by A J Marshall
“Yeah, Gretel and the other one,” said Smith.
Perram looked sombre. “Ike’s going in. It’s their only chance. He’ll use the beads to come back. I’ll project my thoughts as far as I am able from outside. You’re going to owe us big time for this,” he said.
Rothschild nodded.
It was as if a nuclear bomb had exploded; nothing else could cause such devastation. That was the only way Ike Smith could account for the desolation around him. He was part of a catastrophic event in history; he sensed that, but where and when he had no idea. He found himself rolling a bead in his fingers. He looked down at it and remembered, and then he wedged one into a crack in a convenient upturned stone near the path. He walked for several metres before dropping another, this time onto the low plinth of a fallen statue. The fusing layer of ash crunched beneath his feet. There is another pressing constraint, he thought – because of black flakes that fell continuously from the sky. Time itself conspires; for soon his tracks would be covered.
Smith surveyed the scene for a few moments. “This is the way in, so this is the way out,” he mumbled, as if informing his colleague who was there but at the same time somewhere else.
The city smouldered under a layer of ash and pumice. The air was heavy with nauseous gasses and Smith’s throat began to contract. There were burning buildings and explosions that emanated from someway off, but strangely there was an eerie stillness about the place, like the lull before a storm. It didn’t bode well and it made Smith feel nervous. He walked towards the centre of the open area that lay before him. It might have been a square or precinct, he thought, and he dropped another bead. “No one could survive this,” he mumbled again and he looked behind him. Thoughts of getting out while he could ran through his mind.
“Springer . . . ? Rickenbach . . . ? Reece . . . ? Charlie Springer . . . ? Can you hear me?” he shouted, but there was no response. I will try to the left and perhaps the other side, but no more than that, he thought. “Charlie Springer . . . ? Leon Rickenbach?” he called repeatedly.
Smith stepped under what remained of a high stone portico and took brief respite from the hot flakes that fell from a leaden sky. He shouted names and then stifled another cough. The scene reminded him of a winter’s day back home but in reverse. Here the snow of ash was black. And then, using a thin thread, he hooked a bead over a nearby corner stone. He positioned it at head height so that he could easily see it.
Gradually, Smith became aware of a distant rumble. It had direction – in the distance off to his left – but was, at the same time, strangely encapsulating. There was an ominous finality about the sound and it made him very uneasy. He would give himself another few minutes and then he would leave.
“Richard Reece . . . ? Can you hear me . . . ? Can anyone hear me?” he shouted.
Suddenly Smith sensed movement from slightly behind and to his right. He turned. A man holding a rag to his mouth that dripped water staggered towards him from inside the building. Smith ran to his aid. The man lowered the cloth from his face, but they were both strangers to each other.
“I’m Richard Reece. Have you come from outside?”
Smith nodded.
“I’ve lost my way . . . became disorientated . . . there’s a tsunami coming,” Richard blurted.
“There should be two other men. Have you seen two other men?”
Richard shook his head. “They’re dead,” he said bluntly.
“You sure about that?”
“They’re dead!”
“Okay, okay . . . then we go!”
Suddenly, both men became aware of a deep-seated but distant trembling. They felt it through the ground first but it soon became audible. It quickly increased in intensity to become a deafening rumble that seemed to bear down on them. It was like being close to crashing waves on a beach, but amplified so that the sound filled their senses – and it grew louder with each passing second. There was a pummelling and the buildings around them shook. Above them, joints between great stone lintels shifted and then opened and dust fell upon them like fine rain. Soon the widening cracks turned to gaping holes and heavy pieces of masonry bombarded the ground. At the same time the air pressure began to increase – Richard felt it in his ears. It quickly became uncomfortable.
“A wall of water . . . it’s here!” cried Richard. He had to shout to make himself heard. “Which way, man! Which way!”
They ran outside. Smith looked back into the plaza. His footprints were gone – disappeared. He looked for a bead on the ground, but there was a fresh covering of ash. Was it to the right, or the left? He couldn’t remember!
