The scene is Number 10 Downing Street. A meeting has been arranged ...
Ceramic Tanks
The blonde lady with the Armani cream suit flicked open her
compact and checked her lipstick. She augmented the pale pink
gloss, adjusted some errant strands of hair, straightened her jetblack
necklace and looked steadily at the middle-aged security
man by the massive front door. He dropped his eyes.
“Follow me out after three minutes, Graham, and then head
back to the office.”
The young man behind her, standing to the side on the black
and white checked floor, nodded. He put down the heavy holdall
and flexed his fingers.
“Okay,” Onyx said to the security man, and he opened the
door to Number Ten.
The cameras were lined up outside and the policeman on the
steps appeared taller than on TV. The Prime Minister would be
making a statement shortly about the situation in the Middle
East. Onyx didn’t look over at the journalists waiting by the
barrier or the microphones that would catch the PM’s words later.
She knew most journalists had no idea who she was and would
assume she worked as a political lobbyist. Only the most
unobservant would think she was a secretary. Perhaps only one
had rightly guessed she wielded more power than most of the
British ministers who met regularly in the Cabinet Room at
Number Ten. Just how I like it, she thought, as her heels tapped
out a tattoo and she speed-dialled her mobile.
“Coming out,” she murmured, walking up towards the high
iron security gate and Whitehall beyond.
Ten minutes later she settled back into the soft leather of the
Mercedes S65 as it softly purred past the House of Commons. Big
Ben sounded the hour with its customary flourish, a sound that
briefly stirred something patriotic inside her. She pushed the
irrelevant feeling aside and pondered how the morning had
gone.
The multi-national company, of which she was the youngest
Vice President, didn’t have an immediately recognisable name,
and its logo – a female human body with a lioness’s head – put
fear in the heart of only the most knowledgeable. Bastet, the
ancient Egyptian deity that slaughtered all who got in her way,
provided a suitable symbol for the ADR Corp.
The Prime Minister’s aide had introduced her as the Vice-
President of the Advanced Defence and Response Corporation,
in charge of NLW, or New Level Weaponry.
The PM had shaken her hand with a firm grip, smiled a
slightly smarmy smile that men often offered her, assuming her
very good looks couldn’t possibly be combined with ruthlessly
focused intelligence.
Onyx had introduced Graham Cavendish, her assistant. He
had a cluster of degrees from both England and the USA, as well
as his experience from a brief and secret attachment to the Navy.
Graham understood how the weapon they were to demonstrate
actually worked. Onyx understood politics, power and high
finance. She understood the way to use fear of the unknown.
“I thought we were to have a briefing,” said the PM as
Graham began unloading the tripod and assembling the various
shiny black and grey parts of the weapon. He looked unsmiling
towards Onyx.
“A demonstration – a simple illustration of the powers of the
Disintegrator – will be worth a thousand Power Points, Prime
Minister. Most people have no idea that scalar technology exists,
and very few at all are aware how it has been miniaturised. ADR
have led the field, and we have been careful with our patents and
our security. Even our closest competitors cannot imagine what
we have now developed.”
A secretary knocked at the door and the grey-haired aide
went across to collect the tray of coffee and freshly baked
biscuits, a favourite of the Prime Minister. Graham worked
steadily and the weapon appeared bit by bit at one end of the
table. When he was done with his clicks and twists, an ‘H’ shaped
device, somewhat like the hull of a catamaran, sat on the top of
the neat, dark tripod. He flicked a switch and a red oval of light
appeared towards the far side of the shiny mahogany surface.
“This won’t damage the table, will it, Victoria? It’s nearly three
hundred years old and is irreplaceable. Lord Wellington wrote
most of his major speeches seated here.”
“No, there will not be a scratch, Prime Minister, I can assure
you. The beam has no effect on wood. Graham can focus the
beam to within a millimetre…” She smiled, all perfect teeth and
blue-grey eyes. “I’m not exaggerating. A millimetre, right,
Graham?”
The young man gave a slightly nervous smile, nodded and
said, “Yep. That’s how it is.“ He took a small silvery control from
his pocket.
Onyx crossed to the bag and extracted a white ceramic
shallow bowl a bit wider than a dinner plate.
“Are we making soup?” asked the aide, raising his eyebrows
as though he had said something very funny.
“Sort of,” responded Onyx. “Did you bring the expendable
object in metal as I requested?”
“No, I did that,” said the PM. “Lead is metal and I brought
along some lead soldiers from my collection. Seemed appropriate
somehow.”
“Are you sure, Prime Minister?” asked Onyx.
“Yes. Absolutely. They are surplus to requirements.”
Onyx took the three little figures, each pointing rifles. They
were much heavier in her palm than she expected and slightly
cool. She arranged them in a tight formation at the centre of the
bowl. They stood bravely, in their red coats, facing outwards.
