by A J Marshall
Entering the lounge, with its plush dove-grey carpet, Richard immediately made a beeline for a large window that overlooked the apron. There he stood, somewhat nervously, waiting for a luggage trolley or similar to appear, as the only fighter jet visible on the concrete expanse was parked on the far side and the presence of a nearby fuel bowser indicated that it was being prepared for flight. Rothschild returned to the room after a brief tête-à-tête with the Operations Officer just as Richard saw his bag, along with some other equipment, being wheeled to the aircraft in question, although he could not see if it had been opened. Now the gamble hinged on his diplomatic status.
“Are you feeling unwell, Richard? You look quite pale,” enquired Rothschild, closing the door to the room and walking over to him.
“No, no, I’m fine, thanks. Another flight, that’s all.”
Rothschild looked at the helmet box under Richard’s arm and then he looked up. “You seem very reluctant to put the box down, Richard. Anything inside I should know about?”
“Oh, this . . . ! No. Just personal stuff, you know. I expect to be away for a few days.” Richard looked outside, trying to conceal his blush, and then he put the box on the floor and stood astride it. “Anyway, I’m sure you’re not here to say goodbye, are you?” Sensing his embarrassment fade, Richard looked directly at Rothschild.
With his suspicions appearing to subside, Rothschild shrugged. “Well, yes and no actually,” he replied. “Primarily, I came over for the ride. One has to book some way in advance for a few minutes with the Prime Minister. I needed to update him on the current Icarus situation. The forty-minute drive allowed me his undivided attention. He has just left for Beijing along with several cabinet members – a particularly pressing engagement with the Chinese Government. A NetJets Global charter, in one of their Eagles . . . a very impressive aeroplane I must say, extremely comfortable.”
Richard nodded. “Yes I know. This is a wild guess, Peter, but is that to demand some action from the Chinese over Tongsei’s dubious activities?”
“One cannot make demands on the country with the richest economy or the world’s largest standing army, Richard. One can only put one’s case as forcibly as possible. The US President, those of Russia and France, and one or two other G12 leaders have gone to do just that.”
“So it is to do with Tongsei?”
“More the Huang Hai Industrial District, actually. The initiative has been on the table for three years now, but the Chinese have never wished to discuss it because of the enormous tax revenues they receive. There are serious implications for the region and they will not take action unless they have proof . . . unequivocal proof. Nevertheless, despite what’s been said in the West, it appears that they have been concerned about the illegal activities taking place on their doorstep for some time, but wish to deal with it in their own way. There are similar industrial areas in other countries, of course. There’s a growing movement by national governments to limit the autonomy of these super-companies and in so doing limit their stranglehold on various commodities.”
“About time!”
“I can only agree with you. We will see how successful they are. Now, the other reason I’m here is to do with your security. I’ve decided to give you some support; you’re not going to like it, but I expect you to comply.”
“What kind of support? You mean backup . . . ? A partner?”
Rothschild shrugged. “Yes . . . a partner, if you like.”
“Preston?”
“Unfortunately, Preston is not available. He was my first choice, but he manages the protection squad for the Royal Family these days and can’t be spared.”
“So who, exactly?”
“I’m not going to beat around the bush with this, Richard; it’s a specialised system, a machine.”
“A robot! No thanks . . . absolutely not. I’m not working with a robot!”
“You are under orders, Richard.” Rothschild snapped. There was an awkward pause and then Rothschild’s expression softened. “Listen, I knew you wouldn’t like it, but I need you to have the best support possible. The situation is developing and I don’t just mean the risk posed by Rhinefeld. You were lucky in France; it could have been a very different outcome. The truth is that we were caught out; I don’t like that. It means that I am not doing my job properly.”
“A robot!” Richard just looked at him with disgust.
“Richard, you will . . .”
Rothschild seemingly bit his tongue and stared outside for a moment. Richard followed his eye line. Stores were being loaded into an under-wing pod on the fighter. Rothschild refocused his attention on Richard.
