by Nick M Lloyd
‘I’m sorry, but I cannot say,’ said Martel. ‘But I am sure.’
There were no more questions. Hundreds of pairs of dead eyes looked at each other in mutual impotence.
‘You are all innocent victims,’ said Martel. ‘We will do what we can to help the hostages.’
Tim shared a look with Sam. There were forty thousand souls stuffed into the Hot Zone caverns. Maybe not being slaughtered now, but the machinery would soon be restarting.
More calculations sprang up in Tim’s head. If Martel did stop the slaughter by storming the Hot Zone, or in some other way, how many innocents would the Ankor kill in reprisals? Perhaps Martel and the prime minister had originally assumed a relatively low number. The China explosion turned all that on its head.
‘MacKenzie must have been planning this for years,’ whispered Sam.
‘The bastard,’ said Tim. It had always been about delivery of human brain tissue – from the so-called Blessed. The plutonium angle was clearly a decoy, just an excuse to build a secure underground processing area. The Hot Zone had been designed from the start as a death camp, with the rest of SpaceOp developed as the delivery mechanism.
‘MedOp was built up to give him credibility,’ he continued. ‘MIDAS was feeding the Ankor data.’
A scuffle drew Tim’s attention. Whaller had forced MacKenzie into his chair in front of the workstation.
‘Unlock it,’ said Martel.
MacKenzie hesitated.
‘Hurt him,’ said Martel to Captain Whaller.
Whaller wrenched MacKenzie’s arm.
MacKenzie screamed.
A few pairs of eyes from the main floor looked up before returning to their own business.
‘Unlock it,’ repeated Martel.
MacKenzie gave the password.
‘Show me what’s happening,’ ordered Martel.
Still in obvious pain, MacKenzie opened a file. ‘Status …’
Status Report at 7pm
RL-Sent-Packed-Available-Status
1-4540-0-0
2-4812-0-0
3-0-1235-3421-Green
4-0-0-0-Green
Status Report at 11pm
RL-Sent-Packed-Available-Status
1-4540-0-0
2-4812-0-0
3-0-4656-0-Green
4-0-0-0-Green
‘What does it mean?’ asked Martel.
‘The 4656 number. They’ve just finished packing the heads for RL3,’ said MacKenzie.
‘When are the next batch killed?’
‘Not until sixteen hours before RL4. Tissue degradation. It has to be done at the last minute.’
‘Show me all your communications with the Ankor.’
MacKenzie navigated his file directory for a few seconds. It soon became clear all the folders were empty. Everything except those recent status reports had been wiped. It made sense; the Ankor would have the ability to delete whatever they wanted.
‘They didn’t delete the status reports,’ said Martel.
Tim spoke quietly. ‘Maybe they’re trying to dissuade an immediate frontal assault by implying the current hostages are not in immediate danger.’
Martel acknowledged Tim’s point with a nod, then turned back to MacKenzie. ‘Where are Hardy and Briars?’
MacKenzie answered immediately – changing his story from minutes earlier. ‘Hardy is dead. They ordered the Leafers to kill him. I don’t know about Briars.’
‘Show me the Hot Zone,’ said Martel.
‘The cameras are all hard-wired,’ said MacKenzie, pointing to the back wall.
Gesturing for Tim and Sam to follow, Martel led MacKenzie over.
The first few wires MacKenzie plugged in resulted in nothing but blank screens.
‘Charlie cut some wires,’ said Sam.
MacKenzie raised an eyebrow. With Martel’s pistol still trained on his head, he selected another wire from the back wall. This one gave a picture.
The low-resolution image was of a large underground room with holding pens made from chain-linked wire. The ones MacKenzie had told people were ready for secure plutonium processing.
These underground cages were not empty.
Although not crammed, they all held people. Whether for some pseudo-humane reason, or simply to perpetuate the façade to stop them from rioting, the cells had bedding and basic household furniture: tables, chairs, sofas.
‘How many rooms are there like this?’ asked Martel.
‘Each cell holds twenty people,’ said MacKenzie. ‘Each room has forty cells.’
