by Peter Damon
Oliver watched again as a surge of resentment rose from hundreds of social-media accounts. He tried defence, and watched his words being trampled on by dozens of negative replies, hundreds of accounts voicing deep dissatisfaction that earth powers had failed to stop the ARC from plundering the moon’s resources.
July 26th.
Leanne and Allan watched the main screen in the control-room as Frankie drew their prepared shipping container from the ARC and turned gracefully to face the North Pole. Three long poles had fastened the Sports Utility Vehicle to the 6.1 metre long shipping container, and the two behaved as a single unit as it turned and angled towards its destination.
Like the truck pulling it along, the container still looked like a container, for all the changes it had undergone. Scaffolding now stood proud from its corrugated walls providing fixing points for the external antennas and the folded plates of the solar panels.
“You’re green,” Leanne told Frank. She watched the image of Frank on her monitor as the thin man touched the app on his screen, and the truck and container were no longer on the ARC’s starboard side.
“It’s going to take a while to get used to that,” Allan remarked, his screen showing the radar image as Frankie sped towards their release location, 12,000 kilometres above the North Pole.
Leanne nodded while checking the signal from the already operating satellite. “Probably won’t have to. David suggested we should give the containers enough HYPORT to let them go find their orbits for themselves,” she told him.
Frankie and Matt were taking the fifteen thousand kilometre trip in their stride. Matt had prepared sandwiches and Frankie had filled a flask with tea, and they enjoyed the view of the earth beneath them as they travelled rapidly above its curve, Iceland slightly to their port side, Norway, Sweden and Finland just off on the starboard side.
Matt was still finishing his Marmite sandwich when they arrived, the main monitor telling them they had come to a complete stop above the Arctic.
“We’re releasing the satellite now,” Frankie told the control room on the ARC as he pressed the release button the app had presented to him on the screen.
“Satellite gravity turned on,” Allan murmured in response.
There was a moment’s silence, then Leanne’s voice. “Satellite communication received. Awaiting ground control,” she advised.
There were another long couple of minutes as they waited for the Cambridge University Wireless Society to move their new dish into position. Then Jack Brendam’s voice came on the line. “We’re here,” he told them. “Plugging in the link to earth communications now,” he confirmed.
“That’s it. We’re on-line,” Leanne said, seeing their communication open up into the earth’s full network. “Come on home Frankie. Job well done!”
Frankie pressed the appropriate app and chuckled as the earth seemed to revolve beneath them, then began to rotate as they made their way back around the earth’s curve, this time towards continental Europe. “Any sandwiches left?” he asked Matt.
+++++++++++++++
“Yes!” Jake cried, his face lighting up with euphoria as the image on the monitor showed a large camp of military personnel and their vehicles. He pressed the record button and woke his tablet to begin notarising time and location of his finding, his enthusiasm for the project buoyed by his success.
+++++++++++++++
London was looking particularly nice, Michael thought as he turned left off Bayswater road and into the leafy lane that was Kensington Palace Gardens, home to a number of embassies, including the Russian.
He smiled to himself, finding humour in being there, and in a vehicle the Russian would have dearly loved to take to pieces and examine.
He slowed and, seeing the man he had come to meet, blew his horn and pulled up at the kerb to lower the thick window so they could talk.
“Is this the vehicle I think it is?” Dmitry Kozlov, Cultural Attaché at the Russian Embassy asked from the pavement, peering in at Michael and the controls on the dashboard.
“Would you like a ride?” Michael asked, grinning teasingly at the young-looking man.
The Russian opened the door and stepped into the vehicle, his eyes still scanning the dashboard to learn all he could about this special and unique vehicle.
Michael pulled back into the light traffic and drew past the Russian embassy to take a left and drive slowly alongside Kensington Palace. “I hear we are to do you a favour,” he said.
“A favour? In our country, you do not charge for favours,” Dmitry pointed out.
“Another cultural difference,” Michael said. “In our country we don’t kill our enemy’s wives,” he told the Russian.
“You know that was not us,” Dmitry stated.
“Syrians,” Michael nodded. “As if the Syrians would sneeze without their Russian minders telling them how and when.”
“What do you want, Michael? I’m sure you did not invite me for a ride so we could trade insults.”
Michael sighed. “I need a favour,” he admitted.
“I assumed that was the reason for the call,” Dmitry told him with a nod.
“But you still agreed to meet,” Michael observed.
The Russian shrugged. “Like the USA, we cannot decide whether to woo you, or fight you.”
“There is a professor of high energy particle physics at your Budker Institute of Nuclear Physics,” Michael explained.
“In Siberia? There are several. That is what the Budker Institute does; nuclear particle physics. Who is it that you’re interested in?”
“Pavel Chaichenko,” Michael told him.
“Ah. Professor Chaichenko. He is your most vocal antagonist. You realise this, yes?” Dmitry asked.
“Do you want to see space from the front seat of a Range Rover, or not?” Michael retorted, turning onto the Broad Walk and slowing in front of the pond. His undercover guardians slowed down also, keeping fifty metres or so behind him and conveying his every move to their masters.
