Watkins was about to concur when the screen suddenly split in two. The bottom half contained the new list of available commands while the top displayed an image of the Earth in the form of a black ball surrounded by a halo of light.
“Holy shit,” Mitch said. “Is this a live feed?”
“I think so,” Watkins said. “What else can it be?”
The answer to this question never made it to Mitch’s lips. One moment the bridge was silent, the next it was filled with a spine-curdling scream of exhilarated terror.
Chapter 107
38,000 Miles Above the Earth
What made Francis scream was not the sight of his home planet hurtling itself in his direction at a speed only a particle physicist could realistically conceive of, but the accompanying sensation. Francis would never find the words to even approximate what it was like because the feeling was entirely artificial. It was what a fighter pilot might experience if he achieved a speed far beyond the level at which his body would disintegrate while remaining entirely conscious. In other words, something which could not in reality be felt, yet was possible using a technology that made the Large Hadron Collider look like a high school science experiment.
What made him stop screaming was the voice of Mitch, as loud and clear as if they had been sitting next to each other on a church pew.
“Francis? Can you hear me?”
He was about to say he could when his sense of reality was assaulted again, this time by the sight of a shooting star from above rather than below. It was there and gone again so quickly Francis thought it might have been his imagination.
“Mitch? Is that you?”
“It’s me alright,” Mitch said.
“How am I looking?” Francis said.
“If you mean the version of yourself you left behind, you look like you’ve got Down syndrome.”
Francis laughed. “Thanks.”
“So what’s it like?” Mitch said.
“I wish I could tell you. I really do.”
“Can you move?” Mitch said. “You know, move your arms?”
The idea hadn’t even occurred to him. He could feel his body. Which is to say, he was aware of its form. But when he tried lifting a hand to his face it refused to move.
“I think I’m frozen,” Francis said. “Do we have any idea what’s going to happen when I get down there? I only ask because I think I’m moving a little too fast for a smooth landing.”
“A hundred and sixty thousand miles an hour,” Mitch said. “According to Heinz’s calculations.”
To Francis, who had once driven a stolen BMW from Berlin to the Czech border and reached the lofty speed of 140 mph, the figure was too high to mean anything.
“You’ll slow down when you reach the atmosphere,” Heinz said. “As for the landing, I think we’re just going to have to assume that whoever designed this thing knew what they were doing.”
“That’s reassuring,” Francis said.
The next few minutes lapsed in sporadic conversation to which everyone contributed. Whenever there was a pause Francis found himself drifting off into a haze in which it all looked and felt like a lucid dream. Then Mitch or Titov or Watkins would say something and he’d be back, falling toward the Earth like a comet with memories. In some ways the small talk felt almost sacrilegious, a human stain on a divine moment.
“Hold on to your hat,” Mitch said. “You’re about to fall out of heaven.”
Francis barely had time to make sense of the statement before he was engulfed in a ball of flame. There was a sudden sensation of heat, but it wasn’t painful. Then, as suddenly as it had started, it was gone, overtaken by an entirely new sensation. The feeling in the pit of his stomach seemed to fold into itself as the atmosphere began to push back. He could feel himself slowing down, although to his eyes there was no apparent difference. The surface of the earth, a black canvas covered in clusters of bright light, was coming at him way too fast.
This was when Francis began to feel afraid. That it would make no difference to his own body if Odin crashed into the ship and straight through it to the bottom of the sea did not abate this fear in any way. He was in this body now, and the physical and emotional stimulus it provided were his own. The fact that he could hear Mitch expressing his own concerns to the rest of the team on RP One didn’t help.
It wasn’t until the Xilin Gol was actually in view that Heinz’s assumption about Odin’s creators proved well founded. As with everything else inside this alien body, the sensation was an exaggerated version of things he had felt before. In this case it felt like a parachute opening above him, only this one didn’t actually exist, and the deceleration was so strong it would have turned a human body into a puddle of organic matter in the toes of its own boots.
The impact was a marked improvement on the one Francis had imagined, but it was not exactly gentle. When he looked down at his feet he was standing in a steel crater several feet deep. The depression had knocked the cargo hatches to either side of him off their rails. One of the sections to his right collapsed into the hold beneath with a mighty clang. Then there was only the night, the stars and the low hum of the ship’s engine.
“Francis?” Mitch said.
Francis tried to move his arm again and this time it responded. He stood flexing his hand for a moment, mesmerized by the reflection of the moonlight in the strange elastic material. Heinz had theorized that Odin was made of an alloy which was animated by some kind of electric charge, an idea that made no more sense to Francis than the theory of relativity.
“I’m here,” Francis said. “And I’m working.”
“Well thank God for that,” Titov retorted. “Can you see the bomb?”
Francis could. He was about to say so when Mitch said, “That’s it.”
“I don’t know which is more strange—being a giant or most of the people I know living in my head,” Francis murmured.
The bomb was sitting in the gap between the hatch to Francis’s left and the one beyond it. He was about to walk across the top of it, then remembered what had just happened to the other one and went around. Although Odin’s skin had the bizarre feel of liquid glass, neither soft nor flexible to the touch, the soles of its feet felt as if they were made of rubber. They made no sound as he walked across the steel floor.
