by Peter Damon
“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Allan told her, a touch of a finger opening details for a brief confirming glance before closing it again.
“Whenever you are ready, then,” she agreed, waking up the monitors on the wall in front of them and keying them to various cameras so they had an overall view of everything around and beneath them.
Allan confirmed there was no one close to the ferry, then touched the diagram of the ferry to close its outer doors. The ferry responded and tested the seal of their life support by increasing the pressure of the air for a few moments, enough to confirm that there were no leaks. As the air pressure reduced to normal and the green light came on, Allan tapped the waiting app.
The ferry, now more of a rugby-ball shape with its ends flattened by doors than the ship it had once been, rushed into the air at just below the speed of sound, and as soon as it felt able, accelerated even further, always just below a speed that would have caused a sonic shock wave, or ‘boom’.
They were already in space when an image of a phone blinked on Leanne’s table and she grinned as she pressed it awake.
“Hello Commander,” Leanne answered.
“Leanne? What’s happening?” asked the angry commander of the 1st battalion of the parachute regiment in his clipped and formal English.
Leanne winced, memories of her own father using that tone of voice to her coming to mind.
“We’d like to thank you for looking after us so royally. We’ve arranged for a few kegs of beer to be delivered to your base,” she told him. “Sorry we couldn’t wait for a formal leaving-do, but we couldn’t risk you wanting to hold us up for any reason,” she told him with a smile, and closed the call, unwilling to have had him lie to her. Let her memories of the re-fitting of the ferry be pleasant ones, unmarred by dark suspicions of betrayal.
“Ten minutes to the ARC,” Allan told her.
“Home at last!” she chuckled, taking the time to check the ship, this being her first time in space. Allan was doing the same she saw, and smiled. She could hardly contain her excitement at the thought of putting 400 Kilowatts of energy through the HYPORT on the inner hull of the ferry.
+++++++++++++
It was late evening of the 12th on the west coast of North America as the coach began to descend slowly over north west Los Angeles, just south of the Angeles National Forest, a district known as Pasadena and home to the NASA Jet Propulsion Laboratory. It was also home to the team that had for several years controlled the two Mars rovers, Spirit and Opportunity.
“Where am I meant to park this thing?” Ricky asked as his screens showed a base tucked up against wooded slopes of the San Gabriel mountains, the large and complex base lacking any open spaces other than car-parks. Despite the time of evening, the car-parks were full as staff remained on the base in anticipation of the returning rovers.
“There’s a road cut into the foothills running east west, just north of the main base,” Jerry explained.
“I’ve got it.” Ricky agreed.
“There are two areas of asphalt. Put down on the western one,” Ricky was told.
Frankie could see the area Jerry was referring to and wondered how Jerry would know of them. He didn’t want to ask why and spent his time instead at looking at the surrounding area and, in particular, for any fleets of vehicles in the vicinity. Would they use army vehicles, he wondered.
Joyce nodded to herself as she selected the space for Ricky, the continued pressure of her finger sending it to his screen as the next target. She could already see people walking up the road, just a few in the lead, but hundreds following them, the majority running out of the buildings to catch up to the others, some glancing up into the darkening sky, some beginning to point as they saw them descending.
“Everyone seems to know where we’re going to land,” Joyce warned.
“Go change,” Frankie told Jerry, pushing him towards the small toilet at the back of the cabin and thrusting a set of NASA fatigues at him that he had gained from somewhere.
“What, aren’t I returning to the ARC?” he asked, his eyes searching Frankie’s for the reason for the change, a glimmer of nervousness in his eyes at the suspicion that Frankie may have guessed at his intent.
“No mate. You’re the Martian Ambassador. Now, hurry up. We’ll be down in minutes and you’re a hero!” he told the man, clapping him on the back while pushing him into the small room at the same time.
“Want me to hold off for a minute?” Ricky asked, and saw Frankie nod as he sat down again.
“The ferry is ours,” Matt confirmed softly as he responded to the message on his monitor.
Frankie nodded. “You three will stay in here and keep the door locked. If there’s a problem, like any attempt to keep us there, you lift. Don’t wait for me, you just lift. You understand?” he asked of them. Frankie looked towards each of them until they had nodded, Matt grudgingly.
Jerry came out and threw his ARC supplied suit to one side.
“Frank?” he began, but Frankie was already shaking his head. “What, the American hero returns, and abandon’s his country to sign on as a pirate? No mate. It can’t happen. You must see that, eh?”
Jerry sighed. “In a few months?” he suggested, still wishing it could have been possible.
“Possibly,” Frankie agreed. “Now, get ready. We’re about to land.”
+++++++++++++
“You better get Michael in here,” Samuel judged as those in the control-room read the text message Matt had hastily sent.
Oliver, seated at his own control desk nodded, Robert looking on with a pale face as Oliver keyed Michael’s communication and waited for his response.
“How much of this are the US authorities getting?” Samuel asked.
“Everything,” Oliver told him. “We’re only giving small clips of events to the media companies, but Glen is getting everything.”
“What now?” Michael asked curtly as he strode in, his face sharp with anger.
Oliver replayed Frankie’s instructions with Matt’s added text frozen on another of the wall screens.
