by Peter Damon
With all that, he still wanted a barber.
A new article appeared from the Wall Street Journal praising the United Nations on its stance against the private endeavours of those behind the ARC, who in their opinion were clearly there to encroach upon, and take ownership of outer-space.
Oliver nodded, little surprised by the paper’s stance. He anticipated the dozen newspapers under the same ownership would run editorials in a similar vein. And he knew of a dozen more that would follow their lead, some just wishing to ingratiate themselves with the media mogul, that he might pass some advertising in their direction. He winced, knowing that he had been one of them only a few months before; a journalist too cynical to believe in anything anymore. If his writings made a stance, then it was for kudos or money, and not necessarily in that order.
A more factual report from one of the Wall Street Journal’s competitors published the date of the newly created United Nations Space Administration’s first meeting; November 20th. With the passing of the new Outer-Space Treaty the previous day, that meeting would define the tone of future dealings with the ARC. Not that the tone would matter much. The terms of the treaty were unambiguous; the ARC could do nothing in outer-space without its review and permission. To do that, it would argue, it would need a presence on the ship. Give them that, and the secret of HYPORT would soon become known. At which point the earth would never be the same again.
Oliver made a note. He had until November 20th to sway the minds of the earth population towards them. Because, despite any legal wrangling they might use and contrive to remain aloft and independent for any longer, without the earth supporting them, they would never survive. There were just too many items they needed, from electrical components to clothing, foods to medicines. Barbers too, he reflected.
‘All for the want of a horseshoe nail’, he considered.
+++++++++++++
Matt Park sat in the Control Room of the ARC, his feet on the edge of the control table, while on the far wall a dozen large displays provided scrolling views of all the major systems on board the ARC.
Four months, the Astrophysics post-graduate student thought to himself, and so many changes. He selected a monitor to receive a feed from one of the cameras on the hull, turning the camera until the earth appeared, the large sphere taking up most of the screen, the atmosphere a slender ribbon that appeared so fragile and delicate, sandwiched so thinly between the vast emptiness of outer-space and the rich and varied colours of the earth.
He was going to miss that the most, he believed. The simple act of being able to turn a camera to view space, the option of donning a spacesuit and stepping outside, into outer-space, floating above the earth and, in complete silence, watching it slowly rotate beneath him, over him, beside him. The term ‘Mother Earth’ had never been more apt.
He wondered about his future and what he would do. In the past, it had always been Jake who decided on what they would do, even if that had been only what pub to go to, or what gig to attend. Matt had always been happy to just be a student and the advent of the ARC had taken both him and Jake by surprise. One moment life was just the fun of studying and having a good time, the next they were thrust into a scenario that could have come from the pages of a sci-fi novel.
The table beneath his feet emitted a buzz and Matt straightened in his chair to gaze at it in amazement, and then use a finger to touch the phone icon that had appeared, the lurid yellow colour demanding the touch of his finger.
“Hello?” he murmured, unsure of who he was talking to.
“Hello. Is that the ARC?” an American voice asked.
“It is. Who is this? Where did you get this number?” he asked, not even knowing it had existed.
“Hi. This is the NASA NEO Program office based out of the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena, California,” said the voice with a touch of humour behind it. “You boys were down here a couple of days ago,” he reminded Matt.
“Yes. The two rovers,” Matt agreed. He’d been there. Their team, led by Frankie, had recovered the Spirit and Opportunity rovers from Mars and transported them back to their spiritual home, the Jet Propulsion Laboratory. Everything had gone well, until the Americans had pulled guns on them, the American astronaut who had accompanied Frankie to Mars having arranged the deception while on their return journey.
Had it not been for Allan and the latest addition to their fleet of space going vehicles; a ferry a little over 100 metres in length, then Matt had little doubt that the Americans would now have the Howard chemical and its secrets.
“There was a booking number stencilled on the back of the coach,” the American explained. “We want to thank you again for bringing the rovers back. We thought perhaps, a copy of our database?” the voice said.
“Yes please!” Matt cried, and fumbled mentally for which email address to give them, cursing himself for not having noticed the lettering on the coach. It was something he himself might have thought of doing and shook his head in dismay at the thought that Frankie had stolen one over him.
The Near Earth Orbit Program office had been gathering information for decades on all asteroids that passed close to the earth. They established the paths of these bodies and were able to forecast when they would pass close by again. For the ARC, the only people who had the ability to do more than watch these bodies fly by, the database could unlock a host of opportunities.
Matt hurriedly gave them an address and grinned ear to ear as the large file appeared just a few moments later.
“Just make sure you tell everyone; it wasn’t us who told the army,” the voice told him as he bid him good luck and farewell.
+++++++++++++
Frankie climbed into the pilot’s seat of the SUV and moved slightly in the seat, stopping as he felt the link at the small of his back engage with the male aspect protruding slightly from the base of the seat’s backrest. The movement was rapidly becoming subconscious, as was the wait of two breaths while the systems and monitors of the vehicle came awake, alerted by him sitting down and confirmed by the details within his RFID, the little chip under his skin that broadcast his details to the ship’s systems.
