The Storm (10 page)

He turned his attention forward. “Well, feast your eyes on this,” he said. “Aqua-Terra two o’clock low.”

From five miles out the island was easy to see, like a giant oversize oil platform. As they flew closer, it became obvious that there was some real genius to Marchetti’s design.

Five hundred feet wide and nearly two thousand feet long, Aqua-Terra was truly a sight to behold. To begin with, the island itself wasn’t round—like so many floating cities envisioned by futuristic architects—it was teardrop-shaped, narrowing to a point in one direction while sporting a wide, curving border on the back end.

“Amazing,” Leilani whispered.

“Bloody huge,” the pilot said.

“I just hope they have a food court down there,” Joe replied.

Kurt laughed and glanced toward Leilani. “Are you okay?”

She looked pensive and determined, like she was about to go into combat. She nodded yes but seemed as if she’d rather be somewhere else. He decided to distract her by talking about the island.

“See that ring around the outside of the island?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“That’s a breakwater made up of steel-and-concrete barriers. They sit on powerful hydraulic pistons, and, from what I’ve read, when a big wave hits, they’re driven back, taking the brunt of the force like shock absorbers. When the wave disperses, they spring back into position.”

“What’s all that stuff over on the far side?” she asked, pointing.

Kurt gazed in the direction she indicated. An artificial beach sat next to a half-circular cutout in the hull. In this section the breakwaters overlapped but didn’t line up. Several small boats and a twin-engine seaplane were docked against a jetty.

“Looks like an inlet,” he said.

“Every island has to have a harbor,” Joe added. “Maybe they have a few restaurants on the waterfront.”

“No one could ever accuse you of lacking focus,” Kurt said.

The helicopter turned and began to descend. Kurt heard Nigel talking with an air controller over the radio. He looked back toward the island.

Large sections were obviously still under construction, exposed steel and scaffolding confirmed that. Other sections seemed closer to completion, and the rear of the island looked all but finished, including a pair of ten-story structures shaped like pyramids with a helipad suspended dramatically between them like a bridge.

“Could someone like this really have been involved in what happened to my brother?”

“The leads point this way,” Kurt said.

“But this Marchetti has everything,” she said, “why would he do something so horrible?”

“We’re going to do our best to find out.”

She nodded, and Kurt looked back out the window. As the helicopter began to turn, he focused on a row of soaring white structures that sprouted along each side of the teardrop-shaped island. They were widest at ground level, narrowing with a gentle rake toward the top.

They reminded him of oversize tails plucked from mothballed 747s. He quickly realized why. They were airfoils, mechanical sails, designed to catch the wind. He watched as they changed their angle slightly, turning in unison.

In the center of the island he saw a rectangular swath of green, complete with trees, grass and hills. It reminded him of New York’s Central Park. On either side were long, wide strips of land on which wheat seemed to be growing.

At the forward end, banks of solar panels reflected the sun while a group of large windmills turned with gentle grace.

Nigel turned to Kurt. “They’re denying us permission to land.”

Kurt had expected that. He reached over and flipped a switch. A canister he’d rigged up to the tail boom began to emit black smoke. He doubted it would fool anybody for long, but it couldn’t hurt.

“Looks like we’re having an emergency,” he said. “Tell them we have no choice but to set down safely or crash.”

As the pilot relayed the message, Kurt grinned at Leilani. “Have to let us land now.”

“Are you always so incorrigible?” she asked.

Joe replied, “From what I’ve heard Kurt here was the type to skip school and sign his own notes and have all the teachers fawning over him when he came back from his ‘illness.’”

Leilani smiled. “I call that resourceful.”

With a line of smoke trailing from it, the JetRanger angled for the helipad that bridged the gap between the roof of the pyramid-like buildings. The descent was smooth, almost too smooth.

“Make it look good,” Kurt said.

The pilot nodded, he waggled the stick, shaking the copter to simulate some type of trouble, then stabilized as they got closer and safely touched down on top of the big yellow H.