“Sort of Custer’s Last Stand,” said the aide.
“Please be so kind as to put on these goggles.” Onyx gave out
the protective glasses. She shepherded the group behind the
beam projector.
“With the glasses on you can watch the figures. Without them
on your eyesight might be damaged, so please do not remove
them until the demonstration is over. When you are ready,
Graham.”
Turning two of the three serrated circular controls, Graham
adjusted the laser light until the three figures glowed with an
even brighter red colour. He stood back and undid one button on
his dark-blue suit. He toyed nervously with the knot of his tie.
The beam projector hummed almost imperceptibly. Outside the
room a phone rang. Otherwise they stood in silence.
Onyx touched the Prime Minister’s hand. The aide frowned.
“You can say ‘when’, Prime Minister.”
The PM looked at her, smiled and then turned towards
Graham. “Go on, young man, do your worst.”
Graham nodded and tapped a button on the remote control.
For a moment nothing happened. Then the plate vibrated
slightly and the three figures radiated dazzling white light. A
sound like steam escaping from a pressure cooker ended with a
soft whistle. The figures had entirely disappeared. The bowl had
a slight smudging of grey ash.
“Here, touch this,” said Onyx, carrying over the bowl.
“Goodness. Goodness gracious,” said the PM. He took off his
goggles. “Blow me down. It’s not even hot.” He had gone pale.
Onyx marvelled at how strong men blanched when they saw
technology they neither understood nor quite believed.
The PM cleared his throat. “So what happens if you point this
at a tank?”
“The tank disappears, the people inside do not, unless they
have metal inserts in their joints or something. Mind you, they
would be completely blind.”
“Ah,” said the Prime Minister, pouring himself a glass of
sparkling water. “Would you…?” he said to Onyx, offering to
pour her a glass.
“No thank you, Prime Minister. You’re a busy man and we
have to let you get on with running the nation.” In fact Onyx had
a meeting she considered equally important as this one, in
another part of London.
The Prime Minister sat down near the ceramic dish, and
watched Graham disassemble the beam projector. He tapped his
fingers on the table as though playing chopsticks at a piano. He
looked up at Onyx.
“So we will have to build our tanks out of ceramics.”
Onyx nodded slowly. “Something like that, Prime Minister.
But you may find hemp is a more viable way forward. Henry
Ford used hemp on early prototypes of his car. It’s immune to this
beam technology.”
The blonde lady with the Armani cream suit flicked open her
compact and checked her lipstick. She augmented the pale pink
gloss, adjusted some errant strands of hair, straightened her jetblack
necklace and looked steadily at the middle-aged security
man by the massive front door. He dropped his eyes.
“Follow me out after three minutes, Graham, and then head
back to the office.”
The young man behind her, standing to the side on the black
and white checked floor, nodded. He put down the heavy holdall
and flexed his fingers.
“Okay,” Onyx said to the security man, and he opened the
door to Number Ten.
The cameras were lined up outside and the policeman on the
steps appeared taller than on TV. The Prime Minister would be
making a statement shortly about the situation in the Middle
East. Onyx didn’t look over at the journalists waiting by the
barrier or the microphones that would catch the PM’s words later.
She knew most journalists had no idea who she was and would
assume she worked as a political lobbyist. Only the most
unobservant would think she was a secretary. Perhaps only one
had rightly guessed she wielded more power than most of the
British ministers who met regularly in the Cabinet Room at
Number Ten. Just how I like it, she thought, as her heels tapped
out a tattoo and she speed-dialled her mobile.
“Coming out,” she murmured, walking up towards the high
iron security gate and Whitehall beyond.
Ten minutes later she settled back into the soft leather of the
Mercedes S65 as it softly purred past the House of Commons. Big
Ben sounded the hour with its customary flourish, a sound that
briefly stirred something patriotic inside her. She pushed the
irrelevant feeling aside and pondered how the morning had
gone.
The multi-national company, of which she was the youngest
Vice President, didn’t have an immediately recognisable name,
and its logo – a female human body with a lioness’s head – put
fear in the heart of only the most knowledgeable. Bastet, the
ancient Egyptian deity that slaughtered all who got in her way,
provided a suitable symbol for the ADR Corp.
The Prime Minister’s aide had introduced her as the Vice-
President of the Advanced Defence and Response Corporation,
in charge of NLW, or New Level Weaponry.
The PM had shaken her hand with a firm grip, smiled a
slightly smarmy smile that men often offered her, assuming her
very good looks couldn’t possibly be combined with ruthlessly
focused intelligence.
Onyx had introduced Graham Cavendish, her assistant. He
had a cluster of degrees from both England and the USA, as well
as his experience from a brief and secret attachment to the Navy.
