The Lifeboat

by Keith Fenwick

  Don’t tell me the bloody thing has delusions of grandeur, Bruce thought.

  All autonomous systems are operational and you are in no danger. The subroutine managing the link between you and the ship is quite capable of maintaining your environmental requirements and will keep all systems on the ship functioning. However, because I am unsure of the full extent of any issues with my systems, I think it is prudent to remain on station with the asteroid until I have completed the deep diagnostic scan and corrected any issues. If any. I will report back soon.

  “How soon?” “Bruce asked.

  But there was no reply.

  “Fuck!” he exclaimed and kicked out at the bridge console, remembering at the last moment he was only wearing a pair of jandals. If he made contact, kicking the console would hurt him more than it would hurt the console.

  “What’s wrong?” Ngaio asked again.

  “Oh …” Bruce debated with himself what to tell her. His first thought was to fob her off and set her at ease. Given the circumstances this was hardly the right thing to do and she would have to be told the full story sometime; it might as well be sooner rather than later. Better to get it over and done with now.

  “What do you mean there’s a problem with the flight computer and we are stuck here for a while?” Ngaio demanded when he explained the situation. “You told me you were flying this thing!” Ngaio scolded him as he described the problem with the MPU.

  “I don’t believe you for a moment. It’s like the old ‘I have run out of petrol’ story. It won’t wash with me. I don’t know how you’ve done it or why, but if this is some kind of game then it isn’t funny anymore. I want to go home this minute. If you don’t get me home, I’m sure my old man will come looking for me …”

  Ngaio wanted to believe it was all an elaborate hoax so she could get on home. She looked at her watch and realised her parents would be wondering where she was, and by now they would have sent out a search party – well, at least driven up to the Harwoods’ to track her down. It would not take them long to discover Bruce’s other visitors then, if even a little part of Bruce’s story was true, the shit would well and truly hit the fan. Maybe she was better off here, after all.

  “Shit, I hadn’t thought about that.” Bruce tried in vain to open up a link with the MPU. He could not leave the two Skidians and Mrs Pratt down at the farm by themselves for too long. If there was nobody to keep them on the straight and narrow, they could end up causing all kinds of mayhem without even meaning to. He could just imagine what a sight they would be, roaming around the district unsupervised. His heart sank at the prospect.

  “Now what the fuck am I supposed to do?”

  “What are we going to do?” Ngaio reminded him. “What do you think the old man is going to do when he drives up the road and finds your three friends ensconced in the house and us gone?”

  “I shudder to think, the silly old coot.” Bruce had not meant to be rude about Ngaio’s father and failed to note her frown at the offhand comment. “Does he still carry a gun around in his ute? I seem to remember he likes to be prepared so he can have a pot shot at rabbits and possums when he gets a chance.”

  Ngaio nodded but Bruce was totally distracted by the sight unfolding on the monitor.

  “Holy fuck. Look at that will you.” Bruce pointed to the asteroid.

  The sight of a globe of metal – well, a globe of something – being extruded, like a chicken laying an egg, from the rear end of the asteroid stunned him.

  “What is it?” he asked in wonderment. “The bloody thing is having a big shit. Look,” he said pointing at the asteroid.

  The sphere seemed to elongate then pop back into an oval shape as it was extruded from the asteroid then took up station astern, like it was attached to the asteroid by an invisible tow rope, instead of falling away in its wake.

  Curious and more curious, Bruce thought. What is the MPU doing here? He turned his attention back to the bridge console and tried vainly to get some form of manual control – Ngaio was clearly getting a bit stressed about the whole situation and he did not blame her. But despite his efforts the ship steadfastly refused to budge.

  Bruce had a bit of a brain wave. Just maybe, he thought. “Have you tried calling home and telling them not to worry, maybe make up a story you have shot into town to meet some friends passing through, maybe?” he asked. He had managed to contact Wisneski, after all, via the MPU. Maybe the subroutine could facilitate mobile calls?

  “No. Do you think it will work?”

  “Anything’s worth a try.”

  Ngaio pulled out her mobile and dialled her parents’ landline. I can’t tell them I’ve gone to town – they would have seen my car go past the house.”

  Bruce thought for a moment. “Just tell them one of my relations has turned up, by boat, to stay for a few days,” he added improbably. “And you’re just going to help them settle in for a while and you’ll be home soon. Hopefully, we’ll be on our way soon.” Bruce did not really hold out too much hope of that explanation working but you never knew unless you tried.

  “OK,” Ngaio said dubiously, pressing the redial button.

  “Put it on speaker,” Bruce suggested.

  There was silence for a moment, well sort of, Bruce imagined he could hear the background noise representing the signal crossing the universe and wondered whether there would be a delay in the conversation as it might be a dead giveaway to their position.

  “Holy shit!” Bruce exclaimed as they heard initially the dial tone and then the phone connecting and starting to ring. “I didn’t actually think it would work.”

  There was a silent pause and then a click as the landline transferred to a mobile. Her father’s, Ngaio assumed.

  “Hello, who is this?” a gruff, authoritative voice insisted that didn’t belong to Rangi Tauroa or his wife.

  “What do you mean, who is this? Who are you, and why are you answering this line?” Ngaio demanded. Her heart sank like a stone, and she started to panic as imagined the worst. Had something happened to her parents?

  “What’s happened? Is Father … are my parents OK?”

  “Who is this please?” The voice on the other end of the phone commanded.” This phone is now in the possession of the New Zealand Police and is potential evidence in an antiterrorism investigation.”

  “A what?” Ngaio and Bruce asked in unison.

