KINDRED - Transmission 11
Who is the Unseen Corporation, and what do they want?
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Nik zipped his black puffer jacket up to his chin.
He slipped through the revolving door and strode down the leaf-strewn concrete path back toward the cafeteria in the main Campfyre complex.
With each hurried step, Preston’s words beat like a bass drum in his head.
A Campfyre-built AI—revealing people’s precise futures.
And they don’t really know how it works.
Inspector Webster had insisted on looking through Alan’s emails and any other documents he may have kept—Preston had obliged with admin access to Alan’s accounts.
Unsurprisingly, they’d come away empty-handed. Webster had grunted, mumbled something about ‘old fashioned leg work’ then taken his leave.
A gust of frigid wind sliced between two heavy concrete office blocks. Nik turned up his collar.
Campfyre’s fate—at least as a social network business—was sealed when Alan Maddox made the decision to pour everything into AI.
Into KIN.
But KIN—what was its future? What plans did Alan really have for it?
And the people—whoever they were—who’d… gotten rid of Alan…
What could their plans be for such a system?
It didn’t bear thinking—but… there were so few people who knew anything about this. And without the concrete evidence he needed, Nik was still complicit, exposed.
There just had to be something left he could discover here on campus.
Before the team all pulled out for good.
So it was decided. He’d defy Mike’s orders of a beer with his colleagues in London and have just one more peek at Alan’s files.
After a last triple-shot latte of the day.
He pushed through the door of the cafeteria, and made eye contact with Henry, who immediately began preparing his usual.
Nik forced a smile as he approached the coffee bar.
“Hi, Henry. Get a lot of customers at this time of day?”
The barista had his back to Nik. The reply was just about lost in a hiss of steam and a deep metallic grind as the coffee machine went about its business.
“Not an awful lot. Things have been a little quiet around here, to be honest.”
Henry’s voice was hollow and monotonous. He turned, and his face was pale, expressionless.
“I forget—you take sugar with this?”
Nik narrowed his eyes.
“No, uh—thanks...”
The barista held the paper cup out to him, and Nik reached out to take hold of it.
But when he got a grip on it, Henry held on. His hand shook. He peered into Nik’s eyes.
“I heard about Alan Maddox.”
Nik drew his head back—his brow furrowed.
He was about to open his mouth when he was cut off by the barista—the flimsy paper cup still held in his tight fist.
“It’s a shame, you know. I always told him he should keep Trent Robinson away from the Unseen Corporation. I told him it would only get him into trouble.”
Another hiss of steam from the machine.
“Now look where he is.”
Henry’s face was hard and angular, his frozen Slavic features statuesque—unreadable.
Nik scanned the barista’s face.
The Unseen Corporation?
Then, as quickly as it came, the cloud that had passed in front of Henry’s face left. He released his grip on the cup.
Nik snatched it away. Hot milk foam spilt on his jacket’s cuff.
The barista’s voice returned to its normal cheerful self. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, my friend?”
“No, I think tha—“
Strange, why did he suddenly feel like he shouldn’t be saying anything at all?
“Sure. Just like always...”
Nik hurried away.
The drumbeat of Preston’s words was now joined by Henry’s.
Dammit.
He slipped between the imposing concrete buildings, and peered nervously into their darkened windows.
Quiet…
For the business that was Campfyre—post apocalyptic.
Reaching his desk, the open office space was now totally empty. Though Preston must still be there buried in some work or other.
He sat, and clicked his laptop on. Nothing from Mike. Just a few of the usual “Goodbye” and “It was good working with you” emails from other members of the project team.
Bullshit.
Also, an email from Tim, addressed only to Nik:
Hi Nikky,
Just to let you know, I’ve finished up here this afternoon, and I’m headed to London to meet up with the team at the Hog’s Head. Thanks for the help you’ve given me since I’ve been here—and don’t worry, no one’s the wiser ;-)
Hopefully we will find ourselves working together again soon!
Look, there’s one other thing. Mike had a quick chat with me about the Alan Maddox affair. I wasn’t sure what he was on about, but he said for me to keep out of it. He was deadly serious, Nikky. I just thought I should let you know. But I guess he’s said the same to you. He told me he was going to look for you this afternoon.
Anyway, take care, buddy, and I hope to see you tonight at the pub!
Cheers,
Tim
Nik breathed deeply. Mike was making himself very clear.
And there was a lot more that was left unsaid.
