One of the weapons Her Majesty’s Government is developing to deal with the threat is the SCORPION STARE network. Two or more observing viewpoints—cameras—feeding the right kind of hardware/software network can, shall we say, impose their own viewpoint on whatever they’re looking at. In the case of SCORPION STARE, about ten percent of the carbon nuclei in the target are randomly transformed into silicon nuclei as if by magic. Messy pyrotechnics ensue: gamma radiation, short-lived muons, some really pretty high-energy chemistry, and
“What are its capabilities?” I ask Pinky, holding up the camera.
“Right now, it’s running the camera firmware,” he says. “Slide the lens cover down to switch it on. Point, shoot, it’s a camera.” I slide the lens cover down. As expected, the display back lights up. There’s a honking great gunsight frame superimposed over it. I turn it off hastily. “Load the basilisk firmware and you’ll see a gunsight. Point and shoot and instead of taking a snap, it sends a bang.”
“You’ve been practicing on the seagulls,” I accuse. “In Milton Keynes.”
“They’re vermin, Bob. They’ve been driven inland by over-fishing and now they’re spreading disease, attacking waste collections, keeping people awake in the small hours, and carrying away stray cats and small dogs. Next thing you know they’ll be cloning credit cards and planning bank robberies.”
“Yes, but…” I see no point in arguing; it’s not as if I
“It’s got an effective range of about a hundred meters, and enough juice to fire eighty times on a single battery charge,” Pinky adds. “It looks innocuous, which is more than you can say for a Glock; you can carry it on an airliner or through a security checkpoint, right?”
I sigh. “I
“So use it wisely!” Pinky beams brightly. “Mo said you’d be calling, so I took the precaution of booking it out to you as a beta tester. Sign here…”
He’s learned from Brains’s mistake last year: he’s got the correct release forms in triplicate,
“Okay.” I read the small print carefully and sign, repeatedly, in blood before he hands me the rest of the kit —charger, sync cables, spare SD card full of dodgy firmware, and a neck strap. By the time I leave his office, my suit pockets are bulging. But at least if any bad guys try to shoot me I can snap right back.
Interlude
ABSOLUTION
BREAKFAST AT NUMBER TEN.
Normally the Prime Minister and his family dine in the apartment upstairs, in the relative privacy of their home rather than the imposing wood-paneled rooms of state below. But today is different. The PM has invited four of his senior ministers, a handful of senior advisors, and a party of industry leaders to a breakfast meeting in the State Dining Room at 10 Downing Street, his official residence. It’s not a press-the-flesh session—all the invitees have met the PM before—so much as it is a promotional session for one of the PM’s pet hobby horses, the Caring Society initiative.
The Prime Minister is young, pinkly scrubbed and shaved, and privileged: a self-congratulatory scion of the upper social ranks of the Conservative party. He’s bright as a button and sharp as a razor, with a mesmeric oratorical ability that served him brilliantly in his political pre-history as a barrister. He’s an impressive performer —made it to the top of his party less than a decade after entering Parliament. And in no small part it’s because he’s clearly a man with a mission: to restore personal integrity, honesty, and humility to government (and to get government out of people’s private lives and pocket books along the way).
“Good morning,” says the PM, beaming and bobbing slightly as he shakes hands with the chief executive of a private academy trust with eight schools to his name: “Morning, Barry”—to the Home Secretary, an old war horse with pronounced progressive views about the value of rehabilitation over imprisonment (if only because it’s cheaper)—“have you met Raymond before? Barry Jennings, the reverend Raymond Schiller.”
“Can’t say I have.” The Home Secretary’s tone is avuncular, friendly. “Pleased to meet you.” He turns sideways, accepts the offered handshake, and stares into Schiller’s eyes:
Schiller smiles and stares right back at the Home Secretary. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Jennings,” he says, his voice deep and rich. “I gather we have a mutual interest in saving souls.”
Barry’s eyes crease slightly; then he smiles, slightly less warmly. Religious zeal is not a career asset in British politics; quite the opposite, in fact, and (like about half the members of the current cabinet) Barry’s church attendance is limited to weddings and funerals and affairs of state. “I’m sure you do,” he agrees, amiably enough. “But my job is more concerned with the here-and-now, I’m afraid. I can’t speak for the hereafter.”
“That’s perfectly all right,” Schiller agrees, baring his expensively whitened teeth. “The one generally goes before the other in my experience.”
Other breakfast guests are arriving: the chairman of the largest merchant bank still based in London, a columnist for News International’s leading broadsheet newspaper, the founder of a successful budget airline. Schiller turns his attention to them, working the influx discreetly and professionally. The Home Secretary pays brief attention. He always finds it informative to watch a high-level operator from a related profession at work, but something about Schiller irritates: a hangnail of the mind.
It’s not as if he particularly wants to be here—there are never enough hours in the day when you’re running the Home Office—but it’s the PM’s idea, and Barry has to admit that he’s got a point. Jeremy’s got this bee in his bonnet about enlisting community support for rehabilitation of minor offenders—nothing new there; the twist is that he’s trolling for corporate support. He wants the private sector to pay for uniforms so they can
Eventually everyone’s seated and greeted, the coffee is poured, the buffet is opened, and then—stomachs filled—the PM’s chief of staff rises and introduces the first guest speaker. Who is, predictably, the visiting American preacher. Barry sits back with his coffee and fakes up an expression of polite interest as Schiller gets fired up.
“Good morning, my friends.” Schiller beams. There is the usual pro forma boilerplate burble, thanking Jeremy and his staff for delivering unto him a captive audience. Barry can time it to the fractional second. Then Schiller gets the bit between his teeth and everything is somehow