To Tim’s untrained eye, the security down in the Hot Zone caverns looked formidable. Leafers in hazmat suits patrolled the pathways that led between the cells.
‘What type of locks are on those cells, and the interconnecting doors?’ asked Martel.
‘A mixture of electronic and physical,’ said MacKenzie. ‘But all of the electronic locks are on their own closed circuit. They can’t be accessed from here.’
Martel turned to Private Hunter. ‘Can you get me point-to-point with the prime minister?’
‘He’s already on his way here, sir,’ said Hunter.
‘Good,’ said Martel. He clearly approved of the prime minister’s decision.
An alarm from a new screen opening in the corner of the room drew everyone’s attention.
It showed the current radiation levels outside the Control Centre.
.1 millisieverts per hour
Two months’ allowance in every hour.
Clearly the radioactive material from the Menai Strait blast was now settling and causing levels far in excess of what would be regarded as safe background.
‘What else happens back here?’ Martel asked MacKenzie, indicating to the other hatches on the back wall.
‘Control points,’ said MacKenzie. ‘I have manual overrides for the launch processes.’
‘The Ankor can’t launch RL3 remotely?’ asked Martel.
‘No,’ said MacKenzie.
‘Can they initiate the Hot Zone processing?’
‘No.’
That made sense; everything Tim knew about MacKenzie pointed towards the man being highly prepared. MacKenzie would want ongoing leverage.
Of course, the Ankor had plenty of leverage over the prime minister and the UK population.
Tim looked at MacKenzie.
What leverage do they have over you?
‘How do you communicate with them?’ asked Martel.
MacKenzie pointed to the keyboard. ‘I just type,’ he said. ‘Or, on these floors, I can speak into the air. They’re listening.’
Martel pulled the keyboard towards himself.
We need to talk. Your actions threaten all-out war between us but it is not too late to step back.
The reply came quickly.
Continue with delivery of RL3 and then we will talk. We will detonate more bombs if you disobey.
Tim wondered what Martel had already agreed with the prime minister as contingency. Had they decided that a certain number of the hostages could be given in settlement? Tim knew it would not be acceptable to most of Earth’s population, and, in particular, the US president had explicitly warned the prime minister against it.
Was there a middle ground that avoided moral bankruptcy, nuclear oblivion, and reprisals from fundamentalists on Earth?
Tim didn’t have to wait long to see the opening gambit from the British government.
Martel typed again.
In the light of your military superiority, we are prepared to allow human volunteers to replace existing prisoners such that you get something of your wishes met. Any hostages not replaced must be set free.
The rest of the world would cry shame, with perhaps worse from some quarters.
Continue with delivery of RL3 and then we will talk. We will detonate more bombs if you disobey.
The message had simply repeated.
Tim wondered if any volunteer programme could possibly deliver another forty thousand people in time.
Martel walked to the front of the mezzanine level and addressed the three hundred people waiting below.
‘Stop the RL3 countdown.’
CHAPTER 33
SpaceOp
The screens covering the walls of Mission Control continued to show constant images of people rioting in the streets of London. Although little coordinated activity was apparent, there seemed to be three broad groups: give them what they want, never surrender, and we’re all going to die. The army were on the streets trying to keep the peace, but inevitably they were mostly making targets of themselves.
As terrifying as the breakdown of law and order in the British capital was, it was the live stream videos of the Shenyang firestorms in China that held Tim’s attention.
How many million people did I just kill?
Breathing slowly and deeply to counteract the adrenaline coursing through his body, Tim took Sam’s hand.
She squeezed it gently. ‘Those deaths are not on us.’
‘We took the photos.’
Sam shrugged. ‘The Ankor pressed the button. They’re the murderers. We just exposed the crime.’
‘MIDAS has been collating large oceans of data for the Ankor to analyse,’ said Tim. ‘We’ve helped them.’
‘Yes,’ said Sam. ‘But from what Charlie said, they used the data for detailed behavioural analysis explicitly to minimise the number of deaths.’
