Now it was Friday night and time to have a few drinks and relax for once. He’d never been to Iconoclast before, but his friend Pavel had said to meet there. Marsaud scanned the half-full bar popular with richer young locals. The warm beat of the electronic music pumped as groups of fashionable revellers enjoyed the drink and chat. The place felt permissive and promiscuous to Marsaud. He surveyed the dance floor to his right as he sat at the bar—the glow of the neon lights and the sight of several scantily-clad, sexy girls talking and dancing, some with their men, some in groups. And one amazing young brunette. She was alone, standing in four-inch heels and moving invitingly to the beat. She occasionally sipped her cocktail from the small, round table beside her. Marsaud took note of how exceptionally attractive she looked before his mind turned to the time again—8:20pm. Pavel was supposed to be there at 8pm; where was he? Marsaud tried to call him several times but with no luck. Strange. He decided he’d wait another fifteen minutes before calling the whole thing off.
Marsaud ordered his third beer of the evening, a German pilsner he hadn't tried before but had seen advertised. He took his first sip and his eyes automatically wandered back to the beauty in the short, black dress dancing solo. She was by far the nicest view in the bar. Probably a working girl, thought Marsaud to himself; but every bit as attractive as the best of the girls he’d had fun with in the virtual sex rooms. The alcohol had gone to work on him already. He now lacked the inhibition to avert his eyes from her. She swayed with the music and Marsaud felt hypnotized as he imagined what she’d look like naked. Her hair was a shiny, dark chocolate brown and her eyes were large and youthful set atop high, prominent cheekbones. Her delicate jaw line and angular chin were perfectly defined. Her long neck led to a slender yet curvy body replete with the splendour of her well-proportioned, self-supporting breasts. But the lips…My God she’s got beautiful, full lips, thought Marsaud, wondering if he actually said it aloud. Their eyes met as she hinted a smile at his attention. A barely perceptible sideways nod of her head followed by an inviting half-smile beckoned him to join her. Marsaud had butterflies in his stomach, but returned the smile, taking the briefest of moments to check the time. This time he hoped Pavel wouldn’t turn up after all. It was 9.15pm as Marsaud approached the gorgeous, young brunette. He’d never been with a prostitute in real life before. But now he felt he was about to go that one step further, past the virtual internet sex he’d been indulging in recently. He moved beside her—justifiably close because of the loud music. He was near enough to feel the tantalizing femininity of her body as he introduced himself and asked her name.
“Elena,” she replied softly in his ear. Her hand lingered as it made its way down from his shoulder to stroke across his chest on the way back to her drink. She took a sip and turned to face him, making no secret of what, to Marsaud, was a look of pure desire. Prostitute or not, Marsaud no longer cared.
September 1, 2058 Pobedy Apartments, Severodvinsk, Arkhangelsk Oblast, Russia
Marsaud awoke from a dreamless sleep at 4am to loud percussion coming from the front door of his apartment.
“Politsiya!” came the call. “Open up now or we’ll break it down.”
Marsaud, still drowsy, grabbed his bathrobe from the en suite and jogged to the front door. A quick check through the spy hole revealed two police officers. Their handguns were drawn. A third man in plain clothes had a shoulder holster still containing his service gun. Marsaud grew suddenly numb with fear—what the hell was going on? Where was the beautiful girl he was with last night?
“We can see you through the spy hole, Marsaud. Now open up and step back from the door with your hands up. This is your last warning,” came the commanding voice from the middle-aged detective in the centre.
He had no choice. He unfastened the chain and opened the door. Complying with the request, he simultaneously took two steps back from the door and raised his hands, waiting for what would come next. The police in modern Russia were there to Protect and Serve—but not the general public, rather themselves and their political masters. The lower down the food chain you were, the worse the treatment from the police seemed to be. Being a skilled foreigner in a high profile job gave Marsaud some reason for optimism. However, he was soon to have his hopes dashed as the two uniforms rushed through the door and restrained him roughly. They presented him, with arms behind his back, to the plain-clothes detective.
“Are you Ethan Robert Marsaud, French Passport number 751 289 9786?” he demanded.
“Errr, yes. What is this?”
“You are under arrest for the rape and assault of a minor, you have the right...”
Marsaud felt like he was in the middle of a terrible nightmare. His stomach was twisted in knots. He started hyperventilating as he protested his innocence in vain. He was cuffed and frog-marched to the waiting squad car outside of the thankfully deserted apartment lobby.
The driverless car allowed all three policemen to keep an eye on Marsaud as they transported him through the sparse early morning traffic. The glow of the sun, still half an hour below the horizon, illuminated what was going to turn out to be a sunny day. Not that Marsaud thought he would see much of the late summer sun for a while. The policemen sat in silence, so Marsaud replayed last night in his mind as he sat awaiting his fate. He remembered going back to his apartment in a cab with the beautiful girl he’d met at the Iconoclast Bar: Elena. They’d started kissing and been all over each other in the driverless taxi on the way there. Once they were inside his bedroom they’d made love once, twice, three times in all. She was like a fantasy in the flesh, Marsaud thought forlornly. After the third time they’d lain on the bed and he must have fallen asleep. Next thing he knew the Police were banging on his door.
