The Sons of Scarlatti. John McNally
“Unless, of course, there is still a second sample left in existence?” mused Commander King, letting the cynical words hang in the air.
“Ach, the American one?” said the German Chancellor. “Destroyed, nein?”
“Like we destroyed ours?” said the British Prime Minister.
All eyes turned to the US President.
“Retained for ‘Reasons of National Security’ you mean?” said Commander King, enjoying the moment. “Where would it be, I wonder? The Fort Detrick facility outside Washington? One might look in warehouse nine, aisle eight, section two S.”
“Find out,” the President snapped at someone off-screen, furious that King should so easily reel off a US state secret. General Jackman bristled.
“Forget it. Even if it is there,” said the US Chief Scientist, a silver-haired woman on the President’s other side, “you’d never be able to get a viable tracking device on to something that small.”
King smiled. Inside.
“Any thoughts? Dr Allenby?”
Al pushed himself out of his seat and walked over to the giant image of the Scarlatti, deep in thought. He turned back to Spiro. “You’re sure they’ll read each other’s pheromones over great distances?”
“Over miles, definitely,” said Spiro.
“More than ten?”
“Reasonable probability,” said Spiro.
“Really…” Lomax sighed. “More than ‘reasonable’ at ten, unlikely beyond twenty.”
“Can we anchor a tracking device on to that thorax?”
Spiro and Lomax looked puzzled.
Al changed tack.
“Theoretically, if we could drill into it, or glue it on to, say, this cross member here?” He pointed out a girder-like section of the armoured thorax that flattened at the centre.
“Theoretically? Yes,” said Spiro. “This is cellulose material without nerve endings.”
“You would have to ‘theoretically’ be extremely careful then,” said Lomax, attempting sarcasm. “The thorax plates move against each other to allow greater flexibility than in other wasp species. It’s a weak point so the joints between the plates are packed with nerve endings.”
Al checked his watch, a Rolex adapted to his own design to incorporate a Geiger counter, pressure gauge and half a dozen other tiny instruments (the secret gift from a grateful nation), and turned things over in his mind. Tick tick tick tick tick.
“Well, Allenby? Will you revisit Project Boldklub?” said the Prime Minister.
Most people in the meeting didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. The name Boldklub was obscure, being short for Akademisk Boldklub, the football club that Niels Bohr, the father of subatomic physics, once played for.
Al looked at King, suspicious. King studied his nails.
“We’ve faced down one chemical and two nuclear Armageddons in the recent past. I don’t see why we can’t pull together as a team to deal with this.”
King looked back up at Al.
The world waited. Al looked over at Finn.
And from his hiding place Finn studied the Scarlatti. The colours, the grotesque armour, the clutch of stings, the distorted feelers and proboscis… everything about it gave off a sense of anger and suffering. In a perverse way Finn felt sorry for it. Yet within a few months this thing could wipe out six billion people. Everyone he knew, as well as the four he loved (Grandma, Al, Yo-yo and sometimes Christabel), plus everyone that filled his day, from everyone he watched on telly to everyone he travelled to school with. All gone. Like his mum.
Finn was fascinated, locked on.
“Oh… go on then,” said Al at last.
“What? Go on what?” barked General Jackman from the US.
Al seemed to snap awake. “We haven’t got much time. I suppose I’d better explain.”
He picked up an iPad linked to an interactive whiteboard and started to draw.
Al looked up, as if to a classroom of kids.
“Anyone know what this is?”
“It’s an atom,” said General Mount, irritated by Al’s playful tone.
“Is this a physics class?” asked the American President.
“Yep. Everyone needs to get a handle on this. It is indeed an atom,” said Al. “Which one?”
Hydrogen! Finn wanted to say, itching to put his hand up.
“Hydrogen,” muttered the US Chief Scientist.
“Good, a hydrogen atom, nice and simple: a nucleus in the centre and one electron spinning around, with a constant spatial relationship between the nucleus and the electron – this distance, this distance right here.” Al drew a dotted red line between the dot at the centre and the dot on the outside.
He then tapped the two spots again, the nucleus and the electron. “Now these two dots are something, matter, stuff,” he explained, “but this –” he waved around inside the circle all over the place – “is absolutely nothing.”
“Me, you, everything around us is more than 99.9 per cent nothing, because every single one of the atoms we’re constructed from is more than 99.9 per cent nothing, with only a tiny bit of actual atomic stuff. Everyone got that?”
Al looked up at the world leaders, then glanced across at Finn, to make sure they were all still with him; with furrowed brows and a big grin respectively, they were.
“I will never understand this,” said the British Prime Minister.
“There’s a whole quantum dark energy/dark matter thing we could go into, but it’s better to think of it as a beautiful mystery. Think of atoms as being balloons rather than building blocks, balloons filled with nothingness and a tiny nucleus.”
“Bravo,” said the French President. “But this not catch flies.”
“Not yet, no. But my Big Idea, known to a select few as Boldklub, was –” he pointed again to the red dotted line denoting the distance between the nucleus and the electron – “to see if we could create a magnetic field that could reduce this distance and—”
And before Al could say the next word a neural synapse fired at the speed of light in Finn’s brain and a conclusion so fantastic occurred it smashed any last compunction to stay quiet.
“You’re going to SHRINK stuff?”
Everyone turned. Finn’s eyes were as wide as wonder.
Lit from below by the iPad, and looking 99.9 per cent mad scientist, Al pointed straight at him. “Ta-da!”
“WHAT?”
“What did he say?”
“Shrink stuff?”
“C’est impossible!”
“Mein Gott, was that a child?”