by A J Marshall
“So how long, Larissa?”
“It’s very difficult to be precise, because the body’s velocity is changing, and of course it remains relative to light speed.”
“Then give me your best guess.”
“An hour ago, Commander, we measured the body travelling at thirty-seven per cent light-related speed and decelerating at an approximate rate of three per cent, hour on hour. Based on that I would estimate an arrival in Earth’s vicinity in thirty-eight hours, give or take an hour – provided current parameters remain stable.”
“Why do you say ‘Earth’s vicinity’, Larissa . . . ? Are we having second thoughts about a collision here?”
“Why would the body decelerate prior to a collision, Commander? Maximum damage would be caused with the highest impact velocity. I’m speculating of course, but I think it will arrive in Earth’s vicinity at a very low velocity . . . controlled . . . possibly even establish an orbit.”
“Does Earth know that . . . ? Have you shared that with anybody?”
“Intentions are to cross-check our readings and re-run the permutations in . . .” Larissa checked the time on her wrist watch. “. . in two hours and twelve minutes, then pass on the full report.”
After a thoughtful pause, Tom nodded and said: “Okay, I agree, but don’t delay any longer than you have to. Now, what about the Code One message from the Spartacus?”
Larissa stood tall and stepped back a pace. “Andrew has those details, Commander,” she said and tapped her hand on Baillie’s shoulder in an apologetic way.
“Okay, thanks Larissa,” said Tom. “Andy, what have you got?”
Andrew Baillie peered intently at the screen. “Commander, as you know the body has been transmitting a signal in our common space communications frequency range for some time now, but due to the distances involved the transmission has been intermittent and distorted and far too weak, in fact, to determine a format or signature. Well . . . the news is that the Communications Officer on Spartacus now has a positive ID. And you’re not going to believe it . . . I don’t think that anyone is.”
“Specifics, Andy!” snapped Tom impatiently.
“The signal being transmitted is actually a message relating to an established ISSF Command and Control protocol, Commander. We have exactly the same format on file here, as does every colony and spacecraft in the entire Federation – it’s the Rogue Command Protocol!”
“What!” exclaimed Tom.
“Are you sure?” interjected Major Fernandes, placing his hands on the top of the console and studying the text on the screen for himself.
“Absolutely,” said Andrew Baillie. “I’ve just received clarification from Spartacus in the form of a duplicate transmission using a different security configuration. There’s no mistake, Commander. This signal format has been coming from well outside the solar system, but it is one of ours.”
There was an ominous pause. “I know of the protocol, of course,” said Tom, “it’s covered at Staff College for one thing. But only rarely mentioned after that. I do recall something about it more recently, though – from a few years ago.” He drew a deep breath.
“There is a file in the HOD’s library, Commander,” informed Major Fernandes. “It’s there for recall by senior officers. It will detail everything we need to know.”
“Yes, you’re right . . . Andy . . . you have my permission to go into the Head of Department’s library. Use Alpha Code Two Zero One One. The file will be logged under Chain of Command. Open it, please.”
“I’m on it, sir.” Andrew Baillie’s fingers danced over his touch-sensitive keyboard. Almost instantly a long list of files appeared on a secondary monitor screen. Larissa Pavlikova pointed to a specific line. “Located, sir,” Baillie said, nodding his thanks. “It’s entitled: Rogue Command Protocol – Orders and Procedures.”
“Open it then, Andy – and do it quickly,” pressed Tom.
In a confident flurry Andrew Baillie tapped in the sequence – but there was no response. He tried again using a different progression – the words Access Denied appeared on his screen.
Major Fernandes appeared confused. “The programme is denying us access, Commander.”
“What?”
Andrew Baillie lolled back in his chair and thought about the problem for a moment and then suddenly sprang to attention. “That’s just it, Commander, I can’t open it with that code . . . it’s your code! The protocol is not meant to be opened by the Commanding Officer. It’s got to be a HOD’s access code.”
“Yes, of course it has,” responded Tom. “Richie, please, would you enter your personal code.”
Major Fernandes leaned forwards and entered a series of letters and numbers into the system. Instantly there was a response, and the new page that appeared on the screen was full of text. “There are in-depth notes and instigation and follow-up procedures, Commander, several pages,” he informed, matter-of-factly.
“Would you read aloud the first page, please?” Tom requested.
Major Fernandes leaned forward again and peered at the screen. “This protocol is to be initiated when succession of command is deemed necessary by nominated Osiris Base senior officers. A minimum of two Heads of Department and the base Security Officer must be in agreement. There can be no abstentions.” Fernandes paused. “Then it details some administration requirements, Commander,” he continued, “and the current revision date is October 2050. After that, it reads: Initiation of the protocol is authorised when at least two of the following conditions are identified and confirmed by the Chief Medical Officer or Deputy Chief Medical Officer: Space Fever; Robinson Crusoe Syndrome; Gravity Stasis Syndrome; Abnormal Behaviour; Psychotic Behaviour; Vitamin Deficiency Osmositary Syndrome; Delusionary Infecticide . . . the list goes on, Commander, it’s quite exhaustive. Basically, if the officer commanding Osiris Base – or any other ISSF colony or craft for that matter – is deemed unfit to carry out their duties for whatever reason, they can be relieved of their command by nominated senior officers provided specified minimal criteria are met and strictly documented procedures are followed.”
