Immortal

by Nick M Lloyd

  ‘Agreed,’ said Whaller. ‘The rockets may not go near to the Ankor craft, if they are building the shield. But if they are trying to trick us into giving them resources, to steal or use against us, then it is quite likely they will take them onto their main ship.’

  ‘Good point. Anything else you need from me?’ asked Martel.

  ‘An update on Francis MacKenzie?’ asked Captain Whaller.

  ‘Nothing of note,’ said Martel. ‘MacKenzie appears entirely focused on getting the SpaceOp launches off the ground. Apparently, he’s obsessed with being the first launch site to send materials up.’

  Martel’s on-site team – Briars, Jones and Hardy – were the only genuine space launch technology experts in the entire British army. Most of the others had been lured away by MacKenzie five years previously to work on SpaceOp.

  ‘Readiness for plutonium?’ asked Whaller.

  ‘They have buildings set aside for plutonium storage, colloquially referred to as the Hot Zone,’ said Martel. ‘It’s secure. Assuming British soldiers escort the plutonium onto the site, it will be straightforward to protect it before it is sent.’

  ‘I suspect the problems really start once the Ankor get it,’ said Whaller.

  CHAPTER 18

  London, Tuesday 23rd April

  Bumper to bumper on the motorway, Tim and Sam crawled along at five miles per hour with all the other cars heading out of the city. Given the increasing levels of unrest in London, MacKenzie had arranged a military escort – a single jeep with a couple of soldiers in it. It had been fun for a few minutes, but effectively all it had done was delay their departure by an hour.

  ‘I was expecting them to provide a secret escape route,’ said Sam. ‘At least some sirens.’

  Tim looked at the jeep in his rear-view mirror; the army sergeant assigned to them didn’t seem too impressed with his job for the day either. ‘I guess if we are attacked, then we’ll see the benefit.’

  They inched forward. Looking left and right, Tim saw a lot of families with their cars packed to the roof. Clearly, news of the radiation leaks – however small the government protested they were – had hit home. Whereas a week previously the number of people leaving town had been modest, now everyone seemed to be on the road.

  An hour later, as they approached the ring road, Tim’s phone rang. It was the sergeant behind them.

  ‘We’ve been asked to peel off here,’ said the sergeant. ‘We’re needed elsewhere.’

  ‘No problem. Thanks.’

  They both hung up.

  Sam looked at her laptop. ‘He’s right. Violence is breaking out near my flat.’

  Again, the traffic edged forward. The motorway, four lanes wide, was more akin to a giant parking lot than a road. To his right, in the fast lane, a red sports car inched forward. At the current rate it would overtake Tim by early evening. Tim smiled to himself. Although they were going to be horrendously late for Anglesey, there was something reassuring about being safely in an orderly queue.

  ‘Come on, you fuckers!’ shouted Sam from the passenger seat, not sharing Tim’s Zen on the matter. She pointed to the junction a mile ahead. ‘Hopefully people will leave at this exit.’

  ‘I suspect most people will stick on this road as far as they can.’

  Their road went from London, to Oxford, to Birmingham, and then they changed to smaller roads into Wales. It was likely most of the drivers didn’t have a finish point in mind; they just wanted to be away from London. But where to go? There was another A-Grav in Birmingham, albeit not leaking yet, and an estimated further eighty-five A-Gravs currently in orbit that would land somewhere in the UK at some time.

  Is anywhere safe?

  ‘That guy,’ said Sam, pointing to her left, ‘just drove up the emergency access lane.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ said Tim, making eye contact with Sam. She looked about to argue but returned her attention to her laptop.

  ‘There’s a quote from Dr Felicity Rackling at DeityForNow,’ said Sam. ‘You like her, right?’

  ‘She’s all right.’

  DeityForNow was a newish pseudo-spiritual website that had been gaining traction amongst the softer believers of all religions. It provided a halfway house between science and religion; Dr Rackling bridged the gaps by offering spiritual immortality whilst explaining away every difficult religious tenet as a metaphor.

  ‘She’s just published an editorial piece called I Want to Believe.’ Sam scanned the material for a few minutes. ‘Basically, it says the Ankor treatment of humanity is like the monotheistic deity-believer relationship.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She says we should submit entirely to the Ankor and not question a single thing … “let them have the scraps they’re asking for and hope they save us”,’ said Sam. ‘What do you like about her?’

