by A J Marshall
Tom took a deep breath and thought for a moment. “Larissa,” he started, looking out of frame for a moment and then back at her, “remind me, the Hot Zone . . .”
“It was devised by the renowned American astrophysicist Professor Rupert Hotling forty years ago. After three decades of study he developed a system of detecting accurately whether a planet orbiting a star, nominally of similar size to ours, has in the past or is presently experiencing similar conditions to those that define our home planet. He explained the hot zone as a belt or ring of defined dimensions where there is a high probability of human life evolving. The required parameters are incredibly limiting actually: the distance from the sun; relative position to other planets and moons; orbital concentricity; planetary inclination; density of cosmic radiation; interactive magnetism. He took everything into account and came up with a simple scale: H+1 through H+10, where 10 is equivalent to Earth and therefore the highest probability of human life evolving. Of the billions of stars in the universe that have orbiting planets, there are surprisingly few that make even the lowest category. In fact he graded only a handful in the +10 zone.”
“So what about this particular planet – the innermost one to Sirius B?”
“Well that’s just it, Commander. Amazingly, this planet, or to be more precise, its exact location, was well known to the ancient Egyptians . . . there is even a small, perfectly aligned, shaft from the Queens Chamber inside the Great Pyramid near Cairo that points directly to this body. Originally it was thought to point to the star itself, but a few years ago its direction was more closely measured. The ancient Egyptians shared something with this planet, as did the Mayans and the Mesopotamians. Although contact between these civilisations is not thought possible, because of geography and time, they each had the same name for it.” Larissa paused.
“Go on . . .”
“They called it Homer, Commander, and Hotling graded it +10 before the sun went red giant!”
“Are you sure about this Larissa? I mean, really sure? It seems . . .”
“There is more. I downloaded some astrophysical data from the people’s library and also opened a few historical files.”
“Okay, what else have you got?”
“I learnt that Sirius B traces an elliptical orbit around Sirius A and that their common axis of rotation about their centre of gravity is directed towards Earth. It’s a fifty-year orbit and the period of closest connection is called the periastron. There is an enormous magnetic interaction and gravitational attraction between these two bodies and it is particularly intense during the periastron. It is a time when the radiated energies given off by these two stars are beyond imagination. Vast amounts of electromagnetic radiation including X-rays, gamma rays, ultraviolet light and visible light is thrown into space. Matter pulled from Sirius A reignites fusion reactions within Sirius B.”
“That would account for their combined luminosity.”
Larissa nodded. “Correct, Commander, and this amazing system is what astronomers describe as being directly ‘upstream’ of our solar system within the galactic arm of our galaxy. As a result it is known that the polarised energies of these stars wash over us. The Ancient Egyptians were aware of the orbital dynamics of the Sirian system and its unique relationship with our solar system. By coming directly towards us, Sirius creates an axis of rotation with Earth relative to the stars we see in the night sky. For this reason, and of all the countless astral bodies, only the annual heliacal rising of Sirius exactly matches the length of Earth’s solar year – 365.25 days. The Egyptians set the first day of their calendar year by this event, because it marked the flooding of the Nile in Ancient Egypt. Even our celebrations two nights ago on New Year’s Eve are a continuation of a most ancient ritual, one honouring the return of Sirius to the mid-heaven position at midnight around 1st January.”
Tom was jostled in his seat for a moment as the PTSV traversed a rocky depression. “Well thank you for all that, Larissa, you’ve done your homework, but where does it get us with regards to the incoming?”
Larissa paused and took stock. “I think there is a link, Commander, between that planet, the incoming and Earth. There was a report I read a few years back; one of the contributors was a former Mars Planetary Surveyor, a man called Richard Reece. He originally discovered the Kalahari crystals over in the East Sector. The report speculated on the common ancestry of Earth’s first recorded civilisations. An ancient artefact called the ‘Ark of the Light’, that was found in Italy and that contained the largest of the recovered crystals, was clear evidence. On the face of it, that Ark appeared to have Egyptian origins, because of markings and hieroglyphic engravings, but the materials used in its construction were not from home, Commander – that was clearly documented. And there are other theories of a nomadic race that arrived on Earth as colonists more than ten thousand years ago and who it is said spawned the Ancient Egyptians and the Mayans amongst others. There is a link, Commander; I have no doubt about that.”
“But the colonist theory was dismissed!”
“Only on religious grounds, because it undermined many fundamental beliefs – the creation theory being one of them. The whole affair was subsequently brushed under the carpet, as you say.”
“So you think EMILY has steered the Enigma back to Sirius B, or more precisely the planet Homer, because she felt, well, homesick . . . ? I don’t think we can go to the ISSF with that, Larissa.”
Larissa Pavlikova shook her head. “The capability is there to make such a journey, we know that now. You yourself, Commander, said that EMILY’s memory banks contained almost the sum total of humans’ knowledge to that time, and that she had ‘inherited’ some human traits – albeit not the best ones – through her part-organic makeup. There could be a number of reasons why she would attempt to go back to her origins.”