There’s just too much going on here…
Campfyre, Project Kindred, Alan Maddox… the Unseen Corporation.
What was this Unseen Corporation? What could the connection be between it and Trent Robinson—or Alan Maddox for that matter?
And what the hell was the coffee barista’s place in all of this?
Well, if Alan Maddox was working with them, then...
He stood up and walked the twenty steps over to the desk that had recently been vacated by the unfortunate Alan Maddox.
The terminal was still switched on and logged in, Webster was clearly not the most attentive pupil in the information security class.
Nik’s hand found the mouse and he clicked.
The email application flashed up. His hands dashed across the keyboard—a quick search of all the emails sent and received, looking for ‘Trent Robinson’ and ‘Unseen Corporation.’
A spinning paperclip. Three—four seconds.
No matches on the two phrases together, but there were thousands referencing Trent Robinson. And a single email referencing the Unseen Corporation.
Nik skimmed the Trent emails. Nothing he and Webster hadn’t already seen.
The private correspondence between Maddox and the Campfyre CEO revealed rather colourful disagreements over the recent months.
One exchange saw Trent trying to wrest control of the Project Kindred from Alan; who’d outright refused. The final reply from Robinson, dated from less than a week earlier, was slaked blood red with the CEO’s wrath:
From: Trent Robinson
To: Alan Maddox
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Project KINDRED progress report
Alan.
What the fuck do you think we’re doing here?
We’re not whinging kids fighting over our goddamn Legos, or nerdy, pimply-faced teens mucking about with my-first-programmable-computers. We’re a business. We have shareholders. We have responsibilities. Dammit, you of all people should understand that!
But you don’t, do you? You never fucking have. You’re always galloping off in reckless pursuit of some esoteric, intangible goal; caring only for words like “connection”, and “human flourishing”. What about “consolidation”, or my other little favourite, “accountability”?
That’s what I do, Alan.
Day-in day-out I’m answering cutting questions, papering over the growing cracks before they can be seen by the world’s hungry press, fighting the goddamn firestorms that constantly threaten to overpower this company that you and I have spent so much of our energy creating.
Well, you know what? I’ve had it. I’m sick of you and your fucking shadow chasing, your goddamn impossible dreams that are always six months away. Despite all your promises, in the end none of it is worth half the shit it’s made from. This game has got to stop.
And it’s going to stop.
You mark my words Alan, pretty soon things are going to change dramatically—don’t be surprised if you find yourself on the wrong side of it.
Trent
Holy shit.
A relationship, forged in stress, that had finally been fatally poisoned—broken?
Or… a direct threat on a man’s life?
Trent had built a reputation for tyranny within Campfyre.
The external ‘summer camp’ reputation of the tech behemoth was contrasted with the internal ‘labour camp’ reality.
He a master manipulator—a man with a keen eye for a narrative.
But this level of anger?
Mike knew the CEO better than many, and even he had been shaken when the lawyers had come in playing hardball.
And then…
Webster had told Nik the CEO was missing, and had been for several days—since well before Alan’s accident.
Nik peered around the dim office area.
Where was Trent Robinson?
Could one of the world’s most recognisable businessmen really be a cold-blooded killer?
He clicked a button above the email. A printer three metres away whirred to life.
Nik closed his eyes. He still needed evidence.
This wasn’t evidence.
He left the email open in another window, and returned to the long list of search results. He scrolled down impatiently. Found the solitary ‘Unseen Corporation’ email. It was… anti-climactic.
From: SysAdmin
To: Alan Maddox
Subject: Longwaithe Aged Care - access verification
Greetings new member.
Your access has been set up; your details are as follows:
URL: http://www.longwaithe-ac.co.uk
Username: AMaddox
Password: pass1234
Your welcome access is open for 24 hours. You will need to log into your account within that time to retain access.
Salutations,
The Unseen Corporation
Dated the previous September. No replies, no other evidence of any communication with the Unseen Corporation.
Nik blinked. Longwaithe Aged Care?
Strange.
What did it really matter anyway? It looked like the trail was cold.
Shouldn’t he just leave well enough alone? Let it all play out naturally?
But… the coffee barista’s face—stony and mysterious.
Mike’s strange behaviour. Preston’s barely concealed fear.
Nik’s eyes blurred. He blinked.
Fear—like that day… The man at the door, asking questions; Nik’s father gripping his son’s upper arm tightly. “No, there’s nothing wrong here—our lives are none of your business.”
Nik glanced around, the bedroom’s door was ajar. Was that a breath? A whimper?