He watched the Russian lick his lips and grinned. “You will regret not doing so for the rest of your life, I can guarantee it,” he warned.
“Very well, on secondment to Rolle College for one year,” Dmitry told him.
Michael grinned and pulled the level to convert the controls. Dmitry was watching closely, but Michael didn’t mind. Whatever he learnt from watching Michael lift the vehicle into space, it wasn’t going to give Russia any advantage.
+++++++++++++++
Sir James Walker flew into Heathrow from New York on a scheduled British Airways flight, but disembarked first to be led through a private door and down the stairs into a waiting limousine. His private secretary was already in the car, poised to give him the latest details, things he would have missed while being airborne.
“Anything pressing, Mike?” he asked, putting on his reading glasses before taking and opening the first folder.
“The press are very polarised over the Russian move to have the Outer-Space Treaty of 1967 revised,” he explained to the British Permanent Representative to the United Nations.
“No surprise there, then,” Sir James chuckled without humour. He had anticipated China, Russia or America requesting a change within weeks of the ARC taking orbit. Whether the Russians had intended to put their proposal forward or not, the ARC taking water from the moon seemed to have been the catalyst for their concerns.
“What’s the divide?” he asked.
“Asian papers agree with China and Russia; no mining at all. American papers are more divided, with some suggesting the mining of asteroids should be permitted. European press is more pro-British, but in the main would still seek to limit mining on planets and moons. British papers are more interested in the underlying cause of the request for a change to the treaty. You can see Oliver Cole’s hand in their thinking, Sir James,” his secretary pointed out. “Oliver Cole is the ARC’s Press Secretary.”
“Yes, I recall. Well, knowing the Prime Minister, he’s
going to want to sit on the fence until there’s a clear victor, at which point he’ll stand up and say ‘I told you so’.”
“Yes Sir. Will you seek to have him support the ARC more forcibly, Sir James?”
“One can but try,” Sir James murmured, turning his attention to the next topic.
+++++++++++++++
Allan dropped his tablet on the table and looked worriedly towards Oliver Cole, the journalist who had given up his job in London to become their press officer and overall media coordinator. If Allan looked downcast, then Oliver looked twice as bad.
“I can’t believe so many people on the earth can be so negative!” Oliver cried, using his own tablet to review the statistic. “If we went with what the larger proportion of them wanted, we would never have left earth!”
“Don’t worry. It’s not the problem you think it is,” Allan told him.
“What’s the problem then?” Oliver asked.
“The problem is that someone, or more than one someone, is manipulating the social media for their own ends,” Allan told him.
“Allan, this wasn’t one or two accounts. There were hundreds if not thousands of people jumping in to add their comments, and all were alike; we should stop getting water from the moon. You can’t manipulate that many people, surely.”
“I’ve done a deeper analysis,” Allan told him, and brought up a display on his own tablet to show the journalist the results. “I’ve looked behind the account names to find where they originated from. See? The lion’s share of negative accounts all stem from only three CIDR block subnets.”
Oliver looked at the address ranges used by those who had been active during the moon trip and saw the surges Allan was referring to.
“What does that mean? Hundreds of people all gathered together in a hall?” he asked. “And how did you get that information?” he wanted to know, irritated that he too didn’t have it.
Allan laughed at the image of a thousand people sitting in a large hall and shook his head while tapping the side of his nose. “It means that one, possibly two or three bodies on earth have the ability to spread their own comments across the social media by using computer systems and pre-prepared media accounts.”
“Can we prove it?” Oliver asked, a hopeful gleam in his eye, and one that grew as Allan grinned.
“Social media sites are not going to be happy when they find they’ve been used in this way. I’ll share the incoming addresses with them and they’ll be able to block, monitor, even trace back to source if they choose.”
+++++++++++++++
Gail Barber was taller than Michael anticipated. Taller and younger. Nor had he anticipated meeting someone almost gothic in looks, deep red lipstick accentuating her full mouth while the rest of her complexion was almost ghostly pale. Her awkwardly cut short hair was mainly dark, but for the last inch where odd strands had been dyed blond.
“I’ve always wondered what the inside of the Cambridge Police Station looked like,” she told him, gazing with eyes emphasised by heavy black eye-liner around the spacious office that Stanley Charway had lent Michael for the interview.
“I think the police force has an interior decorator that specialises in 1990s retro fittings,” he told her, watching her look around and waiting for her attention to return to him before he continued. She looked almost too young to have already achieved her first degree he thought as he noted the blond streaks in her dark, roughly cut hair. It was almost as though she wanted to emphasise her student credentials, even after having become a Senior House Officer at the Addenbrooke’s hospital.
“Your résumé says you’re 23,” he told her. “Is that a typo?”
Gail giggled with nervous tension while shaking her head. “I got a scholarship at 16,” she explained. “Mum and Dad were thrilled; not having to pay my tuition fees,” she explained.
“Is that an Australian accent I detect?” he asked.