That seems to have gone out the window.
‘What else did Charlie say?’ asked Tim.
‘He said that initial Ankor calculations showed that a simple deal – either, heads for cash, or heads to avoid nuclear obliteration – could not be struck. That’s why they went for subterfuge.’
‘If I’d known about the reprisals …’
Sam pointed at the main floor. ‘They all feel responsible too.’
Small groups of people stood huddled beneath them, quietly talking and consoling each other. The collective sigh of relief had been palpable when Martel had delayed RL3.
Tim looked over towards Martel, who was surreptitiously exchanging handwritten notes with the other members of his team.
Tim joined the group, and after signalling for a pencil, wrote his own and gave it to Martel.
Much of infrastructure here is designed around MacKenzie keeping leverage over the Ankor. There’s a room below they cannot see or hear.
Martel nodded and then spoke on his radio.
Less than a minute later, Tosh and Hunter returned with Sam’s crutches and medicines from the MIDAS server room.
Martel gathered the small group together and addressed them. ‘Private Hunter will stay up here with me. Tosh, guard the main doors. No-one leaves.’ He paused. ‘Sam, can you find any data remaining on the workstation?’
‘No problem,’ said Sam.
‘Captain Whaller,’ said Martel, beckoning him over. ‘You know what to do. Tim will take you down. Send Richardson back if you need additional support.’
Richardson grabbed MacKenzie. Whaller picked up the large holdalls and Tim led them down to the Faraday room in absolute silence.
Tim used MacKenzie’s security pass to access the mechanical lift that took them down the last stage. Stopping outside the Faraday room, Tim gestured that they should leave all electronic items on the table outside.
Inside, he activated the electromagnetic shielding, then turned to Whaller. ‘This is as secure as we can hope to be. I know of at least one dangerous person unaccounted for: Juan, the head Leafer and MacKenzie’s personal bodyguard. He may be down here somewhere.’
MacKenzie shrugged. ‘I suspect he’s gone to ground somewhere, under orders from above.’
Whaller ignored MacKenzie and led Richardson into a corner where they had a hushed discussion.
Appearing to reach an agreement, Whaller turned to Tim. ‘I’m not going to mislead you,’ he said. ‘We are going to torture Mr MacKenzie. It will not be pleasant, but I would prefer you stayed to validate his answers.’
‘You don’t need to torture me,’ said MacKenzie. ‘I can tell you everything I know and still no power on Earth can possibly hurt the Ankor. The worst you could do would be to utterly self-destruct rather than send the materials.’ He paused. ‘I suspect the chances of that happening unilaterally across every nation on Earth are infinitesimally low.’
Tim turned to Whaller, wondering if the warning had been for his benefit, or as an extra incitement for MacKenzie. ‘I’ll stay.’
Whaller turned to Richardson. ‘Relieve Mr MacKenzie of his clothes.’
Fuck … that moved fast.
MacKenzie flinched as Richardson took out a razor-sharp combat knife and cut his clothes away, leaving him entirely naked.
Tim shuffled to the back of the room. Still only three metres away.
MacKenzie, his hands tied behind his back, was pushed into a kneeling position on the floor.
‘Where are our liaison officers?’ asked Whaller, meaningfully wielding a short truncheon.
‘I already told you Hardy is dead,’ said MacKenzie. ‘And, I don’t know about Briars.’
Whaller hit MacKenzie on the side of the head with the truncheon. MacKenzie, his hands still secured behind his back, fell sideways and landed on his face.
Richardson pulled him back up into a kneeling position. A livid bruise was blooming, and blood seeped from the corner of his mouth.
‘When do the decapitations for RL4 start?’ asked Whaller.
‘I already told you that too,’ said MacKenzie, drawing a breath. ‘Sixteen hours before launch.’
‘Where are the heads for RL3?’ asked Whaller, turning back to MacKenzie.
‘The heads for RL3 are immersed in freezing gel and will soon be shipped out to the Assembly Zone,’ replied MacKenzie. ‘Look … You don’t need to hit me.’