Tom nodded. “Yeah, I remember, and I don’t think the protocol has been used more than two or three times since its inception – not that I recall. It’s coming back to me, though – I mean the last time I heard about it.”
“Can you be specific, Commander?” asked the Science Officer. “It might prove important.”
Tom nodded slowly, recalling the event. “I was just about to assume command of the ISS Enigma – back in 2049. I was being briefed at Canaveral.” Tom suddenly bounced in his seat; he gripped the console desktop with both hands and then he looked off-screen, forwards, towards the cockpit of the PTSV. “Sorry, rough terrain,” he apologised. His brow furrowed and he rubbed his chin thoughtfully, looked back at his screen and then at the team in the Osiris communications centre. “Yeah, I remember . . . the culprit was here on Mars. It was during the tenure of my predecessor – Commander Miko – a hugely competent and experienced officer. Back then, the protocol could be initiated if just one officer in a senior position deemed it necessary. That’s why the amendment date is a year later – they realised the loophole. The guy was British, held the rank of Major – a man by the name of Gregory Searle . . . the second time his name has sprung to mind in the last twenty-four hours, as a matter-of-fact. He was the Osiris Base security officer at the time and he didn’t like what was going on with regards to the Kalahari crystals that had been recently discovered, so he tried to undermine the authority of his CO. Subsequently, he tried to kill me – he nearly did too.”
“What happened to him after that, Commander?” questioned Major Fernandes.
“I was taking him back to Earth to face trial. It turned out that he was on the payroll of a major industrial corporation who were after the crystals. There were problems on-board the Enigma, however. You should see the report, Richie, it makes for interesting reading. In a nutshell, the Enigma’s self-aware central computer, c
odenamed EMILY, released him from detention without my knowledge. Later there was a struggle and I left him with a deep knife wound to the leg – I left him for dead, or so I’ve always thought. I managed to sabotage the Enigma’s high-energy laser initiator, laying the ship open to attack from the ISSF. EMILY decided that it was not in her best interests to hang around and instigated acceleration to light-related speed – I got off the ship in a Delta class fighter just in time and with the only other surviving crew member. It was close, alright.” Tom shook his head. “The rest is history, as they say. The ship has not been seen or heard of since. But I’ll say this, and I’ve not mentioned it before because it’s just a hunch, you know, a gut feeling, and I know it sounds ridiculous, but I’m convinced that EMILY holds one hell of a grudge against me, and bitterness, even hostility, towards the entire human race. You see, she was Level Ten on the Rockwell Illinois Plateau System, an incredibly powerful computer, and she had acquired human characteristics through unintentional programming malfunctions.” Tom drew another deep breath and shook his head. An anxious expression crept over his face. “The ‘Rogue Command’ message is too much of a coincidence; Gregory Searle is alive; there can be no other explanation. He’s either trying to warn us of something . . . or he’s playing with us. But one thing’s for sure – it’s all adding up. That incoming body can only be one thing . . . the Enigma!”
There was a stunned silence. Everyone just stared at each other.
“But our calculations suggest that the body has come from a star system several light years away, Commander. Is the Enigma capable of that? Is that possible?” Larissa Pavlikova’s eyebrows were raised in amazement.
Tom considered the implications of his theory for several seconds; he recalled EMILY’s potential and her inclination to break the rules, and not just those of physics. “Larissa,” he said bluntly, “you have said that the body’s passage through space has remained linear and therefore predictable, right?”
“That’s correct, Commander.”
“Just how accurate is your triangulation programme?”
“Very. We found the parsec to be unequivocal.”
“Right – so you’re confident you could plot an accurate back course?”
“Um, yes, I suppose so. We are certainly in a better position to do that than scientists on Earth. But aren’t we more interested in where the body is going, exactly, not where it has come from?”
“From what you have said, Larissa, we know that already. I think you’re right, a collision now seems very unlikely, and therefore, with its present trajectory, an orbital intention is probable. Listen, I want to know where it’s been, as accurately as you possibly can – understand?”
“Da, Kommandant – I will get on to it immediately.”
Tom nodded. “Andrew, please forward the transmission from Spartacus to Canaveral as soon as you can. Also annotate our conclusions, but remind them they are speculative. We will get back to them ASAP with confirming data. My recommendation is that they cancel the Icarus Imminent event immediately, and downgrade from Icarus Critical to Icarus Potential. Tell them that in my view the collision risk has passed. But tell them we may have another, as yet unspecified, threat.”
“I’m on it, sir.”