“Understand that we are facing a concerted, covert attempt to destabilise the world’s energy base and it grows day by day. Personally, I think a major conspiracy is imminent. I have threads of evidence but not enough to make a case and nobody in government will run with it for fear of calling wolf. The cyber-attack on SERON is now unprecedented. Mubarakar’s discovery and the Ark may yet provide vital information – nothing surprises me these days. That means you remain a target. I need your cooperation.”
“Okay, I understand. But don’t say a Humatron, Peter. I hate Humatrons.”
“No, it’s not a Humatron, not quite anyway. Originally modelled on one, it’s true, but quite different now. Evolved, one might say.”
“Go on, please, I need to feel better about this.”
“You might recall the Humatron body parts you left in the Safe House in Adulis a few years ago?”
Richard nodded.
“With the help of our local agent we retrieved them. Not long after, Professor Nieve and a team of specialists set about countering this system with one of their own . . . an improved model. The work was funded secretly by the Ministry.”
“Peter! You can’t trust a Level Seven robotic system! It’s been proven time and time again – there are too many anomalies in the programming. I could never turn my back on it!”
Rothschild persisted. “Listen. Unlike the Humatron series, this model is not based on a synthetic memory system. In fact, it is not graded on the Rockwell Illinois Plateau System at all.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because, well, because it utilises a human brain.”
“But that’s in contravention of the New Geneva Convention. Now you people are doing it! Such bionic integration was prohibited. There were lots of reasons for doing so.”
Rothschild raised his hands in explanation. “It’s a one-off experiment. It happened by default, because one of the scientists involved in the programme unexpectedly lost his life and he had signed over his body parts to science.”
“Oh, really, sounds very convenient.”
“He fell from the balcony of his apartment. He was misbehaving during a party; it was an accident. Unfortunately, there were metal railings below. His friends had him in hospital within twenty minutes but his chest was . . . anyway, they couldn’t save him. He had a double first from Cambridge in biomechanics, a brilliant mind – and his brain was undamaged.”
“So they went ahead and broke the rules.”
Rothschild nodded. “They kept his brain alive on a ventilation machine. Professor Nieve had the man’s specific written approval. The body was taken to the robotic research facility and they performed the operation.”
“They integrated the brain into their Humatron-based experimental body?”
“It’s an improved frame, more resilient than the Humatron, apparently.”
“That makes it okay then.” Richard shook his head in a disapproving manner. “And what do you call this . . . hybrid?”
“A Human Integrated Mechanism . . . a HIM Thirty-Two. Because the man was thirty-two years old.”
“You miss my point, Peter. How do you address the HIM?”
“Thomas, just Thomas.”
“And there were no issues?”
Rothschild held a breath and screwed his face a little. “Professor Nieve told me that he had a
nervous breakdown when he woke and realised the situation. That was more than two years ago. Since then there have been one or two physiological issues but . . .”
“Great, so you want me to work with a psychopathic robot! That’s just great!”
“There’s been a lot of work done. For more than a year he has been perfectly stable.”
Richard looked unconvinced.
“Essentially it’s the same man, you know, his personality – who he was: his loves, his hates, his character and his emotions. And with his help, with his insider knowledge, the integration between man and machine is becoming blurred. Professor Nieve is very impressed with him.”
“And that’s a good thing is it? A human brain, a consciousness, a person for all intents and purposes, trapped inside a mechanical body. Is that acceptable?”
“The moral issues of all this will have to wait, I’m afraid. Unlike the Humatron series, we have a system we can reason with. One we can rely on and one that is, by definition, self-aware.”
“I see, so you side-step the Level Seven ban by using organics.”
“Look. God only knows if the conglomerates are using Humatrons again. There is evidence to say that they are. And after four years that system has probably been improved, too. There might be an HU50 model out there, who knows, but if you meet one . . . Thomas may prove extremely useful.”
