Interface: A Techno Thriller
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Authors: Tony Batton
INTERFACE
Tony Batton
Interface
First UK Edition v.005
Copyright © Tony Batton, 2016
All rights reserved
First published in 2016 by Twenty-First Century Thrillers
The right of Tony Batton to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchase.
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When Tom Faraday joined internationally renowned CERUS Biotech, he thought he'd landed his dream job. A chance to work with their famous CEO, William Bern, perhaps to change the world.
But Tom has found himself in an organisation in crisis. The company bet the house on a radical biotech project, only to be blocked by a government with reasons of its own. Now CERUS is running on vapour and the corporate vultures are gathering. Bern isn't one to go down without a fight. He's turned things around before, and he has a plan to do it again.
The problem is, twenty-five years ago CERUS made a similar mistake. And if history is repeating itself, Tom might be the only one who can stop it.
for Sarah
ONE
THE BUILDING WAS NOT WHAT it seemed to be. The site was called Eastwell, but there were no signs and the name did not appear on any map. From the road it looked very little like an advanced research facility and considerably more like an ageing warehouse, with rough concrete-block walls and a corrugated metal-sheet roof, both painted a colour best described as 'peeling grey'. There were two double-height roller doors, but no windows. The whole site covered a patch of waste ground two hundred metres by four hundred, enclosed by a high, well-maintained metal fence. It was surrounded by dense woodland and there was only one access route: two kilometres of unmade road. Eastwell looked like what it was: a place that discouraged visitors.
Yet today, thought Dominique Lentz, there are many.
She stood in one of the two doorways, hands on hips, glaring through her thin-rimmed glasses. Two minibuses, six vans and three large four-wheel drives were parked inside the metal fence. Like the warehouse they bore no decals. All the number plates had been taped over.
A dozen armed guards in black combat-gear patrolled a notional perimeter, clearly more concerned with watching those already on the site than any outsiders who might try to gain entry. Around forty technicians clad in disposable grey overalls were now swarming over the site.
Her
site. Though not for much longer, it seemed.
The captain of the guards had produced a set of instructions signed by Bern himself: wet ink on actual paper. Naturally, she'd immediately called the CEO's office. One of his team had confirmed she was to cooperate. Fully.
Lentz glanced at the list of requirements on her clipboard.
To be followed to the letter
, it said at the top.
Lentz didn't like being given instructions; she was usually the one who gave them. Muttering, she turned back inside, passing through the airlock door and then descending by a set of metal stairs to sublevel two: the first of the operational levels. The majority of the laboratory was underground, in part to shield the sensitive equipment from electromagnetic interference, but mostly to hide the operation from anyone who might try to eavesdrop. The work taking place here was far too valuable and too important. Which was why it was so nonsensical that Bern would want to stop it all. The instructions had used the word 'terminate', not 'put on hold' or 'suspend'. Could Bern really mean it?
One of the technicians walked past her, guiding a cart with three large filing boxes on it. Seeing her, he paused, seemed to think about saying something then moved on. Lentz stared at the boxes. She didn't have to read the yellow stickers to know that they read
PROJECT TANTALUS
STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL
PROPERTY OF CERUS BIOTECH
CONTENTS MAY BE HAZARDOUS:
USE EXTREME CAUTION
Lentz continued down the corridor, looking for Richard Armstrong. He'd taken the news as if it didn't bother him that much: as if he wasn't surprised. But for Lentz, the work was personal. She was thirty-one years old, so it was a little early for her to consider the project as her life's work, but there could be no doubt of its significance. There'd been talk of Nobel prizes and indecent amounts of money. And of course there was the research itself: the real reason she had got involved. It was a chance to achieve something incredible: to turn an exciting possibility into reality. A chance to make a difference. But now they were taking it away from her.
Armstrong stood waiting next to Laboratory One, hands in his pockets. "Hey, Boss. Looks like we'll get to go home early today."
Lentz counted to five before answering. "You think this is all a joke?"
"Don't mistake frustration for humour," he replied. "I gave them access to Labs Two through Seven, then they ordered me back up here. Said they didn't need me. Wasn't sure what else to do."
She shook her head and walked past him into Lab One, a large workspace filled with high white benches and lit by crisp bright lights. "These people didn't come to listen."
"I suppose it's not really surprising." He followed her into the room. "Not after what happened."
She spun, her shoes' rubber soles squeaking angrily on the tiled floor. "After
what
happened?"
"The
incident
. Obviously."
Her eyes narrowed. "What incident?"
Armstrong cleared his throat. "I assumed you knew." Lentz took a quick step towards him. He took a pace back, bumping into one of the workbenches and turning to look at it accusingly. "There was a problem with the testing," he mumbled.
"Insertion's not for several weeks. What are you talking about?"
"I heard a couple of the medical team talking in that canteen you never go to." Armstrong leaned forward, lowering his voice. "They told me it was brought forward."
Lentz shook her head. "I monitor every room in this site. The surgery isn't even built yet."
"It wasn't done here."
"What are you talking about? How could it happen
anywhere
with the chip not even ready?"
Armstrong crossed the room and glanced into the corridor, then closed the door. "They're saying four people died." His voice was barely a whisper.
She blinked. "We weren't ready. Everybody knew that. I would never have signed off on this."
"Maybe that's why they didn't ask you."
"Then who
did
they ask? I'm in charge of everything here so who authorised it?"
Armstrong raised his hands. "Nobody's saying."
"I can't reach Bern. His assistant said I need to come in and meet this Peter Marron to discuss a new direction for me at CERUS." She paused, hearing footsteps in the corridor. She waited while they faded away.
"The new HR director?" said Armstrong. "I met him last week. He's not someone I'd want to annoy."
"Neither am I." Lentz folded her arms. "And what can he do? Fire me? I'll just up stakes and take my work somewhere else."
Armstrong shook his head. "We're all under non-disclosure agreements. They'll sue us if we even think about the project outside this building."
"But this doesn't make sense. If there was an accident, there would be an investigation."
"Isn't that why these people are here?" Armstrong shook his head sadly. "Perhaps it's for the best if we all just move on. You know how many people said this was a terrible idea. Who said this was a line we should not cross. Maybe they were right."
From the corridor came the sound of heavy-booted feet and shouts that the facility was to be cleared.
"We can't stop this now." Lentz shook her head. "You can't make people forget an idea."
There was a loud knocking on the door and a raised voice. "Dr Lentz? They need you outside."
"I think," said Armstrong, "that our new friends might disagree."
"You're so naïve." Lentz placed a hand on his shoulder. "Believe me, something like this won't stay undone forever. We may not have been quite ready, but times will change, technology will change." She paused. "And then that technology will change us."
TWO
TWENTY-FIVE YEARS LATER
IT WAS FRIDAY NIGHT AND the main hall of the Exhibition Centre on Level 69 was considerably over its recommended capacity. Nevertheless, the waiters managed to weave their way through the tightly-packed crowd, distributing glasses of champagne with military precision.
Wearing his best suit, Tom Faraday stood to the rear of the room, positioned so he could watch the entire scene. He took one of the offered glasses with a polite nod, but he didn't need champagne for the evening to feel special.