KINDRED - Transmission 02
Too fast in the pre-dawn fog. An analysis gone awry.
New here? Start at The Bunker
← 01 - Transmission Navigation - 03 →
NOVEMBER
The dark red, low-slung German SUV tore along the glossy tarmac. Its powerful LED headlamps sliced a wedge-shaped gash through the dense predawn fog.
Cresting a rise a touch too fast, the driver eased up on the accelerator ahead of a looming left-hander. He coaxed the steering wheel to the left. The front wheels turned in. But the car’s chassis lurched on its suspension, the vehicle’s mass pulling it sideways.
He clutched the steering wheel. Soft leather shivered under his fingertips as the front tyres fought for grip on the unpredictable wet surface. He adjusted his driving line and found traction. A long restrained breath released as the car’s body resettled on its springs.
The driver shifted up a gear, then eased the accelerator pedal toward the carpet once more. He drew his breath back in with the visceral sensation of the car’s acceleration.
The man squinted through the windscreen at the road ahead. Glare from the piercing red and blue hues of the dashboard displays crowded his vision.
Dammit.
Why could he never see clearly?
He flinched as the low-hanging, claw-like branch of an ancient oak took ghostly form out of the murk then whipped by—inches above his head. The road straightened out. The fog thinned.
His hands loosened on the wheel and he tilted his head.
There was no choice but to get out, and fast. Get far away from those people who would…
His life’s work—the project—had come so far, but there were still too many unknowns. Too much risk.
He snuck a glimpse in the rear-view mirror. A small black leather attaché case lay on the back seat. In its plush lined interior, a few papers and…
A titanium cryptographic token.
Dark grey—almost black—with a small gold and orange flame logo. Not exactly office stationery cupboard standard. He’d had it made custom. Used some of his—connections. Military grade cyber hardware.
Only I had no idea what it would contain.
A bead of sweat ran down his neck.
The more he’d delved into it—that fathomless abyss of knowledge, of complexity—but in the end of simplicity, of emergence… What had they discovered? Or more importantly, what had they created? What sort of diabolical responsibility now rested on his shoulders?
So many futile questions, so little time.
Only—that was it. Time.
While he managed to keep it hidden, time was still a luxury he could afford. Time to make it work as it should, make it behave. Ensure a future where humans flourish. Time to plan, to counter plan, and to show those that mattered why what he was doing mattered.
Time to take control.
Because… when the world discovered his creation.
When they saw…When they felt what it was capable of.
There would be no more control.
The driver’s chest tightened. He shook his head. He blinked heavily—willing the dark road before him back into focus.
The SUV approached the next corner. A tight right-hander between heavy stone walls—on the crest of another rise. He shifted down a gear. The engine growled deeper and louder—the car slowed. But it wasn’t enough, the curve was approaching too fast.
A deliberate pressure on the brake—this time the vehicle barely lost any velocity.
What the hell?
His shoulders tensed. He leant forward, tightened his grip on the wheel. He stamped down hard on the brake pedal.
A splitting crack.
His foot and the pedal slammed hollowly onto the carpet, sending a jolt up through his body.
Oh, shit.
His brow went cold and his head pounded. His arms drained of strength. Gasping, he slammed the brake down repeatedly—his foot flapping up and down like an ensnared bird. The pedal fell loose, useless.
The vehicle bore down on the corner, still travelling at lethal speed.
The man’s body went rigid. He shifted his sweating hands on the wheel—tensed his arms. He eased the wheel to the right. Again the front wheels turned in and the mass of the car rolled uneasily. But this time—despite his desperately light touch—the tyres simply couldn’t provide enough traction.
Under drastic understeer, the car lost control. It hurtled onwards.
An immense stone wall filled the windscreen.
Knuckles bleached-white on the steering wheel, the driver hunched down, shrinking back into the bucket seat.
Crawling into himself.
Preparing for what he knew was coming.
Through the heavy predawn fog, light penetrates poorly. Sound is rapidly deadened, as if it’s coming from a long way off.
A crow, perched half-asleep in the ancient oak tree was disturbed by the calamitous din.
