The Machine

couple of hundred metres away. Stone had expected something of orgiastic extravagance, and indeed there was champagne, entertainers, and lavish food. There were gorgeous models stalking around in revealing designer outfits. But it was the omissions from the guest list which impressed Stone. No politicians, racing drivers or fellow billionaires for Steven Semyonov. Here were the up-coming futurologists, thinkers and entrepreneurs. There were charity directors, architects and experts in little known technologies from the whole of the Pacific Rim. Semyonov had handpicked the guest list, it appeared. Semyonov’s parties in California were legendary, and it would be obligatory to have a good time, to get wild even. Stone glanced around. Certainly a buzz. A room full of PhD’s had never partied so hard.

And it was a great party. It was euphoric. Because most people there couldn’t believe they were even invited to a party by Steven Semyonov. Even Stone felt himself relax a little. And if he was honest, Stone couldn’t believe himself that those SCC meatheads had let him in. It was so relaxed. He’d expected a truly fascistic security operation, but that was way wide of the mark. The atmosphere at the Crabflower Club was open, welcoming. The opposite of what he’d expected.

Steven Semyonov. At twenty-two he had been the brains behind the start-up SearchIgnition Technology, whose technology powered the world’s top five search engines. He’d just sold out at the age of twenty-nine for $25 billion. Plenty of people want to meet a twenty-nine year old billionaire. It’s only human. But the nine zeros on his personal net worth weren’t the reason these people wanted to meet him. Money, ultimately, is commonplace.

The reason all these brilliant, clever, successful people had cleared their diaries and hot-footed to Hong Kong was clear. It was written on their faces. They were there for The Man. For the chance to meet Semyonov, The Man himself. For it was said that Semyonov was the cleverest man alive.

Stone was different. Stone wanted to meet Semyonov to ask him, why, with all his money and intelligence, he was devoting his energies to designing his own exotic line of… weapons of mass destruction. Why? Because he could? As a private joke? For kicks?

But none of that fit in with what Stone saw around him. The revelry was cranking up in the soft light of the Crabflower Club. Everyone was waiting for The Man. To see him, speak to him, even touch him, like pilgrims touching a jade Buddha in a mountain temple.

Vodka circulated, with caviar and Chinese dim sum of exquisite taste. Champagne flowed amongst clever kids, and the designers and the IQ babes. There was laughter, shouting, high spirits. And then the buzz which it seemed could go no further, suddenly hit fever pitch. The volume, the excitement went up a notch. They could sense he was there, in their midst. They felt his presence, his aura moving through the throng. Stone stood alone, his champagne flute full in his hand. He spotted Semyonov — his smooth, hairless head shining slightly with perspiration, his red eyes twinkling, but his face utterly impassive. Thirty seconds here, a minute there, a smile. Casting greetings and wisecracks around like candy to a crowd of kids. They whispered, gossiped in excitement as he approached them in the crowd. Star-struck.

Stone looked with steely gaze across the press of tuxedos and cocktail dresses. The guests were each shoving gently but insistently towards the spot in the crowd where Semyonov would move onto next. Stone held his champagne glass lightly, maneuvered himself closer. He tried to get Semyonov’s eyes. To catch his gaze. The man was shorter than Stone’s six-two, but not by much. His smooth head — hairless but unshaven it seemed — and his chunky physique were distinctive. Finally Semyonov’s impassive red eyes face turned towards him, just as a female hand grabbed Stone lightly on the bicep through his jacket.

‘Stone!’ An American voice. Depressingly familiar. ‘Stone!’ She said with false delight. Upper class, North Eastern United States. Self-consciously, intelligently deep for a woman. The preppy, Vasser-educated woman from the airport. Virginia Carlisle.

‘I knew it was you,’ she said. ‘Did you find anything?’

‘I guess not,’ said Stone without looking at her. He was holding Semyonov’s gaze still. ‘You?’

‘Suuure,’ replied Virginia, immodestly. ‘But you’ll have to wait to see it on GNN “Wake up World” in the morning.’ She had on a black silk dress and looked more glamorous than ever. She moved up beside Stone and smiled at Semyonov five metres away through the crowd. ‘I was gonna say it’s a surprise to see you, but I guess I knew you’d get in here. Junko couldn’t make it, then?’

