AX50 Read online

  Copyright © 2019 Mark Helme

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Matador

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  ISBN 9781838599942

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  Contents

  Introduction

  Maxima Spitzen

  Zilgrim Mcmanus

  The Apocalypse 2058-2060

  Sarah Theakumkal

  Zig

  Ewan Davies

  Zig

  Ewan

  Petra

  Postscript, Earth, Late January AX50

  Appendix

  Acknowledgements

  Introduction

  This book is narrated by different characters who describe their lives from 2021 until 2112. The postscript describes the world in 2112. Occasionally, a complex invention is mentioned. The explanation behind this is not necessary for the narrative, but if the reader is interested, an asterisk (*) will be appended. An explanation will be found in the appendix, in numbered order, at the back of the book.

  Maxima Spitzen

  writing about her life 2021-2035, California

  Earlier that afternoon, I’d had my first ‘big-air’ experience on my mountain bike. I suspect it wasn’t at all impressive but tingling fear turned to relief as my wheels reconnected with rock. I hurtled on down Hazard Peak track towards the azure blue waters of Morro Bay. We hit the sand, dropped our bikes, sprinted towards the Pacific and collected our kayaks, launching them for the second part of the race. My body hummed with adrenaline as I smashed through the breaking waves. At one point, a huge roller threw me against a rock. My left hand was bruised but not broken. In the end, I was tenth overall, but I was chuffed to be the fastest female.

  I woke from this reverie as a waiter placed a plate of Puy lentil bolognese with sides of asparagus and roast peppers on the polished table in front of me. I tried, but failed, to ignore the stench of burnt flesh that assaulted me as steaks were served to my fellow students. We obeyed the rules; the soft slaps of covers hitting cell phones presaged an eruption of chatter and laughter as we ate.

  I thought I heard a soft popping sound; no one else noticed. Concentrating, I heard it again, louder this time.

  “What the hell was that?” I shouted.

  Silence; everyone was staring at me.

  “What the fuck, Max?”

  “I heard something…”

  And then everyone heard the unmistakable sound of a silenced gun.

  “Oh my God, let’s get out of here!” Pat screamed.

  Chaos! The ‘lockdown’ room was beyond the approaching gun. Some students charged out onto the patio and across the grass of the gardens. Others chose to stay in the building and scuffled as they scrummaged through the door at the far end of the canteen. Some tipped over heavy oak tables and hid behind them. Panicking, someone had misguidedly pushed one of these tables against the door in the direction of the gunfire. It would be of little use as the door opened out of the canteen.

  I’d forgotten about the pain in my hand as I leapt over the counter and into the kitchen. Screams failed to blot out the burst of automatic fire as the gunman entered the canteen. I sprinted through the gleaming kitchen, out of the back door and up the steep slope to the conifers that overlooked the school buildings. My heart was racing and I could hear the blood rushing through my ears. I dived behind a redwood trunk. Trembling, I peered out to view the scene. There were four students lying absolutely still on the grass in front of the canteen. They could almost be play-acting except for the blood oozing onto the grass.

  Silence. The gunman must have been reloading. All the students were motionless, hardly daring to breathe, fearing they might be chosen as the next victim.

  Then a single shot rang out loud and clear.

  “He’s down, keep me covered.”

  “No pulse, where the hell are the state police?”

  My mind told me I was safe, but I started to shake uncontrollably.

  Who the hell would attack our school?

  I heard the unmistakable thrum of choppers approaching at speed, and somewhere in the distance, sirens growing louder.

  The playing fields were swarming with heavily armed police charging towards the grounds in front of the canteen, automatic rifles leading the way. They checked the gunman was truly dead.

  “No sudden movements, hands on your heads and step out slowly.”

  I thought for a moment they’d found another gunman, but they were pointing their automatic weapons at my traumatised friends!

  “Move in a straight line toward the playing fields.”

  More police entered the school buildings. I heard muffled sounds of “clear” as they went from room to room. Two more lines of students appeared. I saw my friend Pat, his hands covered in blood.

  Then sirens were blaring and ambulances screamed up the drive, halting in the yard. A swarm of medics rushed into the school and reappeared with injured students on trolleys.

  I’d been missed during their cursory search of the grounds. I came out with my hands on my head, stumbling down the steep slope. As I neared the safety of the playing fields, the enormity of the situation hit home, and by the time I joined my grieving friends, I was sobbing my heart out.

  Ten minutes later, the head teacher arrived. He was horrified that we still had our hands on our heads like criminals. He vouched for us all and led us off to the gym. I heard a single ringtone and then a cacophony of jingles as every cell seemed to go off. News of the shooting must have been broadcast. Mom phoned. I tried to remain brave, telling her I was fine but broke down as she kept saying how much she loved me and that Dad was on his way.

