by Peter Damon
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The Chinese astronauts walked gingerly to the drinks dispenser to select a cup of tea, and then back to the table, as if they didn’t fully trust the presence of gravity. Their eyes were attracted by the view through the glass wall to the ARC’s control-room where two ex-students were on duty, the room in semi-darkness as they concentrated on their screens, hyper alert to what earth may send them next.
Michael and Samuel waited at the table while they settled. The commander stood. He had recovered a small black lacquered box from their craft, and now he stepped around the table to offer it to Michael in both hands.
“A token from our government,” he told him, bowing his head.
Michael took the box and placed it on the table in front of him before undoing the golden clasp to lift the lid.
The box was lined with red silk, and resting on the red silk was a small gold plaque, decorated around the edge with exquisite detail. ‘In Memory of Herbert and Claire Rolle’ the plaque read.
“We humbly ask for your forgiveness in this tragic accident. It was not the intent of the People’s Republic of China, and the people who did this act have been punished. We beg you most humbly to allow us to move on, and find some ground upon which we can be in harmony,” the commander told them, bowing once again.
Michael closed the box with shaking fingers and focused on his breathing, slowing it and his heart down and steering away from the memories that would undo him.
“The Chinese people now understand the need to control the lifting technology. Like you, we would seek to segregate it and ensure it is used only for peace and prosperity, to be developed for the good of mankind, recognising that many would not share that view and, like children, must be denied what they do not yet appreciate.”
“The big question is; how do we come to believe you?” Samuel asked, leaving Michael to continue to stare at the box on which his hand rested, gently stroking the smoothly lacquered surface.
The commander nodded. “We have no experience of this thing, while you, the ARC, have had to deal with it every day for a year or so. We would therefore rely upon you to lead us. All we ask, all we say, is that we offer you our help. We accept whatever role you believe us worthy of.”
“You accept that it may be nothing. We may only wish you silent when the United Nations brings up the topic on the 20th,” Samuel told them.
“We accept the role you would want us to play, be it large or small,” the commander agreed.
Michael cleared his throat. “We have an item that needs to be manufactured. It must be made to the highest of standards, from the hardest of metals,” he told them.
The commander cast a glance towards his comrades. “We would be honoured!” he said, clearly with pride.
“Then let me contact the designer, and you can discuss details,” Samuel nodded.
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Viktor Usov finished reading the details of Paddy Miller’s confession and closed the folder to tap it with his fingers, considering.
There was nothing there of any real value. Viktor had got more from the personal pleasure gained from the questioning than from any really new material that would help them get aboard the ARC.
He thumbed the intercom on his phone “Demyan, Miller refers to others, this Cambridge Student, Jake Collier, and a woman in England, some sort of family member; Emily Trotter,” he said, and waited a moment to allow the man to write the names down. “Have them found. I may wish to speak to them,” he murmured.
The student would be young, he considered, teasing himself with thoughts of the interview.
October 27th.
Robert sat in the command chair, his finger flicking between different web sites while Oliver watched from over his shoulder, his more rapid reading technique causing him to tap Robert’s shoulder each time he didn’t bring a fresh feed up onto the screens fast enough.
“I’m there, I’m there!” Robert complained, flicking another news feed onto the screen to read the headline and editorial.
“We’re winning,” Robert said, reading yet another article that censured their government for not supporting the ARC. The ARC’s demise, along with all the services it had supplied or supported, were being soundly put at the door of the UN and everyone who had voted for the Russian amendment to the Outer-Space Treaty.
Oliver made a hesitant noise in his upper throat. “Don’t be too sure,” he warned. “The public have a very short attention span and hold grudges for a phenomenally short period. A politician thrown out of office for sordid affairs, fraud, bribery, illegalities in their expenses, you name it, can be back in office within 6 months. Do any of those things outside public office and your time in prison would be much longer, with no hope of return to your previous employment.”
“So what else do we do?” Robert asked.
“We need to keep it in the news, right at the forefront of their brains, for as long as possible. Longer if we can,” Oliver prescribed.
Robert nodded, remembering some comments Michael had once said that related to the same thing. “News is only worth discussing if it’s in the news,” he paraphrased.
“Exactly!” Oliver agreed, one again tapping him persistently on the shoulder.
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The web site was the work of at least a dozen students who had all clamoured to be involved, despite no longer being on the ARC. As a result, Cheryl thought it one of the best sites she’d ever visited. But she admitted she was just a little biased.
Visually, it was arresting. The ARC had a phenomenal library of images, and the site scrolled slowly through many of them, so the site never appeared to be the same. Details of the asteroid had been cleverly formulated into a tiered structure, so as to not overwhelm the visitor with too much detail on a single screen. The graphics were superb, displaying complex data in a simple format, allowing taps on the various regions to drill down into further and further detail.
Registration was simple, but thereafter required a high level of authentication to ensure the ARC was truly talking to whom the client said they represented.