The paramedic dabbed Naomi’s brow with a cloth; it was already damp with sweat. Droplets ran down her cheeks. Her face was flushed and she twitched incessantly. The man looked up concerned.
“I may have to wake her, Mr Rothschild. I’m sorry,” he said. “Her heart is racing and her breathing shallow. She might spasm . . . We could lose her!”
Rothschild crouched beside Naomi’s body. “Thirty seconds,” he said. “Give it another thirty seconds . . . please!”
The man nodded and prepared a syringe. He drew liquid from a small glass phial and then held up the needle and flicked the body of the syringe with his finger. Liquid spurted from the needle tip as he gauged the correct dose. Then he positioned himself and made ready to administer the drug.
Richard followed Ike Smith as he ran towards the centre of the plaza. They kicked up dust and ash and material as they went. Richard tripped over something and almost went down. Preoccupied with survival they seemed immune to the noxious air and the burning flecks on their shoulders. Then Smith stopped abruptly and spun on his heels. He looked at Richard and shook his head – there was panic in his eyes. And then, by chance, Smith saw something . . . wedged in a stone . . . a dab of colour, and not five paces from where they stood. He ran to it – it was a bead!
“This way!” he screamed.
An incredible roar pounded their ears. It engulfed them and bore down on them like a heaving monster from antiquity. Richard took off after Smith but half-turned as he ran and what he saw widened his eyes and spread trepidation through his body – for a wall of water as high as a mountain rose up behind the ruins. Richard’s legs wobbled, but he saw Smith plucking something else from the ash and sprinted towards him like a man running from hell. Smith moved in a decisive manner and Richard caught up with him just as death came crashing down.
“Wait!” Rothschild barked to the medic, who was about to push a needle into Naomi’s upper arm. “Something’s happening; there are stirrings.”
Richard and Naomi opened their eyes simultaneously, but their reactions were quite different. Richard raised a hand to his head and began rubbing his temples. He closed his eyes again and massaged his brow and groaned quietly. Naomi lay quite still staring blankly at the ceiling. The medic by her side watched his monitor with surprise as her heart rate quickly fell back into a more normal range. After a minute or so she drew a deep breath, came to her senses and then realised the pain in her leg. She tried to touch it but her hand was still tied to Richard’s.
Richard sat up and looked at her. He untied their bindings and then he saw the blood on the wood beneath her leg and the stained make-do dressing around her thigh. The medic busied himself with something more permanent. “What the hell’s going on?” Richard slurred.
“Just relax,” said the medic. He looked into Richard’s eyes, held a small circular device against the inside of his wrist, checked some readings on his monitor and then scrambled for something in his green holdall. “You will be fine,” he said reassuringly. “Here. Take these two tablets. Swallow them whole; it will clear your head.” He looked up at his colleague, who also wore a green cotton two-piece suit, and gestured with his head towards the bathroom. “Glass of water, maybe, and one for the lady.”
Members of the SWAT team pulled Springer and Rickenbach to their feet. A couch was pulled clear and the men pushed down onto it, where they
sat with two rifle barrels pointing at them. Smith sat on the floor with his head between his knees, trying to recover. “I’ll have two of those!” he growled.
After swallowing the tablets, Richard climbed to his feet to make room for the medic. Suddenly the monotonous bleeping sound from the monitor quickened. Naomi’s eyes flickered momentarily and then closed. She mumbled something and then her head fell limply to the side.
“What’s wrong?” Richard snapped. Crouching, he felt her forehead.
The medic immediately turned his attention to the machine’s display. “Her heart rate is still dropping. It’s the blood loss. I think she is going into shock,” he said. “I need to find out her blood group.” He quickly wiped a glass slide across Naomi’s blood-soaked bandage and slipped it into a recess in the side of the monitor’s plastic body. It took only a few seconds for the display to register a number of readings. “Shit!” he exclaimed, shaking his head. “It’s the rarest blood group for transfusions – type O negative. I’m not carrying any!”