  That was fourteen years ago, nearly half my life, and yet it’s as vivid as if it occurred yesterday. After gaining a BSc in computing sciences from Stanford, I won a Rhodes scholarship to Oxford in 2028 which was to change my life.

  In my first year, I met a guy called Dan. He was about my height (6ft 2in) with very short dark hair (he cut it himself with a no 2 spacer) and overlapping, crowded teeth. He had a squint; I never did work out which eye he was using. He was a strong, wiry guy with incredible energy and enthusiasm. His background was the polar opposite of mine. His mother had been studying history in Warsaw when she came over to pick strawberries in Hereford (UK) one summer. She’d met his father while waiting for a bus. He was from Lisbon and worked in a chicken factory. Dan was an only child, brought up in a small rented flat in Hunderton (a run-down suburb of Herefor
d). He wasn’t impressed by my parents’ enormous wealth (my dad owned one of the biggest electric car plants in the USA). He thought it must be hard to be so rich when many Americans were impoverished. He was a paid-up member of the Labour party and was studying PPE (philosophy, politics and economics), hoping one day to be an MP. He believed it was more important to follow your beliefs than to be successful. I told him about the animal and bird sanctuary that Dad and I had created in the grounds of our home. Like me, he loved nature and was incensed that human greed was causing so much destruction of natural habitats around the world.

  Besides his love of politics and nature, his other passion was rock climbing. He belonged to the university mountaineering club and had climbed in Snowdonia and the Peak District. At the beginning of our second year, we moved out of St John’s College and lived in a rented flat in Jericho. These were the happiest months of my life. Never for a moment did I imagine this nirvana would be so short-lived.

  In January 2030, his club was going ice climbing in Cervinia. He was embarrassed as he confessed that he’d never been abroad before. He couldn’t afford the trip, so I said it was to be my Christmas present to him, and while we were there, I would teach him to ski. I knew he would feel uncomfortable in a hotel and so I rented a little private Airbnb apartment in the old part of Cervinia. We were lucky as high pressure had settled over the Alps. Each night there was a hard frost, and dawn would reveal sparkling snow and bright blue skies. Dan would slip out of bed in the dark as they needed to start the ice climbs at first light to be safely off them before the ice melted. He returned in time for us to grab a quick bite before hitting the ski slopes where we would laugh as he kept falling in a heap of slushy snow. In the evening, we would sit on our balcony enjoying a cold beer and watch the Matterhorn glow red with the last rays of the day.

  On the sixth day, by coffee time, it was warm enough for me to sit on the balcony in a T-shirt; apparently a ‘Foehn’ wind was blowing from the south. I feared that the snow would be very sticky by the time Dan returned. He was late for lunch and didn’t answer his cell phone. By 3 pm, I was really worried. Soon after, a polizia car pulled into our narrow street.

  That was the instant my life fell apart. The policewoman tried to be compassionate, but there was no kind way of telling me that Dan had died in a terrible accident. They’d all been roped up. Dan was the fourth and final climber. He had been resting on a narrow rock ledge as Ralph (who was leading) was just cresting the top of the frozen waterfall. Ralph had to strike three times with his ice axe to get a good purchase. With his final attempt, there’d been an ominous crack and then the other climbers reported a surreal experience of falling while still attached to the ice with their crampons and axes. They’d all landed in a deep snowdrift, bruised and shaken but nothing broken. Tragically, Dan had been yanked by his rope and catapulted across the ravine and smashed into a rock face on the far side. His helmet had completely imploded and by the time the others reached him, he was long dead.

  I collapsed. I don’t think I actually fainted but my mind went blank, unable to assimilate the full horror of what had happened. I was vaguely aware of being encouraged to drink some genepi and hot black coffee. Thankfully, the police called a doctor who injected me with a sedative. I felt myself go hazy and blacked out. I woke with a horrible thick muzzy head; the dreadful reality flooded back. Guilt overwhelmed me, as Dan would never have come if I hadn’t paid for everything. In the background, I kept hearing a muffled banging. Eventually, it dawned on me that someone was knocking at the door downstairs. I opened the door to find Mom standing there with arms ready to enfold me. I’ve never been so thankful to let her take over. I hadn’t met Dan’s parents. We’d been so immersed in our studies and love for each other that I had never found time to go to Hereford. I had his address, of course, and Mom phoned and told them she’d arranged return flights and a hotel for them. This will sound terrible but I forgot about them after that.

  My parents’ love helped me more than the inevitable counselling sessions. St John’s College was understanding and said I could take leave for as long as I needed. Little by little, I came to terms with my loss and vowed to dedicate my life to aiding the poor and the environment in memory of Dan.