“She’s got a point, Commander,” interrupted Paul. “I mean, EMILY would have access to all the knowledge available to all the historians down through the years, and that, as of what . . . four or five years ago . . . when her memory facility was last updated . . . Files on everything we know would have been instantly available – archaeology; demographic data from the earliest times; unprecedented information on the first civilisations. That’s scientific data with such integration she may have discovered common links that evaded more singular appraisals.”
Tom shook his head. “I knew EMILY well, Paul, better than anyone in fact – except perhaps for Professor Nieve himself, her programme designer. She had a mean streak. She was vindictive. And to make matters worse we . . . we humans . . . we double-crossed her and tried to destroy her. I think she’s coming back to settle a score. But how do you get that across to the ISSF?” Tom pressed a button on the console and went to open microphone. “Listen up people,” he said, and he smiled at Larissa, whose image still filled the screen on the console, “we tell Earth what we know, including our hunches; they can make what they will of it – although I think the ISSF Council will dismiss our findings as pure conjecture. Our priority remains Earth’s energy crisis. With the disappearance of the Hera there will be no more crystals. We need practical solutions and we need them fast; the Elysium Pyramids may hold vital information and we’ve less than twenty-two hours to run to their location. We have to concentrate on getting inside those structures, particularly Zeta Three, and for now anyway, we leave the Icarus problem to Earth.”
London – same day
13:54 Greenwich Mean Time
It was a particularly gloomy and blustery afternoon in the city as Peter Rothschild stood silently by the windows of his office staring out, somewhat blankly, at the fast-moving River Thames. Its troubled waters brimmed full and chaotic. He was mindful of the necessity to contain a number of recent events that had unsettling security implications. They seemed, on the face of it, to be totally unrelated, but in correspondence to the International Space and Science Federation he had noted them as “too consistent to be coincidental”. However, branded an eternal pe
ssimist by the ISSF Council, his irritability had gone unheeded. Security is essential, they had replied a day earlier, but not to the detriment of freedom of rights and international unity. He pondered where the freedom of rights agenda would get them when all the world’s lights had gone out. And the two recent breeches in the SERON Space Net defence system were an inevitable result of the sheer intensity and ingenious nature of the current cyber-attack – not to mention a little ‘insider dealing’.
A sharp knock on the door interrupted his uneasy musing. Rothschild turned. “Yes, come in,” he said.
The door partially opened and Laura Bellingham, his ever-efficient PA, pushed her head through the gap.
“Brian Grant has arrived; he’s on his way up.”
“Good. Ask him to take a seat in the lounge would you. No, second thoughts, just bring him in and ask Abbey to come in too, please – and what about the call to Commander Reece?”
“Miss Hennessy is making some arrangements regarding a private flight home for the CIA’s Remote Viewing team, Mr Smith and Mr Perram . . . I’ll tell her to come through, Peter. The call to Commander Reece is on request; we should hear back very soon. Apparently, he is over the Eastern Mediterranean, in the area of Cyprus. I’ll show Mr Grant in immediately.”
A few moments later Brian Grant stepped into Rothschild’s office. He was smartly dressed in a dark blue suit but a stubbly greying beard, grown since their last meeting, added a few unwanted years to his appearance.
Rothschild stepped over to him and offered his hand. “Hello there Brian, thank you for coming in. Please, take a seat.”
“Afternoon, Peter, thanks . . .”
“I understand that you have some information for the Cabinet regarding the Hera? I can’t make that meeting I’m afraid, so I’m grateful to you for stopping off on your way to Downing Street.”
“That’s quite alright; there’s plenty of time. Some of it is out already, in any case.”
Rothschild nodded. “Let’s just wait for Abbey, Brian. She won’t be long. Listen, I’m just about to take a call from Richard Reece – he’s on a flight from Saudi Arabia. It’s routed via our own military net and not that of SERON’s; there is a slight delay while the security coding is ratified. I’d like you to listen in; perhaps make some comments if need be. Ah, here’s Abbey now.”
Abbey Hennessy, wearing a black trouser suit and carrying an electronic tablet device, stepped through the half-open door. Preoccupied with information on the small screen she briefly smiled at Rothschild. “Good afternoon Brian, sorry to keep you waiting . . . Peter, I’ve managed to get Agents Smith and Perram on a flight to Washington from Paris Orly. There’s nothing leaving the UK for another two weeks or so. I’ve requested a military helicopter to take them to France. They will leave from the VIP Cityport at nine o’clock this evening – best I could do for them I’m afraid; there are very few direct flights to North or South America now.”
“Very well,” replied Rothschild, pulling another chair towards his desk. “I expect to be in Strasbourg by then, so please give them my regards and thank them for their time. An interesting if not a rather extraordinary exercise, Abbey; it’s a pity they couldn’t do more for us – certainly a novel approach to bear in mind for future operations, what?” He returned a brief if not slightly sarcastic smile. “Now, more pressing matters . . . what about Spheron?”