Richard nodded. “Well I don’t like it. I’m going along with it because I’m under orders.”
“All the same, keep in touch with Abbey and copy me in on any developments,” countered Rothschild, whose eyes dropped to Richard’s helmet box again.
Richard shifted anxiously. He checked his chronometer and buttoned up his coat. Rothschild looked up slowly and went to speak, but Richard cut him short.
“Personal things, Peter, as I say – and something for Mubarakar, that’s all,” said Richard, desperately trying to appear matter-of-fact. Then he slowly picked up the box.
Rothschild’s eyes narrowed.
“Now, if you will excuse me, it’s time to go and see Mubarakar.” With that Richard gave Rothschild a sharp nod and promptly left the room.
CHAPTER 17
Worlds Apart
Richard knew of the Series 5 Typhoon fighter, as he had been launched from one over Italy a few years back – although that example had been in Luftwaffe livery. That was an experience he would never forget.
It was an impressive sight, particularly to a pilot, as he neared the aircraft – helmet, oxygen mask and gloves in hand. Sleek, fast, delta wing, potent – probably the best ‘atmospheric’ fighter ever built. All the same, it had been made obsolete by the Delta Class, he thought. Although that fighter, with its matter-stream propulsion system, could not realise its true potential inside the two Van Allen belts for fear of perforating them.
The United Kingdom Joint Forces’ pilot was performing a pre-flight inspection and when he saw Richard approaching he promptly broke off and courteously walked over to meet him. He was wearing the standard issue green military flying suit over which was an anti-g body harness and as he offered his hand to Richard he realised the reason for Richard’s concerned expression.
“You don’t need to worry about this, sir,” he said in a friendly manner whilst tugging on a strap of his body harness with his left hand. “It’s a straightforward flight to Egypt. S.O.P for me to wear it, that’s all.”
Richard smiled faintly and patted his chest to signify a racing heartbeat. “Richard Reece, also Royal Navy . . .
How do you do?” he replied, shaking the man’s hand. “If it’s not restricted information, Lieutenant, Standard Operating Procedure dictates what altitude for such a routine flight?”
“Chris Quarrie. A pleasure, sir, if I may say; I’ve heard a lot about your exploits. I’m hoping to join the Space Programme in a few years, too.”
Richard smiled again.
“In answer to your question, sir, relatively low level, as you only have basic kit. The flight plan is filed for Flight Level Four Three Zero.”
“That’s reassuring. How’s the preparation going?”
Lieutenant Quarrie, at 1.8 metres tall, was a little shorter than Richard and, although only in his late twenties, was already balding. He had the look of a television character from a vintage children’s programme – John Tracy of Thunderbirds sprang foremost to mind. In any case, he could see from the pilot’s confident manner and well-worn gold shoulder epaulets that he had a good deal of experience.
“Nearly done,” came the reply. “This is Aircraft Orderly Spinola; he will help you into the cockpit. I’m afraid you are sitting behind me today, sir.”
Richard raised his eyebrows in fake surprise. “I can cope with that,” he responded.
Standing by the pointed nose of the aircraft, Chris Quarrie gestured with a gloved hand towards the two cigar-shaped pods, one hanging beneath each wing. “I don’t think we will achieve Mach 3 today because of the additional weight,” he said. “It won’t make much difference to the flight time – perhaps another fifteen minutes.” He pointed specifically to the pod below the port wing. “That one has a robotic system in it – a bit hush hush I’m told.” Quarrie tapped his nose. “And that one is a Special Air Service Covert Insertion Pod – one man safely behind enemy lines, that sort of thing. Very capable over water, too – full buoyancy aids. I’m briefed that we may also be doing a drop over East Africa – day after tomorrow – but that’s yet to be confirmed.”
Richard nodded. He thought of Rothschild. “The Ministry is covering every angle, that’s all,” he replied. “It may or may not be required.”