He wished he could close the door. He shifted on his feet.
The grip on Nik’s arm tightened. He faced the man at the door. Tears welled in his eyes—he let them dry.
It was none of his business…
Nik coughed.
None of his business, maybe. He could log out of Alan’s account, head to the pub. Despite Preston’s concern, maybe all of this could stay buried—maybe it ended with Alan. That would be best.
But… Trent, Mike… Henry?
They won’t leave me the choice of what stays in the dark.
He scanned the email again, taking in the concise, efficient wording. It didn’t look right. It didn’t look normal.
Hell, he could just have a bit of a closer look—to find out if it was important enough to show to Webster. Besides, it wasn’t as if he was deciding to get personally involved.
No, that wouldn’t be a good idea.
Nik’s heartbeat rose in tempo. He clicked on the link in the email.
A web browser appeared and started loading a website.
Less than a second later, the page went white and showed a short message in black text:
“This service is not available from this location.”
Huh.
Nik closed the browser down. Stared at the email for several moments, unsure what to make of it.
Well, that was that.
The clunk of a heavy, metallic door closing in another part of the building.
Nik looked up from the computer screen and peered into the murk.
The emptiness of the wide-open office appeared to close in slowly around him. Its dark corners approaching him from every side.
He released a dry breath.
“Is that you—Preston?”
Fifteen seconds. Silence.
He turned back to the screen. The email was still open. He raised an eyebrow, then clicked a button above the email—forwarding it to his own email address.
But… there were still the files…
Nik opened up a file browser, clicked and began a search in Alan’s documents on the computer for the same key words: “Unseen Corporation.”
There were a vast number of documents. Twelve minutes for a full search.
Nik scowled. Leant back in the chair, arms folded.
The progress bar grew anaemically. Then something caught his attention.
One of the folders, marked ‘Important Docs Aug’ disappeared before his eyes.
“What?”
Did I really see that?
He squinted. The folders were lined up in rank and file. Meaningless names and dates.
The only movement was the time ticking down as the search was proceeding. Eleven and a half minutes left.
A notification flashed up. One file referencing ‘The Unseen Corporation’.
Gotcha!
Then two files.
Then another folder disappeared.
Dammit!
A moment later the notification updated—no files had been found.
“Shit!”
The files had been deleted right out from under him.
Preston?
“Preston!”
Nik lifted his head and scanned the empty room.
Nothing but ranks of empty desks marching off into the gloom.
He stopped the search.
No results—or at least, the ones that had been there were now gone.
He clicked into a folder entitled ‘Important Docs Oct’. He scrolled through the contents. Long filenames, indecipherable version numbers.
He clicked into one. ‘KINect specification v0.8’.
It started loading.
Then an error appeared: ‘File not found’.
Oh for the love of…
This would take too long.
He twisted. Fished into his jacket pocket, grabbed a Campfyre secure drive, jabbed it in an open port. A new notification came up: ‘Media cryptographic key out of date. Please wait...’
Bollocks!
His eyes flitted feverishly around the room. His hand finding the mouse again, he hovered over the connectivity icon. Clicked.
‘Are you sure you wish to disconnect the wireless network?’
“Yes!”
Click.
He squinted at the remaining files.
Count to ten, Nik.
He controlled his breathing.
The file deletion had stopped.
He fell back, eyes closed, into the office chair with a solid thud.
“Preston!”
Preston realised they’d built something powerful. Something dangerous.
Was he hiding his involvement? Or… was he trying to prevent access to something that—
A sharp crack.
Plastic shattering.
Nik jumped. Then furrowed his brow.
Something had gone wrong with the computer screen. The right half was all black, and the left a kaleidoscope of different colours.
Unintelligible.
He lifted his hand, slapped the side of the monitor.
Then he noticed a small crack spreading up its surface towards the top-left corner.
What the—?
A thin wisp of smoke exited a small circular hole, surrounded by a spider-web fracture that was still growing.
He leant closer—
Crack!
He ducked, and another bullet slammed into the screen. Its surface shattered completely.
Fragments of glass showered the back of his head, stinging his scalp and the back of his neck.
Bright flashes as the screen’s bared electrical circuits shorted and discharged into the open air.
Nik took to the floor on all fours.
He scanned the murky reaches of the open space. Nothing else seemed out of place. No other obvious signs of immediate danger.
He rose to a low crouch and peered across at his own desk.