Francis reached the covered frame and pulled off the canvas.
“This isn’t a bomb,” he said, forgetting again that he was now sharing his sight.
“It’s six bombs,” Mitch finished.
Francis reached for one of the cylinders and quickly drew back his hand.
“What the hell was that?” Mitch yelped.
“You tell me,” Francis said. “I feel like I just stuck my fingers into a plug socket.”
“The charge readings just went into the red,” Mitch said.
“Amazing,” Heinz said.
“What do you mean?” Mitch said.
“I think it was charging itself,” Heinz suggested.
“With radiation?” Francis said.
“With energy,” Heinz said. “Try it again.”
Francis did, but this time there was no shock.
“No reading,” Mitch confirmed.
“Because it’s fully charged,” Watkins put in. “Look at the readout.”
“Alright, guys,” Francis said. “How about we leave the science for later. I need to stop this ship.”
“I think we can assume everything on the bridge is fried,” Mitch said. “You’ll have to head for the engine room.”
“Hold on,” Watkins said. “Look back at the middle of that thing.”
Francis did.
Watkins pointed. “What’s that on top of the box in the center?”
Francis leaned closer. There was a square aluminum box welded to the center of the frame. The lid was fixed on by eight bolts. Protruding from the top of it was a steel rod about three feet high.
“It’s an antenna,” Mitch said.
“Can you get th
e lid off?” Heinz said.
Francis tried getting one of the bolts between two of his fingers but it was too small. Before anyone could suggest an alternative he snapped off the antenna, pushed his thumb into the side of the box and peeled the cover back as if it were made of dough. Five of the bolts snapped off with a loud ping. One of them hit Francis in the chest and ricocheted off like a bullet.
“Take it easy,” Mitch said. “That’s an atomic bomb, not a jungle gym.” Inside the box, partially obscured by wires, was a digital readout welded onto a circuit board.
“You guys see this?” Francis asked.
“We do,” Mitch confirmed.
“Eight hours is about right, based on the original course,” Heinz said.
“Which means these guys were going to blow Shanghai off the map,” Francis said. “Makes you wonder what the Chinese did to piss them off.”
“Maybe they just changed their minds,” Mitch said.
“Maybe,” Francis said. “How we doing for time?”
“You’re forty-five miles out,” Mitch said. “That gives you a little less than two hours.”
“I doubt we’ll have quite that much time,” Francis said. “Sooner or later someone’s going to try and contact this thing and discover it’s gone rogue.”
Francis reached down, folded the cover back into place and made his way toward the stern.
It wasn’t until he reached the door at the base of the superstructure that the problem posed by Odin’s size became apparent. At ten feet and three inches Francis would have to crawl through the ship to reach the engine room.
“Guys, this isn’t going to work,” Francis said.
“Head back to the first cargo hold,” Mitch said. “You’ll have to go down there and fight your way back.”
Francis reached the hatch and stood looking at it for a moment. It was actually two hatches that met in the middle and opened out on rails. He pushed one hand, then the other, into the gap and pulled them apart. The harder he pushed the faster they moved. Again, the sensation was alien. Whereas the human body quickly reaches its limit of strength under effort, Odin seemed to have no limits. Out of curiosity, he grabbed the edge of the hatch and began to squeeze, then looked on in amazement as the metal first buckled in his hand, then began to shrink, and finally started to glow red hot.
“Wooow,” Mitch said. “That’s not a good idea.”
“Why not?” Francis said.
“You’re sending some of these readings into the red,” Mitch said.
There followed a short discussion between Mitch, Watkins and Heinz which Francis couldn’t follow without a view of the screen they were looking at.
“That little trick just burned up about fifteen percent of your battery,” Mitch said.
“It has batteries?” Francis said.
“Well, I doubt they’re made by Duracell,” Mitch said. “But it wouldn’t work without a power source. There’s no magic involved, just very advanced physics. I suggest you keep the stunts to a minimum.”
“You have to remember it’s a symbolic machine,” Watkins added. “It’s not a utility system.”
“Yeah,” Francis said, “I get it. No showing off.”
Francis leaned forward, grabbed the edge of both halves of the hatch and swung over the edge. He hung there for a moment looking down into the blackness, then let go. The drop must have been at least 40 feet. He hit the ground standing and flinched as the walls suddenly appeared at the end of a bright beam of light that was either coming from a hole in his head or from his own eyes.
“Looks like we have a built-in flashlight,” Francis observed.
“We’d have to take it back if it didn’t,” Mitch said. “You want the wall behind you.”
Francis walked to the bulkhead. It was covered in cement dust.
“So what?” Francis asked. “I just punch a hole in it?”
“You’ll have to,” Mitch said.
Francis needed no more encouragement. He pulled his right arm back, clenched his hand into a fist and thrust it forward. The clang was deafening.
“Holy shit,” Mitch said. “I think we’ll have to call you Bruce Banner from now on.”