The dark red German SUV careened through the dry stone wall. The rear wheel rebound off a large stone took it airborne.Its bulbous, steely mass hung in the air a moment. A human scream over a racing engine note. Then it slammed sidelong into a thick tree growing horizontally out of the bank. Somersaulted three times—twisting metal, gouging great cods of turf.
And came to a rest on its roof, steaming on the sodden grass and earth.
Crumpled. Devastated.
The fog worked its silencing magic and the noise receded.
The crow peered curiously towards its invisible source. Cawed its first of the dawn.
Then lifted off to make its morning rounds.
* * *
Nik Patel’s security fob chirped as he stepped through the glass revolving door.
The foyer of Campfyre’s main building—the hub of their Basingstoke HQ “Campsyte”—was cavernous. Bare, structural concrete and orange/white strip lighting. Campfyre employees milled about with a peculiar, nervous energy.
He’d barely covered five metres when he was intercepted by his project manager, Mike Reynolds.
“Nikky my boy—the man I’ve been looking for.”
Nik clenched his jaw. Mike was taller than average, athletic. He always managed to make himself heard—and seen.
Nik dismissed the idea of simply skirting around his boss.
Besides, I’d struggle to get around his ego.
So he stopped. Mike looked down at him. His smile fading, his eyebrows creased. Nik folded his arms and leant back.
“Hi Mike, how’s it going?”
“Good.”
Short, sharp. A touch of impatience.
“Look, I just came out of a conference call with Trent Robinson, you know, the big boss…“
Nik nodded, pensive. Then he forced a smile—he had no idea what was coming.
“And, well, it seems that—thanks to the goddamn email gremlin—he’s received that little Campfyre ad spend yield projection that you whipped up for me a couple of months ago.”
What ad spend yield projection?
He’d recently changed role—was he even around a couple of months ago? Anyway, Mike was on a roll—and that only meant one thing. Trouble.
“So, it turns out our friend Mr. Robinson knows how to put together a spreadsheet or two of his own—or… he knows how to get one of his cronies to do it. Either way, he took your data—particularly the shrinking ROI per impression and the fall-off in paid conversion retention—“
Shrinking ROI; paid conversion retention…
Right.
Only… It had been his first week on the project. A Friday afternoon—five goddamn PM.
Shit.
Nik glanced around. The employees in the foyer were growing in number. They were clumping together in groups. Urgently whispered words and hurried gestures.
He took a short breath.
The data source for Mike’s task had been at best unreliable. Worse, he’d needed it straight away—before the weekend. Nik had taken the data; plugged it into FleurusGPT. The AI crunched it, but it didn’t look quite right. Mike had met his concerns with cool disinterest. “We’re only trying to get a basic idea, don’t sweat it too much…”
Don’t sweat it?
So why was he bringing it back up now—two months later?
Mike’s voice wasn’t so casual now.
“—he crossed it with some of his own data that he got from god knows where, and the results were—well, they were pretty ground-shaking.”
Nik’s boss looked him straight in the eye, and his eyelids narrowed a millimetre or two. The expression waspish. But behind it, a flicker of alarm. That wasn’t vintage Mike.
What’s gotten him so ruffled?
“We’re in the shit, Nik. Deep. Trent wants to pin this on us—on the project team. On me. Fuck, it could be the end of us. But before we make any more mistakes, I want to go into this with open eyes—I want to be holding all the cards, Nik.”
Mike’s eyes were hard; his mouth set in a grimace as if it were still pronouncing that last word.
A moment passed. Nik drew back.
What ground-shaking corporate drama had Trent framed up this time?
But before he could open his own mouth, Mike’s slender fingers grabbed hold of his shoulder. Pulled him closer. Their faces inches apart. Stale coffee on his hot breath.
“Nik—I have to know. Tell me that analysis you did for me—that data—tell me it’s correct. I mean one hundred percent reliable.”
Mike’s voice was trembling. Vehement.
Shit.
He couldn’t. Because it wasn’t.
And Mike goddamn knew it at the time.