  ‘I researched MacKenzie quite thoroughly before taking the MIDAS job. Dr Rackling had a history with him. They fell out when she exposed him as giving a lot of money to religious organisations to suppress scientific advancement. It was a long time ago, and he’s almost apologised for it. Certainly, he’s changed his ways and had all electronic records of it erased from the internet.’

  The traffic shuffled forward again.

  Then came to a dead stop … for what seemed like ages.

  Tim craned his neck to see what was happening. In four of the five cars around him, the driver and all the passengers were looking intently at their phones.

  ‘Fuck!’ exclaimed Sam, not looking up from her laptop. ‘Social media just blew up.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Tim.

  ‘Hold on,’ said Sam, typing. ‘It seems that a few million people in the UK just got personalised messages from the Ankor. Examples coming through.’

  ‘Michael, apologies for confusion surrounding our arrival. Be assured we are working hard to ensure the space shield will protect Earth from the gamma rays. We need you to support the overall defence process. Please report to CO2 Scrubber Production Line – Lyle Park Industrial Estate, East London. Arrive Wednesday 1st May. We understand your keen hand-eye coordination will be invaluable to the production line. You can expect to be there for 2 weeks. Food, shelter and other basics will be arranged.

  Your neighbour, Karen, has been asked to feed your cat.’

  ‘Pretty specific,’ said Tim.

  ‘They’re all like this,’ said Sam. ‘Each one is personalised, identifying the recipient’s skills and targeting their specific personal levers.’

  ‘Have you got one?’ asked Tim.

  ‘Nope,’ said Sam, taking Tim’s phone from the cup holder between them. ‘Neither have you.’

  ‘I guess we already have relevant jobs to do.’

  Again, Tim looked around. Most people were now having animated discussions with their fellow passengers.

  Then traffic began to move.

  At least half the cars around them were now filtering off the motorway, all heading down the emergency access lane.

  Within a few minutes, Tim and Sam were past the junction and doing a steady seventy miles per hour.

  ‘People just obeyed …’ said Sam. ‘Even with the radiation leaks.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you have done the same?’ asked Tim. ‘A detailed personal message, beamed directly down to you from space?’

  ‘A massive invasion of privacy,’ said Sam. ‘Evident manipulation.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tim. ‘But would you have obeyed?’

  Sam shrugged.

  They drove on.

  A few hours later, they were past Birmingham and heading into north Wales.

  ‘It’s getting dark,’ said Sam. ‘Do you want to stop for the night?’

  ‘We can’t really. It’s just a couple more hours,’ said Tim, who did want to stop. Ever since the crash, he’d dreaded driving her – and driving at night was almost unbearable. Not that the crash had been his fault, as the police, the lawyers, the judge, and his therapist had all repeated many times. A lorry had run a red light and
smashed into the side of his car.

  I should have reacted faster.

  Sam reached out and laid her hand over Tim’s. ‘You’ll be fine.’

  Without taking his eyes off the road, he smiled.

  ‘Do you want to hear the latest on the mass messaging?’ asked Sam.

  ‘Sure.’

  She read from the screen.

  Mass mobilisation of resources across the UK to support the shield development and other safety initiatives

  Estimated two million UK residents contacted: five hundred thousand have been mobilised to work in a production capacity

  Main locations: London, Liverpool, Sheffield, Manchester, Newcastle, Leeds, Bristol

  Trending words: CO2, scrubbers, shielding, lead, steel, pre-fab

  ‘Mobilised for the war effort,’ said Tim. ‘What’s social media saying?’

  Sam was quiet for a moment as she absorbed the news. ‘Umm … it’s a good thing.’

  ‘Is it just the UK?’

  ‘Nope. All countries with space launch facilities are being targeted.’

  Tim’s phone buzzed.

  A text from Dexter Hadley.

  Hopefully see you in a few hours. Flat’s ready but installation needs to start tonight.

  Dexter Hadley was the Mission Control administrative lead. He did everything from ordering new chairs to confirming launch schedules. He’d been Tim’s main contact on the Anglesey site. He was a decent guy.