Without appearing to consider it further, Captain Whaller kicked MacKenzie right between his legs. ‘I don’t need to, but I want to. The current deal is … you answer every question entirely accurately and I will not physically detach your bollocks with my boot.’
Whether MacKenzie registered Whaller’s threat, Tim was not sure. After the kick, he had rolled onto his side and was retching on the floor.
Richardson eased MacKenzie back up into the kneeling position once more.
MacKenzie whispered something through pain-pursed lips about the Geneva Convention.
Whaller took Richardson’s knife, addressing MacKenzie with the tip held only an inch from his left eyeball. ‘You are not human. You will not be treated humanely. You will not benefit from Geneva. If I don’t like your answers, or your attitude, then you will be tortured in a way that inflicts permanent damage.’
Involuntarily, Tim retched. He clamped his mouth shut and swallowed the vomit back down.
Whaller reached into his pocket and took out a small roll of masking tape. He pulled out a line and then wound it around the little finger of MacKenzie’s left hand. ‘I need to make sure you don’t doubt my resolve.’
MacKenzie’s eyes bulged. Whaller had his attention.
Whaller laid the knife on the floor a metre from MacKenzie. ‘How does the Hot Zone work?’
For the next few minutes MacKenzie, hardly stopping for breath, explained how the process ran. It was entirely devoid of electronics, except for a few entirely closed-circuit pieces – certainly there was no network connectivity. MacKenzie had designed it to be unhackable.
‘The Ankor didn’t mind this?’ asked Whaller. ‘All the processing being hidden from them?’
A small part of MacKenzie’s self-belief returned. ‘They had no choice but to accept.’
At Whaller’s prompting, MacKenzie went on to describe the service corridor layout and the various timings.
Whaller turned to Tim. ‘Consistent with what you know?’
‘Yes,’ said Tim.
‘So, they can’
t start or stop the processing?’ asked Whaller, confirming.
MacKenzie shook his head. ‘Only I can start or stop it. All the controls are on the back wall of the mezzanine level. Only I know how to use them. Any wrong input causes catastrophic cleansing of the whole area.’
‘Catastrophic?’
‘The Hot Zone is sitting on top of a series of conventional, but very large, phosphorus bombs.’
Whaller paused to consider MacKenzie’s information. ‘Do the Ankor know about them?’
‘Yes,’ said MacKenzie, although a flicker of his eyes indicated to Tim that he could be lying.
MacKenzie’s confidence was building. ‘Forty thousand more heads for the price of not detonating A-Gravs across the UK. It’s not even a real choice. You saw what they did to China.’
‘What about the physiology of the Ankor themselves?’ asked Whaller. ‘What do you know about them?’
‘They have computing power beyond your imagination. Each of those pods is a two-thousand-kilogram biological brain. They’ve analysed us. They’ve experimented on us. They know the world’s governments will cave in.’ MacKenzie paused and looked directly at Tim. ‘The Ankor have ten thousand nuclear bombs strategically placed across Earth.’
‘How many do you think the Ankor are prepared to kill?’ asked Whaller.
‘I don’t know. The original plan was devised to minimise casualties and, once they had what they wanted, they were going to provide detailed information on how to effectively counteract radiation damage for those who’d been caught in the crossfire.’ MacKenzie looked uncertain. ‘Now, however, my guess is the main body of Ankor will be prepared to kill a few tens of millions to secure their fifty thousand brains.’
‘Main body?’ asked Whaller.
‘There’s a radical minority faction,’ said Tim, giving Whaller a quick summary of what Charlie had already told him. ‘The Transcenders.’
‘Yes,’ said MacKenzie. ‘The Transcenders – they’d be happy to kill all seven billion minus the fifty thousand … to get their fifty thousand.’
‘They’re psychos,’ said Tim.
‘Perhaps, by our standards,’ said MacKenzie. ‘But every year you spend a few thousand pounds going on holiday. That same money could save the lives of three hundred children currently drinking contaminated water somewhere in the Sub-Sahara. It’s just a matter of scale.’