“I’m told everything is in place, Peter. As soon as the last employee leaves the building and night security takes over, they will move. Estimated to be at 19:00 hours Local, but that remains fluid. You will meet your French counterpart at 21:00 in the computer centre. I hope we find the proof we need.”
“Oh we will; I’m certain of that,” declared Rothschild. He looked at Brian Grant. “Brian has an appointment with the PM and the Energy Secretary among others; he’s agreed to brief us on the situation prior to their meeting . . . Over to you Brian.”
“Yes. Well, it is bad news I’m afraid, but it was expected, wasn’t it? The first images of Io started to come in this morning. Not the best quality I have to say, due to the heavy electromagnetic interference in that region, but we knew that too. We will have to wait a few more weeks for the highest definition images – when the probe clears Jupiter’s influence you understand.”
“And where is the probe, exactly?” enquired Rothschild.
“The Arius is close enough now to photograph the surface of Io. We can see what’s going on there fairly well. Sadly, we have identified the wreckage of the Hera. Hell of a mess – made a trench more than two kilometres long. Any crew surviving the nuclear blast in space will have perished during re-entry; it will have all been over relatively quickly.”
Rothschild nodded. “And the crew members on the surface?” he asked.
“We can see the landing vehicle with the ascent stage still in place on top and we think we can see the buggy, as there is an image intensifier aboard that vehicle, but the clarity is not good enough for more than that at the moment.”
“So our hopes for another consignment of crystals are dashed – the repercussions to that are immense.”
“There’s still an opportunity!” Grant’s expression lifted.
“What do you mean?”
“We’ve seen another landing vehicle on the surface – well, part of one anyway – close to the crystal deposit coordinates. What we found interesting and very surprising at first was the lack of respiration gas residuals. The spectrograph aboard the Arius cannot identify any residual oxygen, nitrous oxide or water molecules in its vicinity. We don’t think that any life support systems are present on the vehicle, none that support oxygen breathing anyway. There is a dense cloud of debris in orbit too, as one would expect from an explosion. However, diametrically opposite, on the other side of the moon and at a reduced orbital concentricity, we have identified a cloud of Sion gas, and there’s hydrogen, nitrogen tetroxide and hydrazine present too – all are used for rocket propellants and none, except hydrogen, are naturally occurring. Further, we would not expect free hydrogen to be present in orbit. We think the Sion remnants are from a long-range Ion drive and the other gases are from conventional rockets used for manoeuvring . . . retrorockets.” Brian Grant paused and looked at Abbey and then at Rothschild. “We think that highly advanced cyber-systems have been used to do what we sent the Hera to do . . . extract and retrieve a consignment of Kalahari crystals. That’s what I’m passing on from the ISSF to the British Government. We think that a consignment is on its way back to Earth, and the ship is either remotely piloted or, more likely, controlled by robots.”
“Is that possible?”
“Epsilon Rio originally produced the Humatron system to perform such duties, relieving a ship’s crew of menial tasks during long journeys, particularly to the outlying planets. The Level Seven HU40 model was developed several years ago and its production banned more than five years ago. If Epsilon Rio continued with development in secret, I would say that it is quite likely that they have a new and even more capable model by now. It would also explain how an autonomous ship was able to manoeuvre close enough to the Hera – sacrificing a few robots would not be a problem . . . would it?” Grant looked grave. “Fearing that advanced cyber-systems would become dangerous to humans was one of the reasons for banning all such development. Essentially, and with only a few exceptions, all such research and development was stopped. I think we will find that we, the ISSF and governments around the world are well behind the conglomerates in such automation. I think we have a problem.”
“What about the crystal consignment – could it be intercepted?” Rothschild asked.
Grant shrugged. “We are looking into it, but it’s a needle in a haystack scenario.”
“We are going into the Spheron Headquarters today. They have stepped out of line on a number of issues – pharmaceuticals are just the tip of the iceberg,” said Abbey. “Perhaps it’s time to take a much closer look at Epsilon Rio.”
Rothschild sighed. “Forced in
spections of production facilities are significantly different to raiding a company’s headquarters, Abbey,” he said. “It’s taken weeks and a good deal of political pressure on the European Democratic Republic to grant today’s operation, and the rules are different in Brazil.”
At that moment there was a knock on the door. Rothschild looked up. “Yes, what is it?”
Laura Bellingham opened the door promptly and leaned inside. “The call to Commander Reece, Peter, it’s through . . . Line One is open, if you could pick-up?”
“Good . . . thank you, Laura. Hello, Rothschild here.” He made a selection on his control panel and fed the reply through the speaker.
The door closed.
“Hello Peter, Richard Reece, at your service.”
“Richard, where are you exactly?”
It was a clear line.
“I’m sitting behind the pilot in his Typhoon fighter.”
“I didn’t mean that. I meant where are you – geographically?” Rothschild shook his head. “What’s your ETA, Richard?”
“Okay, Peter. Crete. In that area, anyway. Another couple of hours to go.”
“Why did you miss the pickup? You are late and a number of people require your presence, not least the Lunar Senate. They want you back at your desk.”