Michael peered at both for a long time, saying nothing.
“Michael?” Samuel pressed.
“I’ll go talk to Stan,” he told them, and turned to walk back out again.
“And in the meantime?” Oliver called after him.
Michael waved an arm at him from over his shoulder, and then the door was closing.
“I guess that means we carry on,” Oliver shrugged.
“Send Matt a text telling him to hold the fort. I’m going to talk to Allan,” Samuel told Oliver.
+++++++++++++
The coach descended directly onto the triangular patch of asphalt perched on the side of a small wooded hill overlooking the rest of the large, complex, and overcrowded NASA facility. The door of the cabin, recognising an earth location, opened fully, allowing Frankie to step down, followed slowly and hesitantly by Jerry, as if he was unsure of the reception he’d get.
A wall of sound hit them as the hundreds of NASA employees raised a loud cheer, applauding and grinning, holding up cell phones that flashed as they took pictures of the returning astronaut, the first man to set foot on Mars, and an American Joe, born and bred not that far away, in San Francisco.
Standing on the bottom step of the coach, Jerry nodded and waved, and smiled and blinked as camera flashes went off in his eyes.
Frankie walked to the back of the coach and released the latches on the double doors to open them, drawing them right back to reveal the double tiered garage within, each tier holding a rover.
Silence fell on the crowd, and four men moved forward for a closer look.
“My God,” one of them murmured, tears rolling down his cheeks as he stared at the prize within.
“They should be placed in isolation, until we know there’s no risk from any Martian microbes,” someone else said, close to the front of the crowd.
“Shall I take it away and seal it under pl
astic for you?” Frankie asked, his finger poised above the release button.
“No, no, I’m sure it will be alright,” the man decided, wilting under the fierce glare of those around him.
To the accompaniment of the loud cheer from those nearby who had heard the brief discussion, Frankie pressed the release button, and the lower tier slid out and down.
“Opportunity,” said one of the other men, and he stepped forward to reach out and place his hand tenderly on its side. He too was weeping, Frankie noticed, before he reached up to wipe at his eyes and nose.
“Can we unload him?” he was asked.
Jerry came around to help, and between the two of them, they were able to roll and push the rover from the plate while, at the back of the crowd, some others were trying to push their way through to the front, a strident and authoritarian American voice demanding they let him pass.
The Opportunity rover became surrounded by devotees while a growing number of people formed a fresh semi circle around the back of the coach, patiently waiting for Spirit to be brought out.
Frankie pressed another button, and the upper tier slid slowly down, out, and down again, right to the ground.
“Spirit!” a man cried, and bent to put his hand on one of its good feet. “Welcome home,” he murmured, his voice broken with emotion.
Frankie only had to release the straps, and the men from NASA drew Spirit off the platform and onto American soil, surrounding it, all wanting to touch the rover, to rest their hand upon it in some sort of private communion.
In the silence of devout affection for the two rovers that had done so much for them, the sound of raising rifles was loud and final.
The silence was broken by squeals, cries of shock and shouts of anger as the civilian crowd was drawn away, leaving just the army personnel facing Frank and Jerry in front of the coach.
“Stand still!” a sharp American voice called from the growing gloom of early evening, and a strong searchlight was turned on from the roof of a jeep.
Frankie blinked, raising his arms slowly upwards to not spook the armed men while, within his ear, he could hear Matt urgently calling for help.
“I hope you’re getting all of this,” Frankie murmured to the air.
“And I hope you know what you’re doing Frank,” Oliver answered in his ear. “The last thing we want is to be associated with a gypsy traveller martyr,” he pointed out.
“There are three more inside, Captain,” Jerry cried, stepping to one side to show the arc of the outer door. “You have to get them out,” he ordered.
There were more army personnel now, at least a dozen stepping forward with raised weapons, some to point their weapons towards Frankie, others to point them towards the coach, unaware of how little damage a bullet could inflict on the reinforced living compartment of the space-going vehicle. It was designed to survive meteors the same size as that of a bullet, but travelling much faster. Bullets would hardly indent the rubber that filled the space between the coach’s original outer skin, and the new shell that was their living compartment.
“Do not attempt to move,” the voice warned from behind the strong searchlight, and Frankie listened to the voices in his ear while Jerry turned and began trying to get back into the coach, pressing the control surface that would normally open the door, and jabbing at it with more and more force as it failed to open.
“It won’t open! I can’t get it to open! What have you done?” Jerry cried, turning angrily towards Frank.
“You’re not one of us,” Frankie told him. “Never will be,” he muttered, turning his head to spit towards the man’s boots.
Jerry strode away towards the army personnel and returned holding a gun. Flicking the safety off, he raised it to point it at Frankie’s head. “Open the door, bastard, or I’ll take your frigging head off!” he vowed.
Suddenly, a new light was added to that of the American army, at least twice as bright, at least three times the circumference. Frankie at first thought it was an American helicopter floating above them, but looking up, he could see a huge black silhouette, its flattened prow open, the huge and dark opening dreadfully intimidating to those it faced.
Jerry was looking up too, his jaw falling open as he saw how huge a silhouette the thing poised above them was.
