The Storm (NUMA Files 10)

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.