What the hell happened? thought Marsaud, not for the first time. He simply could not recall. But one thing he did know was that their lovemaking was passionate, yes, but not brutal or rough. And rape—that’s absurd. She beckoned me over to her in the bar. She came to my place willingly! He had to admit to himself that he had no idea of her age. It’s not like I’m gonna ask for ID when chatting up a girl am I? he thought, justifying it to his own mind. The police car drove them past a security barrier, which automatically detected its presence and opened the way to the underground car park below the Central Police Headquarters. The two uniforms got out without saying a word. They strolled through the double sliding glass doors into the underground car park lobby and disappeared through a security door to the left. The car parked itself amongst at least a dozen other unused squad cars in the far corner of the car park. The detective just sat opposite him saying nothing.
“What’s going on?” pleaded Marsaud, puzzled and worried as to why they were just sitting there.
The cop ignored him. Marsaud dared not move, but the wait was ominous and he was getting more frightened the more he thought about it. These bastards could be ruthless and he knew for sure that he needed to be processed and have access to a lawyer. Even 2050s Russia still had that right. From nowhere another figure appeared, making his way briskly to the car, opening the door and taking a seat next to Marsaud. He’d never seen this man before. He definitely would have remembered his piercing blue eyes, cropped blonde hair and muscular physique. He looked like a tough, but compact Special Forces soldier and had a penetrating look of intelligence in his eyes.
“Show him the evidence, Igor,” the newcomer instructed the plain-clothes cop. The older man took out a small, scrolled tablet, which, at the press of a button, unfurled and locked into a solid page-sized touchscreen.
The cop wasted no time in presenting an image of Elena’s e-ID card, which read:
Elena Pushkina Aslanova
Date of Birth: 23-01-2043
According to her e-ID card, Elena was only 15 years and 7 months old—five months below the legal age of consent in Russia.
“But, how was I to know?” protested Marsaud.
“Hush now, Mr Marsaud. We have been nice to you so far and this will go s
moothly if you keep your mouth shut until requested not to,” admonished the muscular guy. “Next, Igor…”
The detectives swiped the next image onto the screen. It was a signed doctor's report describing scratches, contusions on Elena’s face and body and signs of internal damage consistent with a violent rape.
Muscle guy laughed, and said in a mocking tone, “You’ve been a naughty boy, Mr Marsaud. But I don't blame you; she’s something special, isn’t she?” The detective said nothing. “Next, Igor.”
The next series of images were a shocking compilation of the beating Elena had been subjected to. Her eyes were black and swollen; she had bruises all over her and ugly red welts and scratches over her legs, chest and buttocks. Marsaud turned away, unable to stomach what had become of the attractive, undamaged young woman he’d met just nine hours before. He was too scared to speak even though he wanted to again protest his innocence and express his disgust at the bastard who’d really done this.
“Last one, Igor,” instructed muscle guy.
It was a lab report. It described the findings from a vaginal swab taken from Elena. Semen had been found and matched using the DNA database that every resident or visitor to Russia needed to submit to. Marsaud knew who it would be a match for even before he read the pertinent line: ‘Ethan Robert Marsaud’. He just sat there. Silent. Numb. Igor retracted his scroll tablet and placed it in his pocket.
“Oh, and there are several witness statements stating you left the bar with your victim last night. A damning indictment wouldn't you say, Mr Marsaud!” said muscle guy, with theatrical glee in his tone. He eyed Marsaud like a cat playing with a half-dead mouse. He went on: “And her parents are adamant that the full force of the law should be applied in this case—especially with her being still a minor. Yes indeed, the judiciary would find this a most heinous crime against a beautiful young schoolgirl. Can I ask you, Mr Marsaud, how you think the lovely Nicole will feel when she learns of this?”
“Bastards! Don’t bring her into this. First, this is a setup! Second it’s nothing to do with her!” shouted Marsaud, regretting he’d screamed at the menacing interrogator so ferociously.
Muscle guy brought his face right up to Marsaud’s so his nose was almost touching and said coldly in his ear, “Shout at me again, boy, and I’ll make you feel pain you’ve never felt before. Got it?”
Marsaud nodded, cowering into his place at the show of restrained anger from the powerfully built man next to him. Marsaud felt he’d acted selfishly and had to admit that he hadn't even considered the impact this would have on his fiancée Nicole. Even without the allegations of rape and assault, what he’d done was unconscionable. Out of sight, out of mind, thought Marsaud to himself as an explanation, but not a justification. He felt deeply ashamed for betraying Nicole.