Graham understood how the weapon they were to demonstrate
actually worked. Onyx understood politics, power and high
finance. She understood the way to use fear of the unknown.
“I thought we were to have a briefing,” said the PM as
Graham began unloading the tripod and assembling the various
shiny black and grey parts of the weapon. He looked unsmiling
towards Onyx.
“A demonstration – a simple illustration of the powers of the
Disintegrator – will be worth a thousand Power Points, Prime
Minister. Most people have no idea that scalar technology exists,
and very few at all are aware how it has been miniaturised. ADR
have led the field, and we have been careful with our patents and
our security. Even our closest competitors cannot imagine what
we have now developed.”
A secretary knocked at the door and the grey-haired aide
went across to collect the tray of coffee and freshly baked
biscuits, a favourite of the Prime Minister. Graham worked
steadily and the weapon appeared bit by bit at one end of the
table. When he was done with his clicks and twists, an ‘H’ shaped
device, somewhat like the hull of a catamaran, sat on the top of
the neat, dark tripod. He flicked a switch and a red oval of light
appeared towards the far side of the shiny mahogany surface.
“This won’t damage the table, will it, Victoria? It’s nearly three
hundred years old and is irreplaceable. Lord Wellington wrote
most of his major speeches seated here.”
“No, there will not be a scratch, Prime Minister, I can assure
you. The beam has no effect on wood. Graham can focus the
beam to within a millimetre…” She smiled, all perfect teeth and
blue-grey eyes. “I’m not exaggerating. A millimetre, right,
Graham?”
The young man gave a slightly nervous smile, nodded and
said, “Yep. That’s how it is.“ He took a small silvery control from
his pocket.
Onyx crossed to the bag and extracted a white ceramic
shallow bowl a bit wider than a dinner plate.
“Are we making soup?” asked the aide, raising his eyebrows
as though he had said something very funny.
“Sort of,” responded Onyx. “Did you bring the expendable
object in metal as I requested?”
“No, I did that,” said the PM. “Lead is metal and I brought
along some lead soldiers from my collection. Seemed appropriate
somehow.”
“Are you sure, Prime Minister?” asked Onyx.
“Yes. Absolutely. They are surplus to requirements.”
Onyx took the three little figures, each pointing rifles. They
were much heavier in her palm than she expected and slightly
cool. She arranged them in a tight formation at the centre of the
bowl. They stood bravely, in their red coats, facing outwards.
“Sort of Custer’s Last Stand,” said the aide.
“Please be so kind as to put on these goggles.” Onyx gave out
the protective glasses. She shepherded the group behind the
beam projector.
“With the glasses on you can watch the figures. Without them
on your eyesight might be damaged, so please do not remove
them until the demonstration is over. When you are ready,
Graham.”
Turning two of the three serrated circular controls, Graham
adjusted the laser light until the three figures glowed with an
even brighter red colour. He stood back and undid one button on
his dark-blue suit. He toyed nervously with the knot of his tie.
The beam projector hummed almost imperceptibly. Outside the
room a phone rang. Otherwise they stood in silence.
Onyx touched the Prime Minister’s hand. The aide frowned.
“You can say ‘when’, Prime Minister.”
The PM looked at her, smiled and then turned towards
Graham. “Go on, young man, do your worst.”
Graham nodded and tapped a button on the remote control.
For a moment nothing happened. Then the plate vibrated
slightly and the three figures radiated dazzling white light. A
sound like steam escaping from a pressure cooker ended with a
soft whistle. The figures had entirely disappeared. The bowl had
a slight smudging of grey ash.
“Here, touch this,” said Onyx, carrying over the bowl.
“Goodness. Goodness gracious,” said the PM. He took off his
goggles. “Blow me down. It’s not even hot.” He had gone pale.
Onyx marvelled at how strong men blanched when they saw
technology they neither understood nor quite believed.
The PM cleared his throat. “So what happens if you point this
at a tank?”
“The tank disappears, the people inside do not, unless they
have metal inserts in their joints or something. Mind you, they
would be completely blind.”
“Ah,” said the Prime Minister, pouring himself a glass of
sparkling water. “Would you…?” he said to Onyx, offering to
pour her a glass.
“No thank you, Prime Minister. You’re a busy man and we
have to let you get on with running the nation.” In fact Onyx had
a meeting she considered equally important as this one, in
another part of London.
The Prime Minister sat down near the ceramic dish, and
watched Graham disassemble the beam projector. He tapped his
fingers on the table as though playing chopsticks at a piano. He
looked up at Onyx.
“So we will have to build our tanks out of ceramics.”
Onyx nodded slowly. “Something like that, Prime Minister.
But you may find hemp is a more viable way forward. Henry
Ford used hemp on early prototypes of his car. It’s immune to this
beam technology.”