With all doors closed, the SUV automatically checked the air seals and the life support of the cabin, then showed him green confirmation on his monitors and waited for his instructions.
The pilot’s position had four monitors arranged in front of it, one more than the other seats arranged to the side and behind. They provided views of the outside as much as details as to their position relative to their host, and their speed and course.
By tapping and stroking his fingers on the main monitor, Frankie gave the SUV instructions to travel to the ferry, the smaller spaceship accompanying the ARC on the same orbit around the earth, while he spoke softly to the people in the ARC’s control-room, requesting freedom to depart.
He saw the swirling orange warning light flood the docking bay through one of his monitors while his finger-tip brought the rear and underside camera’s on the SUV awake on the other monitors. He then invoked his set course and sat back to enjoy the short ‘hop’ over to the other large spaceship.
This was the bit he really enjoyed, he thought, watching through the monitors as his SUV left the ARC and moved smoothly into outer-space. Earth was hanging off to his side, a wonderful coloured ball that dwarfed him and the ARC. Beyond the earth’s curved horizon lay a view of the moon, half of it lost in shadow. How incredible it seemed, that it had become tiresome for so many on board to have to go there once a month to collect water.
In his middle years, Frankie had given up what many travellers might have considered to be a good life. Many outside his community may not have seen it that way, and for sure, the local police were indebted to Michael Bennett for recruiting the gypsy leader and removing him from their neighbourhood. Truth was, Frankie had never really enjoyed his life as a traveller. Whatever he did, whatever he achieved, it was viewed with criticism because of his background. He was a gypsy. Well, h
e was going to change that. He was going to create a new heritage, that of a spaceman.
The numbers on his main monitor changed as the SUV turned to approach the ferry, light streaming from its open docking bay doors, a chevron of yellow lights on the floor guiding him towards one of the garages. He took the steering wheel to guide the SUV manually, remaining in the green to slide soundlessly into the garage, smiling as a synthesised woman’s voice welcomed him.
+++++++++++++
Michael was haggard and worn, lack of sleep and no appetite making him look feeble and worn out. Heather held his hand and wished silently that she knew what to do, how to make him whole again.
“Michael. You have to eat,” she told him.
“How many more, Wendy?” he asked.
Heather bit her lip. He was talking to his late wife, the woman who had died in their car when it had exploded, retaliation for something Michael had been involved in, something no one spoke of, not even Michael.
“You sure you don’t want the college’s psychologists to look at him?” Gail asked gently. “You never know what they might come up with,” the young doctor pressed as Heather shook her head.
Gail Barber had retained the dark eye-shadow, thick mascara and bright red lipstick that, along with her short black hair, gave her a strong gothic look. Despite her youth, she was already a Doctor of Medicine and was working on her doctorate, the reason for her presence on the ARC.
“No. he wouldn’t want it, and nor do I,” Heather told the doctor fiercely.
“Well, it’s nothing physical, at least, not at the moment, but it will become physical unless he keeps some food down,” Gail warned.
“No no, no more!” Michael murmured plaintively, his eyes focused sharply on something beyond the ceiling.
“It’s alright, it’s alright,” Heather soothed, stroking his unshaven cheek.
He seemed unaware of her, and yet her voice appeared to sooth him and he settled down, groaning deep in his throat as he closed his eyes, the lids squeezing tears to the side of his pale face.
“Heather,” Gail pressed.
“I know, I know!” Heather answered, an edge of hysteria in her voice.
This was not the future she had envisaged when Michael had whisked her off her feet, quite literally, to bring her up to the ARC with him. Michael was the strong one, had always been the strong one, even back in their student days. This was not like him, and this was not like her either; the strong police officer who always put work first. She put a hand on her belly and wondered if the baby now inside of her was making her so tearful and shook herself.
“Come along Michael. Pull yourself together!” she told him sternly, nonetheless stroking his cheeks with tenderness.
+++++++++++++
The converted ferry lay 100 metres off the port side, a ferry that, at 136 metres in length was a sizable craft, and yet was dwarfed by the massive container ship beside it. By lying off on the ports side, it was hidden from earth in the shadow of the ARC, denying the earth-based telescopes a view of it.
It was too late to be able to break a bottle of champagne over her hull, but a small band of ARC personnel had gathered in the ferry’s control-room to dedicate a toast to her new name.
“To Freedom One,” Allan called, a glass of non-alcoholic sparkling grape-juice held high.
“Freedom One,” the others chorused, and drank their toast. Despite the success that their celebratory occasion honoured, it was not enough to break their sombre mood, and the team, largely made up of those first recruited by Professor Rolle in order to protect the twins and their magical chemical discovery, stared morosely at the large oval command desk, thinking of what might have been.
The craft itself was unrecognisable as a sea going vessel, let alone a ferry. It was now oval, it’s outer shell made smooth and bland by the thick layer of matt-black rubber that protected its structure from small meteors. The front and back of the oval shape were flattened by the doors that led into its largest space, a compartmentalised docking bay that permitted multiple entries and exits while preserving the most of their atmosphere.