  I returned to Oxford a couple of weeks late for term. My period was late but I knew that stress would frequently cause this and wasn’t concerned. A few weeks later, when I started to feel nauseous, I bought a pregnancy testing kit. I have to confess that my first reaction to the positive test was one of horror. I wanted to achieve so much! What a waste of my life. Gradually, it dawned on me; this gift of new life was Dan’s legacy and would be far more important than anything else I might aspire to. I knew then that I would keep and love this unborn child. I phoned Mom. She was overjoyed. She said that having a grandchild would give her life meaning. Petra was born at thirty-eight weeks in late September. She was cute, almost bald save for a few wispy pale hairs on her head, whereas the rest of her body was covered in fine brown hair that I learnt was called lanugo. She was slender like Dan but had my blue eyes. I loved her to bits, and great waves of warmth spread through me as her tiny lips latched on. My enormous engorged breasts threatened to smother her as she fed. Reluctantly, I weaned her onto a bottle so Mom could look after her as I returned for my final year at Oxford.

  When Petra was two, I received a card from Dan’s aunt informing me that Dan’s parents had both died in a car crash. I know I should have felt sad or at least guilty that I hadn’t even told them of Petra’s existence, but in truth, I was relieved that I could now honestly tell Petra that her only close living relatives were my family.

  Mom also looked after Petra while I completed my PhD at the AI department at Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT). I became acquainted with many postgrads in both AI and robotics and was determined to make use of these connections after receiving my doctorate.

  Mom, Dad, Petra and I celebrated with a weekend together on Bonefish Cay (our private island in the Bahamas). On Saturday evening, while Mom put Petra to bed, Dad poured me a daiquiri.

  “What are your plans now?”

  “I want to continue my research in AI. I know loads of brilliant people who’ve been at the cutting edge of droids and robotic technology. I would dearly love to create a company that would produce and market these. I believe we could be world leaders very quickly.”

  “That’s my girl, self-deprecating as ever! I like your style. You’ll need to attract experience from other companies. Your friends are no doubt brilliant, but you’ll need people who are business-savvy. Suppose I loan you ten billion dollars with no interest for the first two years. The banks should then look favourably upon you should you need to borrow more.”

  I wasn’t expecting such generosity even though I was an only child! I bought a site just south of Anderson Lake in Silicon Valley. With good salaries and fantastic facilities, I was able to attract the brightest and best from around the world to join my contacts from MIT. I called the company Xantec. It took us a couple of years for our humanoid robots (we call them Xan-droids) to be the market leader. I’d taken personal charge of our AI development team. We used simulated axonal connections which grew stronger or withered as the ‘brain’ learnt. I was almost certain that this artificial brain was the most advanced form of AI on the planet, and we kept our methodology strictly confidential. I wanted to be the first person to crack the conundrum of making economically viable fusion power. I set my artificial brain the task of finding a molecule that would act as a catalyst to enable fusion of deuterium and tritium at a manageable temperature. (Until then, fusion had only been achieved at impractically high temperatures.) It came up with europium sulphate which has a most unusual structure. My fusion experts managed to get hold of a tiny amount. (It always was incredibly rare and expensive.) Amazingly, it worked! Of course, this had to be kept absolutely secret as it would potentially enable us to produce limitless cheap energy. I therefore
needed to find a large deposit of europa. The other problem I’d been trying to solve was the overheating of my synthetic ‘brain’. Even with advanced cooling fans which blew air over liquid nitrogen, it could only be switched on for a couple of hours at a time.

  For the last three years, I’ve been working on a new form of AI using actual brain cells. This work had to be kept under wraps as it wasn’t legal. I persuaded a gynaecologist to collect some of my eggs as I told her I wanted more children but didn’t have a partner at present. I said I would store them as we had perfect storage facilities at our lab. This wasn’t strictly legitimate, but she trusted me. I then persuaded one of my best friends from my Stanford days to donate fresh sperm. I told him I was working on a new male contraceptive. I used his sperm to fertilise three of my eggs and incubated them for five weeks. I put two into liquid nitrogen for long-term storage. From the remaining embryo, I extracted stem cells from the forming brain and incubated these with blood vessel stem cells*1. I froze this brain when it was still only about a litre in volume. I planned one day to grow my daughter’s ‘brain’ until it had the volume of an Olympic swimming pool. I named her Xanasa. She would need pumps and dialysis machines and so must grow where she would always live.

  Petra was six and had turned into the most gorgeous, petite, fair-haired, rather shy girl. Her tutors told me that she was academically a year ahead of her peers.

  I needed a place where my team could secretly mine europa and I could grow Xanasa’s brain. The Chinese had found europa in Costa Rica but the President had refused them permission to mine it as he feared that they would harm the environment. I intended to try to persuade him to let my company move there.

  -----

  I woke as the air hostess gently shook me. We were circling over lush dark green jungle as we came in to land at San José International. As Costa Rica had such a reputation for eco-friendliness, I was surprised by the smog hanging over the city. I was whisked through the capital to the edge of the western suburbs, where the President had invited me for an informal discussion at his home. I was amazed to find myself at an ordinary house without any obvious guards.