Francis, who knew who the Incredible Hulk was, but not Bruce Banner, ignored this and looked into the hole he had just made. It appeared to be a control room of some kind. His fist had gone through both the bulkhead and whatever was mounted to the other side. Through the jumble of wires he could see a door only a few feet away.
“Keep going,” Mitch said.
Francis made two more holes above and below the first then grabbed a piece of the bulkhead and tore it off. It was like tearing a strip of cardboard out of the side of a very sturdy box, only cardboard didn’t begin to smolder when you ripped it. It took him a minute to make the hole big enough to squeeze through.
“I’m betting the engine room is on the other side of that door,” Mitch said.
“It is.”
Francis recognized the voice of Captain Almila and said, “Hey, Captain. I was wondering when you’d show up. I guess I should apologize for what I’m doing to this otherwise perfectly intact ship.”
“Only if it turns out to be a waste of time,” Almila said.
In deference to Almila, Francis squeezed through the door instead of making it bigger. The engine room wasn’t so much a room as a cavernous hall filled with crisscrossing pipes of every size and color. To Francis, who had never been inside a ship’s engine room, the engine itself looked impossibly big, even to a man as tall as he now was. It was also very loud. But this seemed to have no effect on his ability to hear what was being said on RP One. It was as if the voices of Mitch and the others were coming through his ears while the sounds around him were being transmitted directly into his head.
“So what’s the plan?” Francis asked.
“Captain?” Mitch said.
“The easiest way to stop the engine is to cut off the fuel supply,” Almila responded.
Francis looked up at the engine.
“There,” Almila said. “The two yellow boxes on the second level.”
“With the pipes running out of them?” Francis asked.
“Yes. Follow the larger ones coming out of the bottom and running down into the floor.”
Francis walked over to the first of these. He was about to rip it from the wall when Almila said. “If you can, just squeeze them flat. It’ll be a lot less messy.”
Francis put his palms to either side of the first pipe and pushed them together until it was flat. The response from the engine was instant. It didn’t stop, but slowed down and began to shudder. He repeated this for the second pipe. Within a few seconds the engine ground to a halt.
Chapter 108
The Pandora
Wednesday 27 June 2007
0200 EEST
By the time Francis landed on the deck of the Xilin Gol, the bridge of RP One was almost full. Richelle had returned shortly after Francis made the transition to Odin, and taken up position at the back of the bridge. Not long after this Sarah, Mitch’s wife, had arrived and joined her. Captain Williams, skipper of the Callisto, had flown over with Titov, and Yoshi, the pilot, had now joined them too. To accommodate the growing audience, Mitch had duplicated the feed from Odin on two of the viewports and the overview of the Xilin Gol on the other two.
With nothing happening topside, everyone’s attention was fixed on the feed from Odin. It was Sarah who spotted the helicopter as it flew into the picture and hovered above the deck.
“Guys,” Sarah said. “I think we’ve got a problem.”
Mitch turned to the other monitor. “Oh, shit.”
A moment later the helicopter was joined by two more. Men began rappelling down onto the deck and quickly spreading out.
“What’s going on up there?” Francis said.
“Helicopters,” Mitch said. “Three of them. And I don’t think they come in peace.”
Two of the helicopters left as soon as the men were out, but
the third only moved out over the water and hovered there. Mitch zoomed out the view and cursed again when he saw another ship. It was only a few hundred yards away.
“Francis,” Mitch said. “We’ve got a problem.”
“No shit,” Francis said.
“There’s a ship on its way.”
“It’s a destroyer,” Almila said.
“What do I do?” Francis said.
“We should pull him out,” Titov said.
“We can’t leave Odin onboard,” Watkins said.
Mitch zoomed back in on the Xilin Gol just in time to see several of the newcomers gather around the warheads. A moment later the helicopter that had stayed moved into position above it.
“Speak to me,” Francis said. “What’s happening?”
“They’re taking the bomb.”
Chapter 109
The Xilin Gol
Wednesday 27 June 2007
0730 CST
Francis didn’t need to hear anymore. He ran back to the entrance of the control room and barged through it, sending the door flying off its hinges. When he was back inside the cargo hold he squatted near the wall, looked up at the gap in the hatch and jumped. He managed to get a hold on the side with one hand, but before he could bring up the other he lost his grip and fell, landing on his back with a loud crash.
Ignoring Mitch’s increasingly desperate pleas to know what was happening, Francis tried again. This time he managed to get hold with both hands and pull himself up. Gunfire erupted behind him and his head and lower back were suddenly peppered with bullets. The fact that these were harmless could not override his instincts, which demanded he find cover. He pulled himself over the side and ducked behind the edge of the hatchway as the fire intensified. When he raised his head over the side a bullet hit him square in the middle of the forehead and went flying up into the air. Behind the assault team, the helicopter was already moving away. A single rope hung suspended from a hole in the undercarriage. As Francis watched, one side of the frame began to rise.
“Take out the helicopter,” Francis shouted. “Take it out now.”
Origin - Season Two Page 35