There should have been a stream of vehicles moving between the two ships, ferrying goods and materials, equipment designed or built on the ARC but intended for the ferry and her trip to the Asteroid Belt. But there weren’t. The signing of the United Nations Outer-Space treaty had put a stop to it.
“I don’t want to give this up,” Leanne burst out saying, and blushed at her own daring.
“Do any of us?” Allan asked, looking around the table and nodding as he saw all of them shake their heads.
“Little choice though, is there?” Gary sighed. “Let’s face it; we can’t even feed ourselves without earth’s assistance. Then there’s clothes, medicines,” he continued, beginning to tick them off on his fingers.
“Alright Gary,” Cheryl told him, and took his arm to grip it tightly. She too stared morosely at the control panel while she tried to imagine a future down on earth.
“But I’m right,” he pressed, looking about him, half daring any of those in the room to deny he was correct.
“There’s always an alternative supplier,” Frank Hill murmured into the silence, and the eyes of the others turned towards him, waiting patiently for the English traveller to explain himself.
“Just saying,” he shrugged. “There’s always more than one place to get something, anything.”
“A black market,” Cheryl murmured, beginning to think on it, a casual glance around at the others making her believe they were too.
“You could get us anything?” Allan asked softly, tentatively.
“Well, within reason,” Frankie shrugged. Yes, he’d brought up over 40 gypsies to work in space rather than continue trying to earn a crust under the vigilance of the British authorities. But he still knew many more who had not come, either because they didn’t want to, or they were too old, too young, or just not fit enough for the challenge. There was any number of them who would be more than willing to act as middle-men for him, obtaining whatever materials he wanted, and transport them to a location where they could be picked up with the least chance of getting caught. They’d want payment of course, but the recovery of space-debris had left the travellers with plenty of cash, more than they’d ever dreamt of.
“How would you do it?” Allan wanted to know.
“Off a trawler,” Frankie answered without having to think very hard. “Fishermen always want a way to earn a little extra. They take on the items we need, and we pick them up in the middle of the North Sea or North Atlantic. This time of year, even if the authorities see us, they’ll not catch us,” he grinned.
+++++++++++++
Samuel Jenkins sat in his suite aboard the ARC nursing his cup of coffee as he listened to the Vice Chancellor of Cambridge University commiserate with him on the loss of the ARC.
“I approached the prime Minister, but sadly his mind is made up. He sees great opportunities for a space administration body led by the United Nations, whereas we see only profiteering and disaster,” the Vice Chancellor spoke. Beside him in his offices in Cambridge sat Doctor Joanne Cannon, the Pro-Vice-Chancellor for International Strategy who had helped steer the ARC into space.
“The committee isn’t formed until the 20th November,” Samuel reminded them.
Dr Cannon shook her head. “The treaty came into force when it was signed. Administration of the treaty won’t begin until the committee has its support staff is in place, but the terms of the treaty are already binding. The Cambridge University no longer holds any jurisdiction upon the ARC.”
“I’m afraid the Doctor is correct,” Sir Richard Phillips nodded. “I must therefore ask you to close the university down,” he sighed. “I doubt the UN would want us underfoot on board the ARC anyway. We must part, I’m sorry to say, and let the ARC go its own way.”
“I’m confused,” Samuel admitted. “Does not the university also own the ARC?” he asked.
“Oh no, no, not at
all. I believe Professor Lovell has the details, but the Rolle College rents the space. It doesn’t own it,” he explained, glancing towards Dr Cannon.
“Yes, that’s my understanding,” she agreed. “You’ll need to speak to Professor Lovell for the details though. I wasn’t involved in any of that.”
Samuel made a note to obtain more details. Perhaps the owner might have other plans for the ARC.
The video session had barely ended when the monitor awoke with a new feed, and the stooped head and shoulders of Stanley Charway appeared, his sombre look a new expression Samuel had not seen upon the secret service man’s face before.
“Stanley,” Samuel nodded.
“Samuel,” the man answered, nodding his head slightly, as if afraid to dislodge the thinning hair combed with great care across his scalp. “Where’s Michael?” he asked suddenly and with more energy. “What’s he up to? I hope he’s not putting together some plan or other to somehow dissuade the United Nations from implementing the new treaty,” he cautioned.
“No. I don’t think so. But this has hit us hard; you’ve got to give us some time to adjust,” the tall black American requested. Samuel had not been on the ARC when the small team of Cambridge University students had so cleverly lifted it from the seas to bring it into outer-space, but he’d been on board long enough to appreciate the bond that had been created between man and machine as a result of the achievement.
Like the project itself, Samuel’s presence had been master-minded by Michael Bennett, taking him from his spiritual training in northern India to take on the role of Operations Manager. Despite his relative newness, his growing role as a spiritual guide to many of the students and crew of the Arc had given him a close affinity with them.
