor, still showing the drug baron
’
s smiling face. “Can you bring up some information?”

“What do you want to know?”

“How much money came out of the factory between th
e time of the power cut and now?
” He typed on the keyboard for a few moments. The map zoomed in on a buildin
g Tim presumed was the factory and this was
confirmed as the building
’s
detail
s were displayed.

“We can’t see inside as the roof seems to be made from reinforced concrete.” He drew a red square round the building and pressed a
few more buttons. “I’m instruct
ing the computer to tell us how much money goes in and out of this box over the time frame you gave me.” 2 columns appeared on the right hand side of the screen, titled ‘Incoming’ and ‘Outgoing’. Black dots flitted around the screen indicating that time was moving swiftly forwards.

“It sh
ould only take a few moments.” A
nd it did.
“Over 300 thousand coming in, obviously the delivery money, but only 87 pound coming out.”

“The money in the workers
’
pockets…” Tim said dismally.

“Good thinking
,
though.”

“I suppose the missing money could still be on the premises?”

“I
t
could… I’ll send a search
team
down there.”

*

Gordon was beginning to enjoy himself. For the first time in his life he had a skill that was in demand. Granted, he was the agricultural equivalent of a drug dealer but he still felt needed, part of something larger than himself. This contented sense of belonging was being hampered by the fact
that
his body didn’t seem to want to behave itself. His list of symptoms seemed to grow each day. At first it was a slight cough, which grew steadily worse, then came the headaches, neck
pain, joint pain, muscle spasms and
cloudy vision. His anxiety reached fever pitch when he stubbed his toe and the nail fell off. In a kind of panicky daze he tested its neighbour, gently tugging at it, until it was painlessly removed from his foot. His new morning ritual, after a hot shower, was to poke and prod various parts of his body to check for lumps, bumps, and discolouration, or just to see if they came off in his hand.

Emerging from the hut and followed by pungent smoke, Gordon began to guess at the root cause of all his medical conditions. He vowed to himself that later that day he would talk to Bill about getting some safety equipment, goggles and such
-
like. He blinked, coughed loudly, and turned to go back inside the small hut. To steady himself, his ha
nd reached out to the
partially-
rotten
doorframe. His vision began to tunnel, compressing the periphery of sight into a small central circle. Unsteady on his feet, he turned
,
pressing his back into the outside wall of the hut. A tree filled his vision, like looking through invisible binoculars. Slowly, his focus was drawn to
the shadows cast in and among
the rough bark and under
the branches, e
ach 1 taking on a different
,
unnatural shade of colour and then returning back to black. The circle expanded in his eyes until the surroundings melted back into the centre. Blinking rapidly, all appeared normal, until he focused back on the tree. The shadows were filled with symbols, unclear and unfocused at first, then after a few blinks, unmistak
e
able, row upon row of numbers, stacked chaotically on top of each other.

As he opened his eyes, Gordon tried to figure out how long they had been closed. He was still standing up, so not long, he thought. Then he saw a figure, coming down the hill in the direction of the hut, so far away he could fit it in-between an outstretched thumb and forefinger. Blinking away the foggy feeling behind his eyes, he waited patiently for the figure to descend. If he were to make an assessment of the sight before him, Gordon would have noted the man’s resemblance to Father Christmas.
The bushy white beard and hair was
seemingly fighting for the sparse l
and on either end of his face, l
ittle white troops, marching slowly towards the goal of conquering the ultimate prize – a very red nose. His portly frame was encased in what appeared to be a jumper, the picture or pattern knitted into the front so faded that it was possible to stare at it for a lifetime and not decipher i
t
s origins. Defying all current and possible future trends he had tucked his jumper into his trousers and had secured the entire affair with a sturdy leather belt. It stru
ck Gordon that should this antique
fastener break
,
or ‘fail’
,
as he thought more appropriate, then all manner of inappropriate things might happen. His final though
t,
as the aged man addressed him
,
was that if he still knew him around Christmas time he would get him some braces as a gift.

“Hello the
r
e,
young sir,” came a thickly rugged, jovial country accent. “Bet you
’
r
e
wondering what I’m doing down ‘ere?” Gordon just shrugged, unable to think of a reply.
“Well, I hav’s a job for you, don’t I?” h
e added loudly.

“Who are you?” Gordon aske
d.