“And one other thing – turning our attention to the Elysium Pyramids. I’m going to formulate an e-diction and send it to you. Please forward it by the accelercom network to a Commander Richard James Reece. He’s the officer commanding Andromeda Wing; you’ll find his address in the ISSF colony directory. I need to ask his advice on an ancient motif, more a carving in a rock face actually. I believe it to be some sort of key. He may know something about it.” Tom checked his chronometer. “It’s almost eight o’clock Lunar Time on New Year’s Day. I imagine that he will have had his dinner by now and be settling down to watch a good movie, so be sure to copy-in his home address. I need to know his response immediately, okay?”
Andrew Baillie nodded.
“Now, we rendezvous with the medical team in around eleven hours and thereafter we go back to Elysium. I’m going to get some rest; be sure to contact me the moment that something comes in.”
CHAPTER 21
Twice Over
Richard and Banou sat together in a small study that was no more than three-metres square. The walls were built of discoloured buff sandstone blocks, regularly sized, being approximately thirty centimetres by twenty. They appeared to be hewn by hand because of the slight variations in dimensions, the uneven corners and the haphazard tool marks on the slightly contoured faces. The stone itself was discoloured by time, moisture and black mould that Banou said was swept clean each March. The floor was of grey granite flagstones and there was a continuous wide depression in the hard rock that ran from outside the room through the doorway, and, towards the far left-hand corner, where there was a heavy wooden desk – perhaps of ebony or mahogany. The depression was more like a groove in the area of the doorway where tiny pieces of polished black mica and quartz glinted in the subdued light. Richard speculated that the desk had been in the same place for centuries, and before Banou many other Chief Curators had walked the same path and had attended to the same documents and administered the museum – in what the tourist literature formally referred to as the ‘scriptorium’ – a practice that had been done in the same way and with the same discreet efficiency for a millennium or more.
There were many things in the room that made it feel lived-in: carved wooden and stone artefacts from various periods – some free-standing, others on shelves; a few African tribal masks – a large, and especially frightening example, hung on the wall opposite the door. A dark, multi-patterned Arabian carpet was strung overhead to reduce the ceiling height. Richard noticed a floor-standing plastic globe on a stand that had browned with age. The room matched the mysterious old shaman and conjured feelings from the spiritual world.
Banou was almost the same as Richard remembered him – an aged and bird-like man. His right hand had felt bony and fragile when he shook it, although the sinewy grip had been firm and welcoming. His hair was still a wispy grey, if now longer. He was seemingly wearing the same dark brown woollen djellaba he had when they first met, with the hood flattened across his shoulders and a belt of grubby white rope simply knotted at each end. His skin had a lighter appearance, though, and was even pallid, quite unlike the weathered and tanned complexion of almost five years previous. Clearly, thought Richard, even the eternal Banou could not escape the changes that time inflicted.
“It’s been good to talk, Banou, and see your latest exhibits – although with things as they are, I’m not surprised at the lack of visitors,” said Richard in a kindly way. He took a sip of tea and ate the last piece of dried banana cake.
Banou smiled.
“But look, time’s getting on, it’s nearly midnight here and my pickup is at two; I need to talk to you about something specific.”
“I knew that one day you would return, my young friend, and with more on your mind than the ancient parchments we preserve here for posterity. You need an answer, I can tell.” Banou glanced at Richard quizzically.
Richard leaned forward and took Banou’s right hand in his and then he turned it over gently to reveal the faded blue motif tattooed on his palm. “You once told me that this was a mark of an ancient religious order, one long forgotten and one long irrelevant to this world . . .”
Banou nodded. “That is still the truth,” he replied.
“I don’t know much about your order, Banou, or your brotherhood or whatever it really is – or was – and I don’t suppose I ever will. Although, like a jigsaw puzzle, I confess that I’ve been trying to piece together various snippets of information I’ve gathered – to form a picture, so to speak. I know, for example, that some form of telepathy is possible between ‘brothers’. The thing is this . . . to get straight to the point. I know someone, a good friend, who has a similar mark, and he’s gone missing – disappeared without trace. I think he’s been abducted b
y people who want to get at his Charge. He could be anywhere, really, it’s an impossible task. With him, I believe I will also find the lady in question – he has a lifetime responsibility for her. I also believe I will find the Ark of the Light, the artefact I was searching for when I came before – that too has gone missing.” Richard paused and looked into the old man’s watery eyes. “Banou,” he said softly. “I want you to try to contact him . . . you understand, in that way.”
Banou nodded slowly. “You know something of the old people, their ways and their language – this itself is exceptional. But to know of more than one descendant of the sacred order is like the great sea parting again. Only a few of us remain; we are scattered like seeds and our powers are now obsolete. I do not know all who remain; communication is seldom now and I am the last of my generation.” Banou paused thoughtfully. “I will help if I can. Who is it you seek, my friend?”
Richard crouched forwards in his chair. “His name is Asharf Saeed Makkoum,” he said secretively, “and his Charge is Madame Naomi Vallogia. You know as well as I do that she is High Priestess of Atlantis and the Temple to Osiris.”
Banou took a sharp intake of breath. “You know more than any other!” he said, with widening eyes.
“Yes. But I was asked by Madame to say nothing of her position, her duties, or this brotherhood – under any circumstances – and that’s how it is.”
“So their lives are in danger?”