The site had barely been up for 12 hours, and there had already been numerous attempts hack it and bring it down. Cheryl was relatively certain that, had it been hosted on earth, then the site would have long since perished under the weight of ‘hits’ it was taking. However, based on the ARC and supported by Lianne’s super- fast communications systems, the site was taking the clamour in its stride.
Five accounts were opened in the first few hours of trading. Gary surveyed their activity, nodding sagely to himself as he saw their careful approach to more and more detail.
“Anyone put in a bid yet?” Cheryl asked.
Gary shook his head. “Early days yet,” he reminded her. There were still over two weeks before the asteroid would enter the high earth orbit they had selected for it. Much of the time the clients were spending on the site was spent not checking the geology, but on the method by which the asteroid would be delivered to them.
October 28th.
“Read the papers yet?” Oliver asked Heather as he joined her at the breakfast counter.
There was no fresh fruit left, and the milk had been created from powder. The gypsy women in the kitchen glared at them, ready to pounce upon anyone dim enough to suggest it was their fault, while the vast restaurant seating area looked far too large for those who remained.
“No, why?” she asked, glancing hurried back at Michael who, as usual, had forgone a breakfast in preference to several cups of tea and a long browse of the earth’s headlines through his tablet.
“There’s an obituary for Pavel Chaichenko in the Moscow Times,” he told her softly.
“Oh, no!” she gasped, her face screwed up in sorrow. “How?” she asked.
“Heart attack,” Oliver told her, selecting a packet of Kellogg’s Cornflakes over the Rice-Krispies. It was one of the last, he noted. “Take care of Michael,” he pointed out. “He’s sure to have seen it,”
he murmured.
Heather returned to their seat while choosing a topic that might win him from his tablet. She was about to start it, once again voicing concern at the baby’s immediate future without a supply of nappies, when Michael spoke.
“I have,” he told her.
“You have what?” she asked, hoping her expression gave nothing away.
“Seen it,” he told her, and flicked to another page. “That was what you two were muttering about, wasn’t it?”
Heather sighed and watched him continue to read, her own bowl of cereal neglected. He didn’t seem affected at all, which was strange for him. Samuel’s teachings seemed to have done him good, but she would have liked the old Michael back occasionally, at least to show a little sorrow at the death of a colleague.
“I should stop by and see the twins. This will have upset them,” she pointed out.
Michael nodded, preoccupied with his reading. “Tell them to stop spending so much time with that bloody chemical,” he told her. “They need to get out more,” he said.
“Yes Michael,” she sighed. “A trip to the pub in the evening, Karaoke and a Trivia competition,” she suggested.
As soon as breakfast was over, Michael headed aft to the loading bay where the Chinese craft, separated from their space-lab, sat ready for occupation once again. The four of them were there, once again in their space-suits, each one bowing and smiling as Gail gave out ARC jumpsuits for them to take away as souvenirs.
He shook his head at the irony of it all and stepped forward to take the commander’s hand in his own. “Have a good trip,” he told him before stepping back, out of the way.
Samuel stepped over to him. “Are you really going to have the Chinese manufacture the ice plough?” he asked.
“Sure,” Michael nodded. “Mind you, they’re not the only ones. Right now, I don’t know which one I’ll chose to pick up,” he told the tall man.
Samuel nodded his understanding. Sometimes he wished he had the level of distrust that would allow him to plan in that manner. Then again, in all honesty, he was glad he didn’t.
“Oh, before I forget,” Michael said, stopping to turn back to the Operations Manager, “Can you have a decoy SUV made up for me please, something we can raise or lower to earth by control of a helium balloon hidden within the cab?” he asked.
“I’ll find out which students have an artistic flair,” Samuel nodded.
Michael marched out with the rest of them as they prepared to tow the Chinese capsule out to its original orbit and approximate speed, preparing it for re-entry under its own power. His suite of rooms were just to the side, and he entered and dialled the pre-programmed number, little caring what time it was back in Britain.
Whatever time it was, Stanley Charway answered as if he’d been waiting for his call.
“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing,” were Stan’s opening words.
Michael shrugged. “Doing what I do best; screwing with governments,” he retorted.
“This is bloody stupid! What are you going to do, where are you going to go?” he asked. “At least down here you can tell your story, write a book or something,” he suggested. “Take their offer and be done with it!”
Michael inhaled and counted out his breath. “Stanley; does anything matter to you beyond your master’s edicts?” he asked.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t give me that load of bull!” Stan cried. “We have to march to one voice, Michael. We can’t all be at the wheel mate, or we’d get nowhere.”
“Well, you follow your master’s course, and I’m going to steer my own,” Michael told him.
“To where?” Stan cried angrily. “Where are you going to go?”
“Where did Lovell go?” Michael asked. “And Charles Brewer?”
Stan furrowed his brow in thought and shook his head. “What have they got to do with me?” he asked.