‘No, Virginia. She couldn’t,’ Stone replied, his jaw clenched. He couldn’t look at her, so he continued eyeballing Semyonov. Virginia was trying to be genuinely friendly now, as if their meeting in the Limo never happened. An actress. On another day, at another party, he would like Virginia if he was honest. She was sassy and upfront. She was intelligent, attractive, driven. Like him? No. Not like him. But there was definitely something.

‘Steven just looked at you Stone,’ said Carlisle. ‘He picked you out in the crowd. Wow!’

‘I didn’t notice,’ Stone lied.

‘Don’t be modest, Stone. Modesty’s a sin. You’re a cult figure,’ commented Virginia. ‘So act like it. You could be just as famous as me in your own way, except that everyone knows me and no one knows you. You just need more airtime on TV. You could be someone. A hero for the peaceniks and the anti-globalisation gang.’

‘Like you gave a shit about the “anti-globalisation gang”,’ he said.

‘Like you give a shit about TV,’ she retorted. ‘But you should. Most people here don’t even know your face. But it looks like Steven knows you.’

‘Maybe he was looking at you,’ Stone said, affecting boredom, still staring at Semyonov, who was now making an effort not to look at Stone. That pleased Stone. Semyonov, who had everyone’s eyes on him, could feel Stone’s cool grey gaze on him. Guilt? Or was he about to ask some guy wearing a silver hammer to nestle an automatic into Stone's ribs and show him the door?

‘Semyonov likes guys like you,’ Virginia went on, flashing a smile at Stone. Patronizing. ‘Radicals, charity people, do-gooders.’

‘Suuuure,’ said Stone, aping her preppy American voice. ‘Do-gooders. Semyonov just loves us. Sorry to disappoint you, Virginia, but I had to crash this party, remember? Obviously not doing enough good.’ Stone was thinking of the Snake Market only minutes before. He hadn’t done much good there either.

‘Anyhow, Virginia. I guess you’ve done your research again? What do you know about Semyonov?’ asked Stone.

‘I know plenty. It’s my job,’ said Virginia. Self-satisfied look again.

Stone still concentrated on Semyonov. He was going to be in The Man’s face any minute.

‘He was always a bright kid,’ said Virginia. ‘Studied at Columbia, then a masters at MIT. But he was no more than a bright kid. There were others like him. His search business was just the right thing at the right time. The weird thing is he was a regular guy back then. Averagely good looking, played a little basketball, brown hair. He looked and acted normal. Look at him now.’

Stone watched the beads of sweat on Semyonov’s smooth forehead. What was Carlisle talking about? The man’s skin was whitish-pink, and entirely hairless, and he had to be fifty, sixty pounds overweight.

‘Maybe the exertion of acquiring those billions did something weird to him,’ said Virginia. ‘Or maybe stress.’

Semyonov didn’t look stressed. The pinkish skin was completely without lines or dryness. In fact he looked — well, just weird, like a plump, bouncing baby, inflated to adult size and given an IQ of 200.

‘I have heard the whackos claim he’s an alien,’ said Virginia. ‘That you can’t just gain fifty points in IQ in your twenties,’

I’m not surprised.

‘Anyhow, he’s not average,’ she said. ‘He’s not even an average geek. And I guess looks don’t matter if you have the smarts.’

Stone felt a thrill of anger. Junko Terashima killed, Hooper and fifty others dead in the Afghan village — did none of that matter if you “have the smarts”? Maybe Semyonov’s mind had become morally addled by his money and his IQ.

Virginia Carlisle’s face may be known on five continents, but Stone was barely listening to her. He wanted to see The Man’s reaction. To see that big, smooth, white face react when Stone asked about the weapons. Guilt? Pleasure? Shock? Relief even? Semyonov was close now, and the crowd tighter than ever around him. Two metres away.

Stone slipped away from Virginia, past a knot of three Australian programmers. Stood in front of The Man. His eyes smouldered. A bodyguard noticed and slid in beside Semyonov, spoke in his master’s ear and then stared again