In that moment, Frankie flicked a hand out to push the gun off to one side, and drove his fist deep into the astronaut’s face, crushing his nose.
“You will put down your weapons and step back from them, now,” said a calm but deep British voice from external speakers of the poised craft.
For a moment nothing happened and Frankie felt the urge to piss grow in him. Then, as if they had been waiting for a rehearsed cue, every American soldier bent to put his gun down, then stepped slowly back away from it, their arms raised, their hands empty, their eyes collectively held by the yawning black hole pointed towards them at the front of the massive ferry suspended immediately over them.
“You!” Frankie murmured, bending down to point a finger into the blood smeared face of the American astronaut. “I saved your fucking life, you piece of shit!” Frankie told the squatting astronaut who was cupping his bloody and broken nose protectively behind his hands.
“Smile,” said the voice of Allan Blake, Dr of Mathematics, Rolle College. “You’re on national TV,” he told them.
Frankie grinned, waved up towards the black ferry, and operated the door before jumping back into the coach.
“Soon as Allan moves his fat arse out of the way, I want you to take us home,” he told Ricky, and patting Matt affectionately on the shoulder, moved on towards the toilet.
+++++++++++++
“I can’t!” Michael screamed towards his reflection from the dark monitor on the nearby wall.
He was on the first floor, at the back of the kitchen where the portable bar was stored. It was locked, requiring the presence of one of the bar staff to unlock it because it had been keyed to their RFID. Michael broke a nail trying to pull the doors apart and, swearing with the sudden flare of pain, kicked at the trolley in frustration.
The rattle of the small bottles and cans held within it gave him an idea and he pushed the trolley over, grinning as he heard glass breaking inside the cupboard.
Liquid began to dribble from a corner of the unit and Michael put his hand under it, gathering some of it in the palm of his hand before putting it to his mouth to sip enthusiastically and the mix of beers and spirits.
He suddenly realised what he was doing and stopped. His friends were in danger and he didn’t know what to do. Every time he tried to think of a strategy, his mind was assaulted with images of broken bodies and a burnt car. The pain of Wendy’s loss returned with all the force it had once exerted and, unable to stop himself, he sank down onto the floor and began to weep, his mind grasping for control he couldn’t find while his body shook with weeping.
+++++++++++++
Heather traced his RFID to find him, and asked Oliver and Gail to help her get Michael down to the clinic without anyone seeing them. Thankfully the clinic was towards the front of the ship and they had only to manoeuvre Michael past the suites reserved for the Korean kitchen staff to get him there unseen by the rest of the ship’s personnel.
Gail sedated him, sighing with concern as Michael’s indistinct conversation with his deceased first wife slid into mumbles, and then silence.
“Is he going to be alright?” Heather asked, anxiously holding his hand while Gail did some basic checks of his heart, lungs and blood pressure.
“I can’t tell you,” Gail admitted. “So far, I’ve got a fit and healthy man on the cot. More tests to run though.”
“What if it’s not physical?” Heather asked. “What if it’s mental; a mental breakdown?” she heard herself ask.
“There’s no such thing,” Gail told her.
“There must be!” Heather said, looking towards her.
Gail shook her head. “Never was. It’s a term coined by the public to gather t
ogether all those odd little mental quirks which they don’t want to know about anyway. We’ve moved on quite a ways from that, and there’s a detailed classification for mental illnesses that takes some effort and time to determine. Undeniably, Michael has been under some pressure recently. That could be the cause of this. But we won’t know for some little while. Until then, I’m going to keep him here, mildly sedated, and watched over 24-seven,” she explained.
October 14th.
Sir James Walker looked older than his years, seated in his offices in New York, the video link open to the Cambridge University Annex somewhere up above him.
“So, in summary,” he concluded, knowing from the look upon their faces that they already understood the legal jargon. “The United Nations is to create a new body; The United Nations Space Authority. There will be six sitting members; Japan, the European Union, Canada, China, India and Russia, together with two further members, on two year rotation from the body of the United Nation signatories.”
“European Union?” Samuel asked and looked about him for clarification. “I didn’t know the European Union was a nation,” he explained.
“And you’re right; it’s not,” Sir James nodded. “At least, it’s not for any purpose other than this United Nations treaty. In that case it is treated as a single body, with the European Union Assembly in Brussels dealing with any internal divisions that need addressing,” he explained.
“To continue; all space exploration will be conducted under this new space authority and will then proceed as a United Nations endeavour.
“There will be no mining on any moon or planet, and asteroid mining must receive authority from UNSA. It is anticipated that UNSA will ensure that the proceeds of any mining are fairly distributed among UN member signatories.”
“And Overton agreed to this?” Oliver asked in unfeigned astonishment. “This is the UN Moon Treaty of 1984, and none of the space-going nations signed up for it!” he cried. “But now, now that they have a new player they can’t hope to compete with, they resurrect it and sign!”
“I’m afraid the Prime Minister had very little choice in the matter. As you can imagine, Britain was not the only country to lobby UN members on this topic. Clearly the majority of members see the formation of a United Nations authority as being the best solution for everyone.”