Kurt pulled off his headset, popped open the door, and stepped out. Stretching his legs, he gazed at the sights around him. It was like being on a rooftop restaurant and getting the best view in the house.

The sails he’d seen were at least a hundred feet tall, all marked with a bright blue stripe and the name aqua-terra. A scent lingered in the air, but it was so out of place, it took a moment for Kurt to recognize it: fresh-cut grass.

Another sight heading his way appeared similarly out of place. Wearing orange slacks, a gray shirt and a flowing purple robe decorated with green-and-blue paisley was a man who looked a lot like Elwood Marchetti, and a little like a peacock.

A thick brown beard on his face and circular red sunglasses completed his dizzying ensemble.

A thin man with strawlike blond hair trailed behind him. He wore a business suit and appeared to be upset.

“Mr. Marchetti, you shouldn’t be greeting these people,” the man said. “They have no right to land here.”

Kurt looked past Marchetti to the suit. “We had engine trouble.”

“A convenient time to get it.”

Kurt smiled. “I’ll say. Fortunately for us, your island was right here.”

“It’s a lie,” the man said. “They’re obviously here as spies or to attempt an audit.”

Marchetti shook his head and turned to the aide. He put his hands on the man’s arms and gripped him like an old-time revival preacher, healing someone from the crowd.

“It grieves me,” Marchetti began. “Truly grieves me. To think I’ve made you so paranoid and yet not given you the wisdom you need to see clearly.”

“Blake Matson,” he said, directing the aide’s attention back to Kurt. “This isn’t
the man
. This fellow doesn’t even resemble
the man
.
The man
comes in boats and ships, he brings guns and lawyers and accountants. He doesn’t wear boots and bring beautiful young women with him.”

Marchetti was taking in Leilani as he spoke.

“Excuse me,” Kurt said. “But what on earth are you babbling about?”

“Tax man, my friend,” Marchetti said. “The IRS, the various European equivalents and members of one particularly irksome South American country that seem to think I owe them something.”

“Internal Revenue Service,” Kurt said. “Why would you be worried about them?”

“Because they don’t seem to get the idea that I have now become
external
to their world and thus am not part of their
revenue
stream or in any way, shape or form interested in any of their so-called s
ervice
.”

Marchetti put a hand on Kurt’s shoulder and ushered him forward.

“This is my domain. A billion dollars’ worth of effort so far. Terra firma of my own. Only it’s not firma,” he said, stumbling over his words, “it’s aqua. Terra-aqua. Or Aqua-Terra, actually. But you understand what I’m saying.”

“Barely,” Kurt deadpanned.

“Tax man calls it
a ship
. They say I have to pay tariffs and registration fees and insurance. Comply with OSHA rules and inspections. They tell me that’s the bow. I tell them this is an island, and that right there is land’s end.”

Kurt stared at Marchetti. “You can call it the planet Mars, for all I care. I’m not with the IRS or anyone else who wants to tax you or question your sovereignty—or your sanity, for that matter. But I am a man with a problem and good reason to believe you’re the cause.”

Marchetti looked stunned. “Me? Problem? Those two words don’t often go together.”

Kurt stared until Marchetti stopped fidgeting.

“What kind of problem?” the billionaire asked.

Kurt pulled a capped vial from his breast pocket. It contained the slushy mix of soot, water and microbots that Gamay had given him.

“Tiny little machines,” he said. “Designed by you, meant to do God knows what, and found on a burned-up boat that’s missing three crew members.”

Marchetti took the vial and lowered the rose-colored glasses. “Machines?”

“Microbots,” Kurt replied.

“In this vial?”

Kurt nodded. “Your design. Unless someone’s been filing patents in your name.”

“But it can’t be.”

Marchetti seemed positively baffled. Kurt could see he would have to prove it.

“You have equipment on board that can look at this?”

Marchetti nodded.

“Then let’s go for a reality check and remove any doubt.”

Five minutes later Kurt, Joe and Leilani had taken an elevator down to the main deck, which Marchetti called the zero deck because the decks beneath it had negative numbers and those above it had positive ones. They walked to a line of parked golf carts, climbed into an extended six-seater and drove off toward the front tip of the island. Matson was left behind, and Nigel remained on the helipad, pretending to work on the helicopter.