  Tim asked Sam to reply on his behalf. She took his phone and wrote a polite response before signing it with a hug-kiss emoji. Then she turned to Tim. ‘I have a favour to ask. I was hoping I could stay with you. You’ve two bedrooms.’

  ‘Sure. You’re not sharing with Charlie?’

  ‘He needs to be on twenty-four-hour call for MacKenzie,’ said Sam. ‘It doesn’t really work for me.’

  ‘But things are okay?’ Tim heard his voice change pitch.

  Sam looked at him, then let out a long sigh. ‘Who knows …’

  Tim wasn’t sure what to say, and let the silence stretch.

  ‘Do you ever discuss me with him?’ asked Sam.

  Tim thought back to six months earlier when he was drinking with Charlie in a pub in Madwyn village. They’d had little to do, and drunk talk had ensued. For some reason, Tim had confessed to Charlie that he was infatuated with Sam. At the time, it had felt like a sensible idea.

  But, even in his drunken stupor, Tim had seen the glint in Charlie’s eye.

  What’s mine is mine. Not yours.

  Outwardly, Charlie had laughed it off and said it was just Tim’s guilt about the crash – an emotional transfer. He’d gone on to say that he was sure Tim was obsessed with healing Sam … but that was different from loving her the way he did.

  I can’t repeat any of that to her.

  ‘Tim?’ said Sam.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘He hasn’t said anything about you. We’re not that close any more.’

  Funnily enough.

  Sam remained silent and looked out of the window.

  For the next hour, with minimal chat, they crawled the final twenty miles bumper to bumper with other cars and trucks, all heading to SpaceOp on the narrow roads.

  It didn’t help that they had to stop at security checkpoints every five miles.

  ‘So,’ said Sam, as they pulled away from yet another one, ‘a fairly relaxed place.’

  ‘It was pretty tight last time I was here,’ said Tim. ‘I guess MacKenzie has dialled it up a notch.’

  Eventually they reached SpaceOp and, after more checks, were waved in.

  At the crest of the hill overlooking the facility, the view of the infrastructure was largely the same as it had been on Tim’s visit a week earlier: launch pad on the left, factories to the north, and warehouses to the east, with movement between zones restricted by chain-linked fences and security gates. All of it was floodlit to allow twenty-four-hour working.

  What had changed was the sheer level of activity. SpaceOp was full to overflowing with people and vehicles.

  ‘Look at all the cabling,’ said Sam.

  She was right. Clearly, hard-wiring was the order of the day. Thigh-thick bundles of cables ran along every road and pathway.

  Another security guard waved them into the car park, where they were processed and provided with mobile phone tokens, keys, and maps. They were also given radiation monitoring badges.

  ‘Shall we snoop around a little before we meet Dexter?’ asked Sam, fixing her badge to the belt loop on her jeans.

  Tim looked around at the warren of chain-linked fences and electronic security gates. They couldn’t physically snoop anywhere.

  ‘Tim! Sam!’ Dexter had driven down from the admin building in a four-seater electric buggy to meet them. ‘You got here!’ he said, storing their bags and Sam’s wheelchair on the back of the buggy.

  ‘No,’ said Sam, with an innocent smile. ‘We’re performing astral projection from a lovely pub just outside Stratford.’

  Dexter smiled. ‘Hang onto that good humour. You’re going to need it.’

  ‘Tense, is it?’ asked Tim.

  Dexter whistled through his teeth. ‘Oh, yes. I thought he was focused when he was just chasing his dreams … Now he’s saving humanity it’s a whole new level.’

  Tim didn’t need to ask who ‘he’ was.

  ‘Can we freshen up first?’ asked Sam.

  Dexter turned. ‘As long as you don’t tell anyone. I’ll take you to your flat and give you fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Sam, grabbing her crutches.

  Their flat, a one-story concrete prefab monstrosity, was a five-minute drive away through similarly functional, hastily built accommodation.

  Inside, Tim placed his bag on the sofa and then opened it. He took out a handheld Geiger counter he’d kept from his laboratory days and showed it to Sam. ‘It doesn’t do alpha particles. But if they move plutonium into SpaceOp and it isn’t safe, then we’ll know.’