“
That
, young sir, don’t really ma
tter a good old-fashioned country mile, doe
s it
,
now?” The man’s accent had begun to change, becoming less jovial and more unpleasant, bordering on metallic. Without warning, he grabbed Gordon’s shoulder with a stro
ng hand and pulled him close. Gordon
could feel the warmth of ‘Santa’s’ belly on his lower chest as th
ick arms wrapped around him. Gordon’s eye
s
were
now only inches from the pockmarked
, ruby nose. The white beard reeked
of oily fi
sh. Gordon squirmed in the vice-
like grip, his head pulling away and to the side, neck straining.

“YOU
,
BOY, will go and dig up some money for us. You know where…” The voice sounded hollow and booming. Specks of warm fishy spit covered Gordon’s face. Then he fainted.

“Gordon, GORDON.”

Opening his eyes
,
he could just make out the
outline of Bill’s very friendly-
looking face. He sighed with relief.

“What’s going on?” Bill asked with concern. “I was walking down the hill and you were just standing there, in some kind of trance. Then you went and fainted.”

“We need to
talk
…”
s
aid Gordon, feeling drained.

“Come up to the house, I’ll fix you a steak. That’ll sort you out, and it’s
a
bout time for lunch.”

They walked slowly up to the house, Bill allowing Gordon time to stop every so often to cough loudly. Once inside the sparse kitchen, Bill silently set to work on preparing lunch. Gordon stood, trying his hardest to look useful.

“Grab that fat basher. It’s on the side over there.” Bill pointed vaguely to a heavy-
looking implement on the kitchen sideboard
.

“A fat basher?” Gordon replied
,
quizzically.

“Yea
h
, you know, a fat basher…for the meat.”

“Sounds more like a
crime than a cooking utensil.”

“What? Just pass it here
,
will you.”

After the food was prepared
,
they sat down to the
table to eat. Tucking into his giant slab
of beef, Bill finally asked, “So what did you want to talk about?”

“It’s the c
hemicals,” Gordon said, chewing.
“The
y’
re doing things to me.”

“What
’cha mean
,
lad?”

“I can’t stop coughing for a start. I think the
y’re dangerous. They
might be what killed the
Scientist
.”

“
Really?
” Bill thought for a few moments. “Do you think we should stop using them?” His tone of voice suggested that this might not be an option.

“Nah… I think we just need to buy some protective equipment.”

“Not a problem. W
e’ll go this aft’noon. Can’t have my best worker catching the plague now, can I?” Bill added amiably, removing a piece of gristle from his mouth. “Besides… I
’ve almost died twice this week
. Best not to tempt fate…”

*

The room was dark with bare concrete walls; the only light came from a single bulb swinging from the low ceiling. The far wall was dominated by the r
eflective mirrored surface of 1-way glass. T
o the right,
there was
a s
mall grey door and a tap. At it
s centre stood a flimsy metal table and 3 chairs. The chair facing the glass
had arm and leg restraints
and sat on top of a rusty grill. Carl and the
Director
walked into the room carrying a suitcase, a tea towel and a length of hosepipe
. They sat down. T
he
Director
thumbed a number on her phone.

“Is he here yet?” a
sked her shrill voice. “Well, show him up then…What
?...He
has bodyguards…Well remind them who we are working for…Yes
him
…They will understand…Yes…He authori
s
ed it himself…
Okay
, bring him up.”

Carl let out a high-pitched snigger and placed the suitcase on the table. He opened it and removed a full syringe. A few minutes later the door opened and Michael was
pushed unceremoniously inside, t
he door slamming shut behind him.

“What the hell
’
s goin
g on?” Michael exclaimed loudly.
“Is this some kind of joke?”

“No joke. Sit down over there,” t
he Director said as calmly as her high-pitched voice allowed.

“I bloody well will not. Not till you tell me what you want.”

“Carl,” t
he Director said impatiently. Carl took out a baton from his belt and limped slowly towards Michael.

“What are you doing?
Okay,
I’ll sit.” His voice wavered, thickening with fear.

“Bind his arms.”

“Shall I stick him with the needle?”

“Yes, it will save time.”

The colour drained from Michael’s face as he surrendered control of the situation and became partially aware of what was going to happen to him. Days, months and years later, all he could recall was screaming a
nd pleading with them to stop, f
ollowed by a sort of eerie calm, a separation from the inside of his mind, floating without a care or worry. Then pain again, suffocation, drowning - over and over again. He could never remember what he said to them.