“You’re right,” she told him with a sharp nod. “I came over to study, and I’m still studying,” she laughed, once again just a little bit forced. “It’s sort of a little spooky; being interviewed for a job in a police station,” she told him, glancing about her once more.
“So, what made you apply for this role?” he asked as her dark brown eyes settled at last on him.
“Professor Ackroid,” she told him. “Professor Ackroid recommended I apply for the post,” she explained. “I’m working at the Addenbrooke’s Hospital, although I spend some time at the Sanger Building in town. You know it?” she asked.
Michael nodded. “On Tennis Court Road. Biochemistry, isn’t it?” he asked and she nodded, her hands in her lap, fingers pressed tightly together.
“Yes, extremely interesting,” she told him.
“And you’re also studying Metabolic Sciences. That would be for a Master of Research in Medical Science, Metabolic and Cardiovascular Diseases?” he asked, although he only knew the answer after having looked it up in preparation for this interview. Gail Barber had chosen a very specialist subject to study.
Gail was nodding. “Professor Ackroid suggested I come along,” she told him. She looked about her again, her eyes shining with excitement. “Is it a position in your Ministry Of Defence then?” she asked.
“Is that what you’re hoping?” he asked back.
Gail tilted her head one way and the other in an effort to convey her thoughts. “Professor Ackroid believes this position could provide me with focussed research. Do you think that’s true? There’s so much happening in and around the hospital; I just can’t decide what to concentrate on!” she laughed, a girlish laugh.
“The course you’re on is of one year’s duration,” he noted, glancing at his tablet.
“A further three for my Doctorate,” she pointed out, licking her lips while her tense posture and constantly working hands spoke of her growing nervousness.
“So you’re primarily interested because you need a strong subject to focus your studies on,” Michael summarised.
She nodded. “As unique or as rare as possible, really,” she told him. “Are you MOD then? I mean, you’re something in the Government, aren’t you, to get to interview me in a police station. How neat is that! Can I tell my friends, or will I have to keep it all secret?” she asked.
“You’ll be working with a group of people from different ethnic backgrounds who are confined together in a relatively small area, but need to remain at, or attain, a high level of fitness,” he explained. “You will have full authority over their diet and exercise, and also have a large say in the recording and reporting processes that are used to monitor them. However, you will have to share their confinement. There are individual and spacious quarters, of which you will have one, but most of the residents are confined to that and the public areas, like the lounge, the restaurant and the study areas.”
“Wow!” and she laughed again, a short laugh while she thought. “We’re not talking about the ARC, are we?” she asked, her head once again tilting to one side.
“Does the role I’ve outlined interest you?” he asked.
Gail licked her lips again, then nodded, her eyes holding his.
“Just one more question,” he told her. “You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”
Gail beamed. “It is the ARC, isn’t it? Oh shit, I’m going to work on the ARC!” she squealed excitedly.
“Well, there are a few others to interview first,” Michael warned. In fact, there were no others to interview. No one else had come close to having the necessary skills.
+++++++++++++++
“Do we know what caused it?” Heather asked, sitting at her desk, the twins seated across from her while Paul Wright, the doctor, leant against the sideboard, his face looking tired.
“Well, it’s viral; Viral Gastroenteritis to be precise. It could have been caused by any number of viruses. Contaminated food or water would be the likely cause, but it’s highly contagious. It’s commonly called the Stomach Flu, although clearly not the Influenza v
irus,” he explained.
“We’ve isolated the ten people who have it to their rooms and we’re monitoring them constantly. We’ve sent blood and urine down to Cambridge for analysis, but the findings will be academic; it’s definitely Viral Gastroenteritis and we’re already treating them. None of the outbreaks are life threatening, just debilitating,” he explained.
“But how did it occur?” she asked. “We’ve been so careful!”
The twins glanced towards the doctor and saw he wasn’t about to answer. “We think it was sabotage,” they told her.
“Someone onboard deliberately put a virus into our system?” she asked, astonished. “Doctor?”
Paul took a breath and nodded. “Highly probable, given the efforts we took when installing the ship’s systems and the limited time spent in use,” he agreed. “I’m not saying definitely,” he stressed, “but highly probable.”
“Alright,” Heather nodded. “Let’s begin by outlining what we can do to minimise the risk of a repeat. And let’s keep this among ourselves for now. If we have a saboteur, then we need to tread very, very quietly,” she warned them. “I don’t want him, or her, thinking we know about him yet.”
July 27th.
Michael found himself back in the black Range Rover, now with a new switch discretely placed to the right hand side of the dashboard.
It was three in the morning Eastern Standard Time as he dropped down from space, a partial moon faintly lighting the upper blanket of cloud that obscured the land beneath it. It would give Leanne’s stealth system plenty of choices for masking his radar signature, Michael reflected, needing something to aid his confidence in the task ahead.
Descending below 40,000 metres Michael watched his sat-nav screen display a circular sweeping radar image. His heart hammered in anticipation of seeing the blip representation of fast interceptors come racing towards him, but with ever sweep of the signal, the circle remained clear. Dipping below the cloud and with only a minute left before he would land, his confidence in the new tool increased and his tension eased.
