The Rift Rachel Lynch (epub e ink reader .txt) 📖

for my back, but I’m afraid it’s too old and bent now for it to work.’ He referred to his spine not the contraption she’d bought to rectify his terrible kyphosis. She rubbed his back where it hurt, and he groaned with appreciation. His work involved him hunching over his inventions like this for hours without rest or movement, and ergonomics was a relatively new innovation (he wished he’d patented it). But they wanted for nothing. Despite the humble location of their apartment, it was lavishly decorated, and a brand new Mercedes sat in the garage underneath the building. His engineering degree and his aptitude for vision saw him quickly become sought after as one of France’s most eminent structural designers. And the man who’d made all of it possible by paying for his education in the first place was also an innovator of great reputation.

Mustafa’s gratitude was infinite, and that was why this job wasn’t one that he would be charging for. It was extra to his other work, which was winding down now. He no longer needed the money, just enough work to keep him alert. He mostly gave lectures and advice to industry specialists. He could charge five thousand euros for an appearance at a dinner, where he would speak to the glitterati of the design world in Europe. It was very dull and Fatima never accompanied him, which is why he rarely went now: nights away from the family weren’t worth it.

She smiled at him and continued to rub. ‘It’s so bad, Mustafa, look, you need to put this on!’ She put the cups down and grabbed his harness and attached it to his back. It made him sit upright, but the pain was so unbearable after an hour at his desk that he knew he’d give up. He smiled at her and thanked her for her tenderness.

‘What are you up to now?’

‘A hobby,’ he said. ‘Fawaz asked me.’

‘Fawaz? You spoke to him? How is he?’

They both still felt the loss of Rafik keenly. Fawaz bin Nabil had first come into their lives when Mustafa was still odd-jobbing at the port. A shipping company employed him to labour fourteen-hour days. One day, he’d been lugging a heavy carton of goods up a staircase, to be delivered to another level because the forklift wasn’t working properly when he’d overheard two men talking about the quayside. Mustafa had stopped and listened. One of the men had begun to scold him for laziness and demanded that he return to work. Mustafa had pointed out that the design theory that the men were discussing, about expanding the quayside, could be immeasurably improved – and done much cheaper – if they used a new material resin, as well as digitalising all loading and unloading. In the early nineties, the concept of standardising anything on such a massive scale in the shipping industry was bold indeed. The man who turned to him and asked his name was the CEO of Nabil Tradings: Fawaz bin Nabil himself. From there, he’d been sent to the Aix-Marseilles University and gained double honours and a distinction. Fawaz employed him straight away. Talk of his employer dealing in illegal this and that never fazed Mustafa, and besides, he never believed a word of it. When Fawaz decided to permanently settle back home in Morocco, rather than commute back and forth, it was a sad day indeed. However, Fawaz had flown Mustafa and his family over there for reunions sometimes. Mustafa hadn’t seen him for the past five years, and so when he called, asking for his help, Mustafa couldn’t thank him enough for getting in touch. He would do anything for the man who’d given them this beautiful life.

Of course he could build drones. He didn’t ask their use and assumed it was some new innovation for delivery and communication. In fact, he spoke to Fawaz only this afternoon, telling him of the potential to transport heavier goods further than the current parameters forums and groups dedicated to such technology were stating. The trouble with engineers is that they’re not artists, he would often say. Fawaz agreed. He asked him to test how far, how low and at what weight they could function.

Mustafa was in his final stages of prototype: it was time to build the real thing. The first model was a triumph, and he was adding the finishing touches to the on-board computer (which he’d designed himself). Once he was happy with the data and had tested the real thing, the drone would be replicated and transported to a factory in Lyon and his work would be done. He felt, this way, he could repay at least some of the debt that he owed Fawaz: there was no price on improving someone’s life. Mustafa sat back and admired his work.

‘He’s well, my love, and sends his love to you, as always.’

‘What is that?’ asked Fatima, lingering with the dirty teacups hanging once more off her fingers.

‘It’s a drone.’

‘What’s a drone?’ she asked.

‘It’s an unmanned mini-plane that can fly anywhere, transport goods, deliver things, remotely report back information, monitor the weather, the night sky… anything you want. It is the future.’

‘Is it safe?’ she asked.

‘What do you mean? Of course it’s safe! I built it – it’s not going to explode!’

‘No, I mean, who is in charge of it if no one is flying it? What if it hits someone?’

Mustafa laughed. ‘It’s like a remote-control car but in the air – it’s controlled by a human. It’s so safe, I would deliver you chocolate in it!’

She laughed. ‘Yes please! And what’s that?’ She pointed to his screen, where photos of people filled the monitor, to one side, next to the diagrams of equations and modules. ‘Who are they?’

‘They’re the customers. Their profiles get uploaded into the computer. It’s another safety feature. These machines are destined for very wealthy clients who want secure drones to deliver information, or that’s how I understand it.’

‘Like a fingerprint?’ she asked.

‘Exactly.