“I’m O negative,” responded Richard immediately, and he withdrew a chain with his dog-tag attached from beneath his shirt and showed it to the medic.
The man looked surprised. “But there’s another complication,” he said, looking back at the display. “Analysis has revealed her type as being Duffy negative. Is this woman of African origin?”
Richard nodded. “Yes, on her mother’s side,” he confirmed.
“And you?”
“I’m English, as far back as I know.”
“Then we are likely to do more harm than good. I’ll need to run a blood chemistry check first – for compatibility. Roll up your sleeve,” ordered the medic.
When the results were displayed, the medic looked even more surprised. “Sure you two aren’t related?” he asked, looking back at Richard.
“Absolutely not!”
The medic shrugged as he hastily prepared some equipment. “You have highly compatible blood chemistry; your antigenic substances are remarkably similar: proteins . . . glycoproteins . . . glycolipids . . . Looks like someone is smiling on her from above,” he commented. “Quickly, over here! I’ll take half a litre. I have a tonic that will help you regain the loss within a few hours.”
Smith stood to leave. With a tube in his arm, Richard looked up at him from the couch; he knew exactly what Smith had done for him and he nodded his thanks and gave him a thumbs-up. Smith replied with a nonchalant salute. Oscar Perram put a hand on his friend’s shoulder and looked at Rothschild. “It’s been a memorable experience,” he said quietly. “Now, we’d like to get that flight back to the States.”
Springer and Rickenbach seemed unable to speak. Their mouths opened and they tried, but no words came out – just streams of sounds. They appeared oblivious to their surroundings and their expressions were gormless. Clearly they didn’t know each other or where they were. The second paramedic asked Rickenbach a question, but he had no answer. In fact he had no response at all; he just sat aimlessly taking in his surroundings. With simple acknowledgement of the movement around him, he raised his hand and pointed. Occasionally he gurgled something – like a baby would, sitting in a cot.
CHAPTER 24
Windfall
“You look bloody awful and I mean it,” Rothschild said, as he watched Richard tuck into a breakfast of bacon, egg and toast.
“Thank you, Peter,” responded Richard with a brief smile as he took another mouthful.
“You are a liability as a field agent – totally unpredictable. No discipline whatsoever. I simply don’t know what you are going to get yourself into next.”
“Thank you, Peter, most reassuring.”
“Well, did you learn anything from that escapade? I hope so, it nearly cost you your life . . . and Madame Vallogia’s?” Rothschild rested his elbows on the kitchen table and shook his head.
Richard looked up. His hair was still wet from his shower and he hadn’t brushed it yet. He glared back at Rothschild momentarily and then glanced across the kitchen at the lady wearing a blue dress and a white apron who was washing dishes at the sink. “Nothing usable at the moment, as it happens.”
“I see. So again, you put people’s lives at risk and nothing to show for it – I’m beginning to despair.” Rothschild sat back in the wooden chair and sighed.
Richard nodded enthusiastically as the lady turned and pointed towards the toaster. Drying her hands, she looked impressed at the quantity Richard was able to consume.
“How is Naomi?” Richard asked nonchalantly.
“We have a doctor in the house and a nurse. Fortunately the sublet passed through her leg. She will stay in bed for a day or two at least. I’ve ordered provisions for a week and domestic staff. She is welcome to stay here until she feels well enough to go home. With all the excitement outside, this place is no longer suitable for our purposes anyway. I have requested a flight to Cairo for her and Mr Makkoum – that’s what she wants. The least we can do, considering the circumstances.”
Richard nodded and continued eating.
“How this safe house was compromised in the first place, God only knows.” Rothschild looked unimpressed. “Abbey is looking into it as a matter of priority,” he continued.
“You still think it’s the Americans?”
“Can’t be anyone else, to my mind.”
“And the Moon, what’s going on there?”
“The Lunar Senate is deeply suspicious of the ISSF and its motives – it’s difficult to get information.”
Richard finished his plateful. He looked straight-faced at Rothschild. “The Senate must know that there’s a problem with SERON, Peter. That’s why they won’t be specific about their situation. They are afraid that information could be leaked that will undermine their defence systems. You can’t blame them.”