Their travels took them across the island, an island that seemed almost deserted.

“What’s your compliment?” Kurt asked.

“Usually fifty, but this month we have only ten on board.”

“Fifty?” Kurt had expected him to say a thousand. He looked around. The sounds of construction reached them from various spots, but Kurt did not see a single worker or even hear voices.

“Who’s doing all the work?”

“Total automation,” Marchetti said.

He pulled to a stop beside a recessed section. He pointed.

Kurt saw sparks jump where things were being welded, heard the sound of rivets being hammered and high-powered screwdrivers turning, but he saw no one. After a few more welding sparks, something moved. An object the size of a vacuum cleaner, with three arms and an arc welder on a fourth appendage, scurried to a ladder.

The machine made the same sudden awkward movements as the robots on an assembly line, jerky but exacting. Robots might be precise, Kurt thought, but they still had no sense of style.

As the machine finished the welds, it retracted two arms and attached itself to one post of the ladder. Gripping on with a motorized clamp, it began to rise. When it reached the deck a few feet from Kurt, it released itself and scurried on down the road.

A smaller machine followed it.

“My workers,” Marchetti said. “I have seventeen hundred robots of different sizes and designs doing most of the construction.”

“Free-range robots,” Kurt noted.

“Oh yes, they can go anywhere on the island,” Marchetti boasted.

Halfway down the path, the robots were joined by several others, forming a little convoy heading somewhere.

“Must be break time,” Joe said, chuckling.

“Actually, it is,” Marchetti said. “Not like a person’s break, but they’re programmed to watch their own power levels. When they run low, they return to the power nodes and plug themselves in. Once they’re charged up, they go back to work. It’s pretty much a twenty-four/seven operation.”

“What if they have an accident?” Joe asked.

“If they break down, they send out a distress signal, and other robots come and get them. They take them to the repair shop, where they get fixed and sent back on the line.”

“Who tells them what to do?” Kurt asked.

“A master program runs them all. They get instructions downloaded through Wi-Fi. They report progress to the central computer, which holds all of Aqua-Terra’s specs and drawings. It also tracks progress and makes adjustments. A second set of smaller robots check on the quality level.”

“Supervisor robots,” Kurt said, almost unable to contain a chuckle.

“Yeah,” Marchetti said, “in a way, but without all that labor/management strife.”

Marchetti restarted the golf cart, and moments later they were back on foot, three decks down, and entering his lab. The sprawling space was a mixture of plush couches covered in brightly colored patent leather, steel walls showing a bit of condensation, and blinking computers and screens. Everywhere screens.

Soft blue light bathed the room, filtering in from a huge circular window, front and center. On the other side of that window, fish swam and the light danced.

“We’re below the waterline,” Kurt noted, gazing at the huge aquarium-like view port.

“Twenty feet,” Marchetti said. “I find the light soothing and very conducive to the thinking process.”

“Apparently not conducive to neatness,” Kurt noted, seeing how the place was a mess.

Junk lay piled everywhere, along with clothes and food trays. A couple dozen books were spread about a table, some opened, some closed and stacked precariously like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. In a far corner a trio of the welding robots sat dormant.

“A clean desk signals an unhealthy mind,” Marchetti said as he carefully extracted a drop of water from the vial, placed it on a slide and took the slide over to a large square machine that sucked the slide in and began to hum.

“That would make you one of the healthiest people around,” Kurt mumbled, moving a stack of papers from a chair and sitting down.

Marchetti ignored him and turned back to the machine. Seconds later a representation of the water drop appeared on a flat screen above Marchetti’s desk.

“Increase magnification,” Marchetti said, apparently talking to the machine.

The image changed repeatedly until it looked like a satellite view of an island chain.

“Again,” Marchetti told the computer. “Focus on section 142. Magnification eleven hundred.”

The machine hummed, and a new picture appeared, this time it showed four of the little spiderlike things clustered around something.

Marchetti’s mouth gaped.