He sped across the fifteen metres of open floor, his body bent double; keeping below chest-height.
Another bullet whistled overhead. He ducked lower and stumbled. As he crashed to the thin carpet, the bullet created a brilliant firework out of a large wall-mounted flat screen three metres ahead of him.
Nik winced. Smelled something metallic—mixed with ozone.
He clenched his fists.
Two seconds.
Three.
He rose to a crouch. Surveyed the open space. He took off again.
A muffled crack, and an office chair at his left shoulder was heaved clean over as a lead slug emptied its force into its back cushion.
Nik slid to a stop at his own desk.
He risked a short look around the room as he grabbed his laptop and mobile phone. Three more bullets fired in quick succession splintered the partition between his desk and the next.
Then… silence.
He was on his knees, his breathing ragged—his throat raw, burning.
So, what now?
The gunman must have been far enough away for a wide view of the open space. And elevated to get the sight lines.
How the hell am I going to get out of here?
He poked his head up and looked around. Several of the large windows at the front of the building were shattered to mosaics, and one was completely blown out.
So, outside—
Another bullet embedded itself in the desk just above his left shoulder. Flying splinters rained down on his head. Jabbed his exposed neck.
He dropped to the ground again.
Then darted towards the back of the building. The Test Fire Chamber—solid walls and corridors.
Cover.
Three steps then a loud clunk and everything went dark. He skidded to a halt. Hands and knees.
Silence.
Nik lifted his head.
The gloom was nearly complete. The distant green glow of a battery powered exit sign.
Too exposed. Too obvious.
The click-clunk of a fire exit door opening.
“Fuck this. Preston! Are you there, Preston?”
A deep-throated growl beneath his feet. The emergency generator in the basement.
So the Test Fire Chamber should have power!
The disappearing files. Preston was probably still there.
He scrutinised the darkness. Mapped his way towards the security booth by the light of a growing electrical fire.
His body hunched, he took three slow steps. Four.
No bullets.
Nik grit his teeth, stretched to his full height and sprinted ten metres, laptop wedged into his armpit. He rounded a concrete wall to the entrance of the Test Fire Chamber.
He bounded across the yellow and black line and, verifying that he was out of sight of the expansive front glass wall of the building, he slowed to a breathless walk.
Out of sight, but surely not out of mind.
The security guard was gone.
Nik paused. Listening for any sounds.
People. Movement.
Just the underfloor rumble and the crackle of the growing fire.
He jogged down the server room corridor—blue light strips still illuminated, the server hum quieter, but still present.
Then he pushed through the heavy steel door, and found himself in the control room.
There was no sign of Preston.
But—Damn.
It was bedlam—or at least it had been.
The only sources of light in the room were a single lit computer screen—and the flashing, rotating, crimson emergency lights. Their searing beams cast cruel, angular shadows—staining everything blood-red.
The rest of the room was trashed. Upturned desks, smashed computer screens, messes of cables across the floor.
Even the five-metre display at the front of the room was half obliterated—one side a blank, black expanse—the other a smouldering pile of shattered glass and plastic.
And… that was Preston’s place.
Nik approached the lit computer screen. He squinted.
A developer’s tool—like an integrated development environment.
At the top was written ‘Bunker’.
Nik’s eyes darted around the room
Bunker—sounds appropriate.
He leant closer. There was a chat panel. A new message from a few minutes earlier.
They’re coming now. I did what I could. I hope I wasn’t too late.
—P
Preston.
So was this his doing?
He’d been deleting the files. But… maybe he’d run out of time. Or maybe he knew some things couldn’t be really deleted.
A piercing shriek split the air.
Nik squeezed his eyes shut, brought his palms up to his ears
A fire alarm?
He could still see the orange glow from the open space. But, it could mean something else entirely—had someone left the building by a fire escape?
Preston maybe?
Or has someone else entered?
He approached the corner of the concrete wall where the steel door was still half open.
He stepped into the server corridor.
He inched along its length, straining his eyes into the shadows—deepened by the rising smoke.
A centimetre further forward and the window of the security guard’s booth at his right shoulder burst inward in a shower of glass.
Shit!
That bullet was meant for him.
Wheezing a lungful of air, he swung around and dashed back into the control room.
Nik raced toward the cover of the back corner, his trouser legs tore on the upturned desks as he zigzagged between them.
He dropped behind a pile of overturned furniture. Deep in a shadow. Then stuck his head up just in time to see a dark shape entering the room through the same entrance.