“That’s feasible I suppose.”
Richard showed his gratitude for the large mug of tea that arrived, with a wide smile. He looked around the spacious kitchen and examined the long pine table and the marks on its surface. “Nice place,” he said.
“Listen. We have to get you back to Andromeda as soon as possible. There’s hell to pay as it is – bordering on diplomatic confrontation, in fact. We can only assume that they have very serious security problems. Why else a request for military help? Sentinel Wing’s ‘A Flight’ at the Cape has been put on full alert. If required, their Delta Class fighters could be on station in four hours.”
“You’re not aware of the problem at all?”
Rothschild shook his head. “Rachel’s called several times. Of course, I’ve told her that you are on confidential duties, but you are well. She doesn’t know any specifics, but she told me that there is a feeling of trepidation in Andromeda – it’s insidious. There have already been a number of deaths – in research outposts on the outer rim . . . and some of their early warning equipment is down.”
“You think sabotage?”
“The Federation has been speculating for days.”
Richard nodded his understanding. “Then I had better get back, pronto.”
“Andromeda has put a ship at your disposal. It’s parked at the Spaceport and its pilot is waiting for you.” Rothschild checked his watch. “It’s almost three. I suggest you get a few hours sleep. I’ll arrange a wake-up call for you at seven and a take-off at eight-thirty. There’s a bedroom for you upstairs.”
Richard nodded again. “What about the Icarus Protocol . . . the incoming?”
“Panic’s over. The object has been identified as the Enigma.”
“The Enigma!”
“The on-board computer has brought her back; all fifty-three billion world dollars of her – good news there at least.”
“When . . . when does she arrive?”
“The last update, when I left the office yesterday evening, was the day after tomorrow. She is expected to enter a prescribed orbit at 13:00 GMT. She passed Mars and slowed down considerably. Professor Nieve told me that EMILY, the computer sy
stem, will be planning the arrival carefully. By approaching within orthodox parameters and on an approved course, she knows that she cannot be identified as a threat and therefore will not initiate defensive measures – very clever, don’t you think?”
“You know my thoughts on computer systems that exceed Level Seven on the Illinois scale . . . I don’t trust them – never have and never will. And that goes for Thomas, too. You can have him back. Thanks, but no thanks!”
“Yes, well . . . grateful as always, Richard.” Rothschild stood to leave. “Oh, by the way, there is one other thing. Rachel forwarded an eDiction from Commander Race; it arrived at your home. She thought it might be important and forwarded it to me and asked me to pass it on.”
“You’ve got it on your telephone?”
Rothschild nodded. “I can forward it.”
“Let me have your phone, Peter; I’ll enter my password and we can both read it. It’s unusual to receive anything from Tom on the domestic net.” Richard looked up, smirked, and added, “Anyway, I know you’re itching to find out.”
Rothschild looked back scornfully and then withdrew his telephone from a pocket. He flipped open the lid, tapped several keys and then handed the device to Richard who entered another series of digits. As he read the text Richard’s eyebrows lifted. “This is interesting,” he said, rereading the message. “Tom’s in a quandary and I think I can help him.” A different smile jabbed Richard’s lips and he paused for a moment, staring blankly at the table. “Tom has a problem and I have an answer,” he said, shifting his gaze back to Rothschild. “A direct result of my unpredictability, Peter.”
“Go on.” Rothschild sat down.
“The Federation has deactivated the exclusion zone around the Elysium Pyramids again. Seems they want some answers, too. Tom’s en route to Zeta Three. He said that the last time he was there, four years ago, he discovered an impression of a hand engraved in a stone wall close to what he thought was a large immovable door. He never thought it relevant and so never mentioned it, but something’s changed – doesn’t say what. He thinks that it might be a key to the door – he means the engraving. He wants to know if I have any ideas.” Richard’s eyes narrowed. “Will you take me to Naomi’s room please? You might want to hear this.”