“Now to the part you’ve been waiting for. Once you’re convicted of this do you know what the sentence will be?” said Muscles, emphasizing the ‘will’. “No? Don’t even want to guess?” He laughed. “Well, you must be very tired from last night’s action. Let Igor enlighten you about the penalty for assault and rape of a minor in Russia. Igor?”
“Three years for the assault. Twenty years in the gulag for the rape of a minor. Placement on the Sex Offenders’ Register for life and full castration on conviction,” he reported matter-of-factly.
Marsaud was stunned at the harshness of what he was facing and would do anything to get out of it. His mind had switched purely to survival mode; anything in the world to make this nightmare go away.
“So, you’re in a bit of a pickle, Mr Marsaud,” said Muscles needlessly, enjoying the anguish his captive was experiencing.
Almost breaking out in tears, Marsaud drummed up the courage to speak. “Is ... is there any way out of this?” he asked, looking submissively at the man next to him for some sign of hope.
“Ah-ha! The penny has dropped. That’s fantastic. So glad I didn't have to spell it out to you. Well, here goes… You love choice in the West and I’m going to give it to you. You can choose what Igor just outlined for you; but I know, I know that’s not your dream future, is it? Gotta hurt having your balls cut off! Especially if they forget the anaesthetic as sometimes happens. Things ain't what they used to be in the underfunded penal system.” Marsaud winced at the thought. “Ok, so let’s get to your other choice. Very simple really: just forget you ever saw anyone threaten Kamkin. Forget you saw my boss and his pet gorilla at Gorshkov Works. Forget all of your little conspiracy theories on what the nasty old Russians want with the probe. Just do your job, tell the WGA clowns everything is per plan and go home safe and sound once the probe is back from Avendano. Yes, we know that will mean you must stay here in lovely Severodvinsk for a couple more years. Well tough shit, it’s part of the deal. You’ll have to find a reason to stay in Russia until the probe’s back—travelling, closing out your reporting, new girlfriend, whatever, we don't care. Just make it convincing. You will return to America when the probe returns. Got it?” Marsaud nodded as he continued. “Now is that a deal or is that a deal, Mr Marsaud? Oh, before I forget, don’t think about home leave or confiding in little Nicole. We want you where we can see you and we don’t want you telling a soul about this. And there’s no place on Earth or in the Solar System you can hide from us. You can either take this secret to your grave or you’ll be wishing for your grave once the gulag’s your new home.”
“I’ll stay quiet—I won’t cause any trouble or tell anyone,” a relieved Marsaud whispered as he already started to wonder about the long-term cost to his conscience and his plans. His betrayal of Nicole and his betrayal of his country was something he’d now have to bear for life. But at least he had his life. He was under no illusions—he would not survive the gulag and there was no way they’d grant him leave to serve his sentence in the US or France.
“Glad we have an arrangement, Mr Marsaud,” beamed Muscles as he opened the door to get out of the cop car. “Have a nice life, Mr Marsaud. You’d better hope we don't meet again.”
Igor, the detective sitting opposite, handed him his shoes, jeans and sweatshirt. He’d never even realised the cop had taken them from his apartment. Igor waited for the interloper to leave before saying, “You’re free to go, Marsaud. Walk up the entrance slope and make your own way home. CCTV, records and witnesses will agree you were never here.”
He uncuffed Marsaud and said, “Now go.”
Chapter Seven
September 4, 2061 Alliance Citadel Space Station, Low Earth Orbit
“Thank you Jim and Dana there in the GNN Newsroom. Good evening to you wherever you are watching this from. I’m Vanessa Bailey, science correspondent, on board the Global Alliance Space Station in Low Earth Orbit. I’m floating in the giant Assembly Module where, if we can pan the camera a little … there you go ... you can see the Santa Maria probe. It’s Sunday afternoon at GNN Centre in Atlanta and in less than two days’ time Santa Maria will go to Avendano, seeking out new life and making history. Just beyond Santa Maria sits the backup probe Pinta. Will you just look at these probes? About as big as a semi-truck, they look small in this huge, cylindrical Assembly Hall where they were put together. And there at the end are the access doors behind which is outer space. Joining us now is the engineering chief whose team led the construction of these probes. Robert Hartmann is based at the WGA centre out of Seattle but is visiting Citadel for the final checks. Thank you for joining us, Robert.”
“It’s my pleasure, Vanessa,” said Hartmann as he floated beside her with a wide, beaming smile.
“So, Robert, is everything set for launch on Tuesday morning?”
Hartmann nodded. “Everything is looking good. Santa Maria will manoeuvre out of the Assembly Module, where we are right now, at 10 am Pacific on Tuesday. She’ll do a short burn on the chemical rockets taking her 200km away from the station before engaging the FTL drive.”
“So speaking of that revolutionary piece of tech – the FTL or Faster-Than-Light drive – it’s been reported
that the tests have gone well. Do we now fully understand how the drive will perform and is it still considered experimental?”
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