“Oh, come on Stanley,” Michael laughed. “Who but you could make them disappear so cleanly?” he asked. “Russia had to fake a heart attack to have Chaichenko disappear, and the US is claiming extended leave for Glen Schroder, and exhaustion for Don Graves. But you, you don’t need any reason; you just have people disappear,” he stated.
“Not me or mine,” Stan shook his head in devout denial.
Michael laughed again. “You’re very good Stanley. You know I almost believe you,” he chuckled.
Stan sighed and looked through the video towards Michael. “What are you going to do, Michael,” he asked again.
“I’m going to send the ARC into the sun. Those of us who remain will land on some remote beach somewhere, somewhere where we’ll have long enough to burn the vehicle we arrived in and leave no trace of what everyone wants. Then we can return the world to its normal status of either killing each other, or discussing who has slept with whom.”
Stanley shook his head in sadness. “You’re going to die a homeless, penniless tramp, and no one is going to give a shit,” he warned.
“Better red than dead,” Michael misquoted, and closed the communication link.
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Stan juggled his pencil between two fingers, ignoring the steady drumbeat it made on the table while he reviewed the phone call and the things Michael had said.
Most of all, he wanted to know what had happened to Lovell. No one escaped the eyes of the agencies for any length of time anymore. CCTV and facial-recognition had got too good over the last few years.
So where was he? Was someone gathering all those who had a previous connection to the ARC?
Bland statements from Michael Bennett were rarely what they appeared to be and Stan knew that Michael could be manipulating him for his own ends, but the puzzle, once presented, was just too good for him to ignore. Which was why he reached for his computer keyboard and began interrogating various databases. Sooner or later, he would find the missing professor.
October 30th.
“Did you catch that piece in the Moscow Times?” the president asked of her Chief of Staff as they met in the Oval Office, first thing that morning. “The item about the professor?” she qualified.
Joanna nodded, neglecting to point out it had been two days previously. “Our people in Moscow know only two things; Professor Chaichenko was laid to rest yesterday evening in a small family plot just outside St Petersburg, and that the coffin was empty.”
“So where is he?” the president asked.
“We don’t know. We don’t know who has him, or who planned it.”
“So that’s two professors missing. What about the one that returned to England? Where’s he?” the president asked.
Joanna shuffled her papers to show the president a request from British Intelligence. “A request for any information we might have as to the whereabouts of Professor Charles Brewer, American citizen who’s been resident in the UK for the last ten years.”
“They’ve lost him,” the president sighed.
“Along with a Professor Derek Lovell, Pro-Vice–Chancellor of Education at Cambridge University.”
“Where does he fit in?” the president asked.
“We don’t know. Each request was made individually, so it might just be me looking at coincidences, such as two professors from Cambridge who go missing about the same time.”
“You best bring General Pat Mears up to speed with what we’ve got. And Colin Witt from CIA,” the president reflected. “Someone, somewhere, is marshalling everyone with any hint of knowledge of that chemical, and we best find out who’s beating us to it.”
November 2nd.
The coach carrying the last of the ARC’s students dropped into the earth’s atmosphere over the Atlantic while it was still dark and patiently waited for the Air Canada flight from Toronto to Heathrow before switching on the stealth mode, and sliding down to fit just above and behind the aircraft. They then proceeded to follow the aircraft, doing a sedate 550 kilometres an hour, until it began its decent, following the M4 towards their destination.
The students sat in their seats, a morose bunch who spoke only when they needed to, and gazed out of the window with little interest of the view they had of a bleak November day in rural England.
As the aircraft began its final decent, the coach dropped away to move quickly to the country roads to the north of the M4, dropping the students off in the small town of Stow-on–the-Wold before making a quick detour to the nearby Tesco’s Express store to stock up on essentials.
Having emptied the store of tea, milk, rice, eggs and two locally produced legs of ham, the coach rose directly into the air and headed back into space, making no attempt to hide itself as the driver congratulated himself on having evaded the police. Just like old times, he told himself with a grin.
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Michael was already in the conference room where Oliver and Samuel found him, watching a feed from the outer hull as the English travellers worked en masse to remove the experimental and test equipment from the hull. A small scale test of Ricky’s ‘net’ had been made and stood twenty metres off the side of the ship, capturing everything that was thrown at it. It looked like a feat of magic, the growing number of dishes and small boxes all held perfectly in the centre of the oblong steel frame.
“They come off a lot faster than they went on,” Oliver reflected, taking a seat with his tablet in front of him.
Michael nodded. “We don’t leave any garbage, either. Please make sure you and Robert make that point,” he asked. No one was going to accuse the ARC of increasing the density of space debris.
Allan arrived from the control-room, nodding to those already there as he took a chair at the table.
“How we doing?” Michael asked the room at large.
The team looked at each other, and Allan began. “We begin closing satellite communication on the sixth,” he told them.