Mike glared into his eyes, but the grip on his shoulder was unsteady. His boss was genuinely rattled. Trent Robinson was an operator with a certain reputation. Mike was desperate to cover his back.
Nik shivered.
Admit the data was bad now, and he was straight under the bus… And he didn’t even know which bus. No. He had to verify his facts, buy some time. But… still.
There’s no walking back from a lie.
Blood rushed to his head. Mike’s voice lowered—a raspy whisper.
“It is, isn’t it, Nik—flawless I mean?”
Nik’s heart skipped a beat.
He might live to regret this day. But he wasn’t going to be the scapegoat. Bloody hell—it was his business to make it none of his business.
That’s why I became a consultant anyway.
Nik looked Mike in the eyes. Willed his voice steady.
“Yeah. No worries, Mike.”
A moment. Then Mike’s hand released his shoulder, drifting down to his side. His face lightened, but a shadow of menace lingered.
“Good. I’ll also get one of the others to see if they can check it over—to be sure, you know…”
Nik stopped breathing.
The vultures are already circling.
He gathered in his breath, his gaze now meeting Mike’s—brow furrowed.
“So… What did you mean—what’s Trent trying to pin on us?”
Mike was already elsewhere, looking over Nik’s shoulder at something behind him. He only half heard the young man’s question.
“Ah, yeah—look, you’ll be at that project team meeting in the Fyrepit this afternoon—four PM?”
“Of… course.”
Mike offered a weak smile, eyes avoiding contact, and strode off towards the corner of the building.
Nik stood still for several seconds.
Mike’s words. His expression. Whatever had happened, it was something big. And he’d only gone and lied his way right into the middle of it.
One clump of Campfyre employees had grown larger, more animated. Two distinct groups formed. Intense whispers turned to argument. Nik couldn’t make anything out, but emotions were rising. Bodies moving with more purpose.
A man lurched forward and swung his fist wide. A colleague caught him below the elbow before connecting with his target. Others dragged him away. A tech-bro prison yard fight.
Something big indeed.
He needed to get out of the building. He needed to think.
He buttoned his coat right up to his chin. Braced himself against the icy November breeze. Then passed through the revolving door and out into the paved courtyard at the centre of the Campfyre Campsyte.
Heavy, grey concrete walls—the different Campfyre buildings—boxed him in on all four sides. Low masonry planters lined the courtyard. Sedges and grasses; no flowers. An angular, massive water feature. The unbroken cloud stretching from horizon to horizon—greyer than the concrete.
Yes, this place is worse than a prison.
Worst of all—when the assignment came up at his consulting firm, Fleurus, Nik had chosen to come here. He’d volunteered.
What was he thinking?
Nik sighed, and quickened his pace across the open space. Hands in his coat pockets and shoulders hunched.
Another error I know I’m going to live to regret.
He passed through the air-lock between two sliding doors into the campus canteen. Strode towards the coffee bar. Pulled out his fob and smartphone. He glanced up as the man behind the counter’s cheery accent cut through his thoughts.
“Times are changing, no, my friend?”
Nik tilted his head and eyed up Henry Jaworski, the coffee barista. The man had been around the Campsyte so long, Nik was convinced he predated the construction crew that built it. Not obviously important—but a man who knew things.
He narrowed his eyes and opted for a guarded, but sarcastic tone.
“Don’t know that much about it, myself.“
“Well, I have a feeling you’ll soon find out.”
Henry’s words hung in the air for a few moments. A crooked smile appeared as he handed Nik his usual. Nik snatched the cup, half turned. Then paused.
“Yeah, I’m sure I will.”
He made eye contact.
“Look, I’m going to be late if I... See you—next time.”
Gripping the warming paper cup, Nik nodded farewell to the barista and headed out.
He strode across the grey courtyard towards the main building, and entered through the same door as before.
The crowd in the foyer had dispersed. The space was cold, empty. But the ghost of its presence hung in the air as Nik paced across the bare concrete floor.
Something was coming.
And it felt like nothing could stop it.
← 01 - Transmission Navigation - 03 →
Learn more at https://www.aninformedcitizen.com
Building nicely James