  ‘Could be useful,’ said Sam, ‘but we have these.’ She tapped the radiation badge on her belt.

  ‘Back-up doesn’t hurt,’ said Tim. ‘Obviously, don’t tell anyone about it.’

  ‘Understood.’

  Sam went into her bedroom to change and Tim joined Dexter outside the flat.

  ‘Did you guys get the mass message thing?’ asked Tim.

  ‘My wife’s sister was sent a long personal email imploring her to report to a CO2 Scrubber Production Line,’ said Dexter, pausing for a drag on his cigarette. ‘I heard of a guy in Madwyn village receiving a printed letter that was waiting for him at the pub when he went for his lunch.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘It does imply total control of our communications systems,’ said Dexter, throwing the cigarette butt onto the floor before conscientiously grinding it out with the toe of his shoe.

  ‘Anything else unusual?’

  ‘Of the set that contains everything in the known universe, the circle containing usual is very small,’ said Dexter with a shrug.

  ‘Probably means we have to redefine the set of usual,’ said Tim with a smile. ‘Anything more on the GRB?’

  ‘Nope,’ said Dexter, now nervously checking his watch. ‘Will Sam be long? MacKenzie is expecting us soon.’

  ‘She’ll be here,’ said Tim.

  A few minutes later, Sam emerged on her crutches in a fresh set of clothes. ‘For fuck’s sake, Tim,’ she said. ‘I’m disabled but I still managed to have a wash and change my clothes.’

  ‘I was catching up on gossip.’

  ‘I have to share a server room with your smelly being for a few hours,’ said Sam, shaking her head. ‘You just dumped your bag on the sofa – a disgusting suitcase, regularly dragged through grim city puddles.’

  ‘Sorry, I …’ Tim started to go through the dramatic mea culpa routine.

  Dexter, unaware that Sam was joking, showed signs of discomfort.

  ‘That’s where I’m going to have to put my bare arse l
ater,’ she continued, hobbling on her crutches over to the electric buggy and getting in the back seat.

  Dexter’s eyes widened.

  ‘She just winding me up,’ said Tim. ‘She thinks I live like a slob. I think she does. We have different areas of focus.’

  ‘We did the online survey,’ said Sam, turning and checking her wheelchair was safely stowed. ‘Tim is twice as likely as me to be eaten by cats.’

  ‘I don’t even have cats,’ said Tim, as the buggy set off.

  ‘Yet,’ said Sam, opening her eyes wide. ‘You don’t have cats … yet.’

  As Dexter drove towards Mission Control, he pointed out some of the newer developments. ‘That constant stream of headlights,’ he said, pointing east, ‘is a convoy bringing in material for the Hot Zone. The nuclear materials … stay clear.’

  ‘So, it’s arriving?’ asked Sam.

  ‘I’m not sure. MacKenzie has it all wrapped up in secrecy,’ said Dexter. ‘It’s the one area where I have no access, and no oversight.’

  ‘Understood,’ said Tim. ‘Anything else to worry about?’

  ‘Everything?’ said Dexter.

  As the lights of Mission Control came into sight, a gunshot echoed from the east.

  ‘What the fuck!’ shouted Sam.

  Dexter didn’t slow the buggy, but continued to head north towards Mission Control. ‘We have over a thousand security personnel across the whole of SpaceOp. Most of them are unarmed and work for Tosh.’

  ‘But …’ said Tim, noting the dearth of information in Dexter’s reply.

  Dexter continued. ‘The Hot Zone and some parts of Mission Control have MacKenzie’s private security force. The Leafers. The ones near the Hot Zone are armed and occasionally fire warning shots to keep people away.’

  ‘That’s allowed?’ asked Sam.

  Dexter shrugged. ‘There are a couple of British army liaison officers around. They seem to accept the Leafers …’ He paused. ‘It’s not a subject to bring up with MacKenzie.’

  ‘Just warning shots?’ asked Tim.

  Dexter turned in his seat. ‘There have been … misunderstandings.’

  ‘I haven’t seen anything on the news,’ said Sam.

  Clearly concentrating hard on not saying anything inflammatory, Dexter slowed as they approached the main doors of Mission Control. ‘Just don’t go anywhere near the Hot Zone.’