“I understand, sir. I am expecting to wait for two days at the Egyptian base – El Al Shalamin. I’m being hosted by an Airforce Squadron with F29s. I’m quite looking forward to it, actually.”
Richard glanced up at the low dragging cloud, then towards the control tower, and then across the airfield in first a northerly and then an easterly direction. Both ways, the skyline was darkened, bleak and urban high-rise. Their timing had been good; they were between belts of drizzle. However, towards the west Richard could see a squall line approaching, with reducing visibility and rain showers. He gestured towards it to warn the pilot. “Glad someone’s looking forward,” he said, and smiled faintly.
“Now, sir, if you are ready, we can climb in.”
The orderly helped Richard strap in and connect his life support equipment to the aircraft’s interface. Lieutenant Quarrie ran the check list, started the engines and checked the flight controls and other systems. Within three minutes they were ready to go. The mark was 13:58 Greenwich Mean Time.
Professor Mubarakar had arranged an ambulance to collect Richard from outside the main gate of the Egyptian Airforce Base. Richard was surprised when it arrived but, after checking the driver’s credentials, he realised that it would provide the perfect cover and possibly expedite their drive through the renowned congestion of Cairo.
During the journey, Richard was careful not to allow the pale green helmet box to shuffle or shake, lest the crystal lose some of its insulating wall or, worse, become exposed altogether. Should that occur it would simply burn through the box, the seat cushion, the ambulance’s floor pan, the metallised road and probably several hundred metres of the Earth’s crust as a result – and it would be difficult to explain that one away. He knew that only electromagnetic energy in the radio-wave spectrum – wavelengths above ten centimetres and between the frequencies 120 Kilohertz and 250 Kilohertz, the VHF and UHF frequency band – would cause the crystal to react by ‘boiling-off’, a term associated with characteristic extreme heating. And it was this heat that was being harnessed to drive giant steam turbines in the four former nuclear reactor plants that currently provided the world’s energy. Although modern telecommunications preferred microwave frequencies, in this old town there would be enough antiquated radio stations broadcasting in the VHF frequency range, and also other localised equipment, to set the process off. He just looked at t
he radio set that the ambulance driver was using to know that.
Each time the vehicle negotiated an obstruction, ran up the curb, bounced over a pothole or swerved to avoid another equally determined Cairo driver, Richard picked the box up in both hands and acted as a shock absorber. Occasionally, when the necessary avoidance was particularly excessive, the Arabic driver would look across at Richard, smile a toothless grin and utter something that sounded like, “God be praised.”
Mubarakar had quite cannily decided that an ambulance would provide suitable cover for the journey from the airbase to his apartment and it would also afford a certain amount of psychological priority on Cairo’s seething road network. Despite this, the general tendency for headlong opportunism by all but a handful of users had Richard shrinking, cowering and wincing in his seat in equal measure. Animals had priority over vehicles, as in other parts of Egypt, and Richard even saw a laden, hooded elephant. He had expected to run the gauntlet for at least an hour, but it was one hour and fifty minutes later that they finally crossed the 15th of May Bridge heading west, negotiated Ahmed Orabi until passing the Pharaoh Egypt Hotel and then turned right into a maze of streets to finally draw up outside a large, two-storey stone-built house with a Victorian period veranda on the first floor. In this private quarter, very much downtown and almost deserted, there was visible security in the form of closed-circuit TV cameras and the occasional patrol car.
“Not safe leave vehicle here,” said the driver, his whispering making his voice sound more guttural.
Richard nodded his understanding and climbed carefully from his seat with the helmet box tucked firmly under his arm. He walked to the back of the vehicle. For those moments it felt good to be in dry weather again, although the air smelt of mustiness and smoke. All the same, eight degrees Celsius felt positively warm.
It was a black night and the only useful light came from inside the vehicle, as by then the driver had opened the two metal doors. Inside, on the floor, secured by four canvas straps, was a long, shining aluminium tube. It was a little less than a metre diameter and two metres in length.