A man in a dark suit eased forward. He was carrying a compact but lethal-looking weapon—a close quarters assault rifle.
The man scanned the room. Glided sideways.
He held the weapon up in front of him. Stepped around, between and over the discarded desks and chairs.
He scrutinised the shadows; wrenched debris out of the way.
He was at the back of the room—making his way to the front.
Nik peeked out through a crack. He strained but failed to get a clear look at the man through the fast-shifting emergency lights and the gathering smoke.
He watched the man work his way towards one side of the room. He moved with calm and rigour. He was well trained.
And he would be upon Nik in seconds. Nik needed a plan—fast.
He… can’t see the whole room at once…
The piercing fire alarm drilled into Nik’s skull. He shut his eyes tight—shook from adrenaline.
He opened them and searched into the shifting shadows. Took a deep breath, then stifled a cough.
There.
A path—through the piles of office debris on the side furthest from the gunman.
Back to the entrance.
Crawling on all fours, Nik made it from the safety of one desk to another. Then moments later to another.
Low to the ground the smoke was thick, raspy. His lungs ached.
He’d made it to within three metres of the entrance. His aggressor was near the centre of the room where there was the most light.
Nik crouched low, waiting for his next opportunity to sprint for the door. He was about to go for it when the man turned his head, and one of the red emergency lights flashed around, illuminating his whole face.
No...
It was the man Nik had run into the other day in the office. He was sure of it.
The same pitiless expression—the same stiff-jointed woodenness.
Nik squeezed his body into a tight shadow, the piercing fire alarm tore at his ears. He covered his mouth, filtering out the smoke from his already shallow, erratic breaths.
He didn’t dare to move.
The man stopped and peered towards a dark spot in the back corner of the room where Nik had been only moments before. He took a deliberate step toward it.
This was his chance.
Nik rose, his muscles aching.
But the light above him in the ceiling flashed around at exactly the wrong moment, this time illuminating him—casting his unmistakably human silhouette long and wide across the room.
The man whirled and stared directly at him. He lifted the rifle and aimed.
Nik ducked down low and took off.
He shot for the entrance at full crouch-run, hot lead ripping chunks out of the reinforced concrete wall just above his head.
He got out of the room, eyes stinging and throat burning, then turned towards the fire escape.
Urging his body forward faster, he lunged—and tripped over a large object on the floor.
He rose to his knees, sprung to his feet then tripped again. He reached down and found his foot was twisted up in some form of clothing, like a jacket.
Fuck!
He scrabbled around, peering into the darkness, trying to free his foot and figure out what was on the floor—or who.
In the orange-white light cast by the now raging electrical fire, he saw the cratered, grotesque remains of Preston’s head.
A dark pool of blood slowly expanding underneath.
Nik felt a wave of cold. He retched.
For several moments—his breaths slight—he stared at the mangled face of his ex-colleague.
A frozen expression of terror.
Preston had already been scared. He’d known what was at stake…
He’d tried to warn… someone.
Now he too was dead?
Through the smoke, the bitter, metallic scent of still-warm blood, thick enough in the air Nik could feel it on his tongue.
Am I next?
“Fuck!”
He rose again to his feet, knees shaking. He tucked his laptop up under his arm.
The acrid, stinging smoke now shrouded everything, and the visibility in the room had dropped to near nil.
Steeling himself, he took off once again toward the fire exit at the rear. His feet pounded out a cracking pace.
He hurdled a toppled office chair as it appeared out of the veil in front of him, and made straight for the soft green glow of the exit sign.
He slammed into the push bar at full tilt.
The door gave way, and the freezing night air assaulted his sweat-soaked skin.
He paused, cursing himself for leaving his coat at his desk, but another bullet slammed into the doorjamb inches from his head, splintering it.
Blundering breathless into the night with his laptop under his arm and his heartbeat deafening in his ears, Nik searched for his bearings.
No car, not after… Alan…
The woods.
He weaved among outbuildings and service sheds, then sprinted across the car park. The slap of his own footsteps on the cold, damp tarmac.
A burst of burning speed and he won the safety of the dense grove of trees beyond the car park. Nik jogged along a rough path, the freezing branches of the close-growing trees lashing his arms.
When he’d covered more than a hundred metres he slowed to a stop.
Silence.
He stood there for at least ten seconds, trying to control his breathing.
He trembled.
Nik Patel, freezing and wet, heart still galloping, started on the long, cold walk into Basingstoke.
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