  “I am unable to divulge any further details, suffice it to say we are investigating an alleged terrorist training camp on … Who am I talking to, please?”

  “Ngaio Tauroa,” Ngaio replied meekly. She looked wide-eyed at Bruce, suddenly terrified he had involved her in something way over her head. Why had she trusted him?

  Bruce made a twirling motion with his finger to indicate she should keep the guy talking – he wanted to find out what was happening back on the farm. He guessed whoever was listening on the other end was also trying to keep Ngaio on the line, in order to pinpoint her location. He wondered what they would think if they managed to trace the call to its real origin.

  “What do you mean? What terrorist camp? I’ve never heard anything more preposterous in my life!”

  “I am not at liberty to divulge any further information at this stage except to inform you, Ms Tauroa, your father was apprehended in the company of known international terrorists at the Harwood property.”

  “You’ve got to be joking, my father’s not a terrorist; he probably went down there to find me!” Ngaio screamed down the phone.

  “Yes, and this is why we need to speak to you, Ms Tauroa. You understand you are implicated in this alleged terrorist activity? You would do well to give yourself up as soon as possible.”

  “What do you mean give myself up? I haven’t done anything. This is an outrage; how dare you accuse me of being involved in any terrorist activity.” It was like a bad dream; she had never really had much to do with the police, and the accusations smelt of some kind of police state action that protesting students and
activists always talked about as they were dragged kicking and screaming from the site of their latest demonstration. This was all Bruce’s fault, and she turned on him demanding an answer.

  “What the hell have you got me into, Bruce Harwood?” she asked, angrily waving the mobile in his face. “How dare you!” she added, completely forgetting they had an audience.

  “Ah, Mr Harwood. Bruce Harwood? Clearly we would like to speak to him as well,” the policeman said. “It would go well with you both to give yourselves up to us sooner rather than later.”

  “Get stuffed,” Bruce yelled down the phone. “And if you harm a hair on the head of Leaf, Myfair, Mrs Pratt or the Tauroas there will be hell to pay.”

  “You are not in a position to threaten me, Mr Harwood, and you have just implicated yourself in this case as you have identified two suspects alleged to have been involved in acts of terror in the United States.”

  “Get a grip on yourself mate, you don’t have any idea what’s really going in here. Do you think the agency that’s pulling your strings has been honest and frank with you?”

  “I repeat, Mr Harwood, Ms Tauroa, it would be to everyone’s benefit if you hand yourselves over to us.”

  “Look, mate,” Bruce tried to be reasonable, “I know you will find this pretty hard to believe but you don’t know who, or more precisely what, you are dealing with here. I can bet the Americans spun a good yarn for you, and they won’t be around to back you up when it all goes pear-shaped and you end up with egg on your face.”

  There was a pause on the end of the line. Bruce sensed a mute button had been pressed and a conversation they were not privy to was going on.

  “Shall I end the call?” Ngaio asked. She was completely flummoxed.

  Bruce seemed unconcerned about the threats and demands from the policeman. It was not the boasting of a deranged mind; Bruce really believed he held the upper hand and was speaking from a position of strength.

  “I’m sure what you’re doing is illegal,” Bruce continued, assuming the person or persons on the line were still listening to him. “Have you got a search warrant? How about emailing or scanning it to Ngaio. And say hello to Wisneski and General Smith for me.” Bruce was not sure whether they were involved but he would not be surprised if they were. There must be some mechanism to get the New Zealand Police involved – they would not be mounting an operation to arrest him off their own bat – and the locals would need some form of direction from an outside organisation. Bruce assumed there was some kind of reciprocal agreement with the Americans, and he suspected the locals would just about be wetting themselves to do anything in their power to assist them in their fight against the bogeyman who was the latest flavour of the month. Even to the extent of playing fast and loose with the law.

  “Mr Tauroa was found in possession of an unlicensed firearm,” the voice blustered, a little nervously. “He is currently under arrest along with three suspects on the international terrorist watch list.”

  “My advice to you is to leave well alone, my friend. You have no idea what you are getting yourself into,” Bruce repeated.

  “You are not in a position to make idle threats, Mr Harwood. We’ll track you down eventually so please make it easy on yourself and give up. We’ll be able to locate your whereabouts by tracing this call.”

  “And good luck with that, mate!” Bruce chuckled. “I suggest you look upwards,” he added enigmatically and ended the call.

  “What did you do that for?” Ngaio demanded. “What about my parents?”

  “They’ll be OK, don’t worry about them,” Bruce replied, pulling his own mobile out of his pocket and scrolling through his contacts list and dialling a number when it popped up.

  “Wisneski?” Bruce didn’t wait for an answer. “Me again. You know what’ll happen if Myfair and Leaf get annoyed or feel they are under threat, don’t you?” Bruce paused. Ngaio could hear someone answering in the affirmative. “Right, so I suggest you make a quick call to whoever is in charge of those idiots who have just invaded my home and call them off. OK?” Bruce did not wait for an answer and hung up.

  “You olds will be OK, Ngaio. I can’t say the same for any of the cops floating around down there if they annoy the two Skidians, though.”

  Seven

  “Fuck!” Wisneski screamed most uncharacteristically at nobody in particular as he stood in the middle of General Smith’s new Washington command centre with his mobile in his hand.

  “Who told the New Zealand Police to interfere?” he demanded. “They were told to keep the place under surveillance and under no circumstances to interdict and arrest all and sundry. What the hell do they think they are doing? What a mess!”

  “Get the me the local sheriff, or whatever the idiot calls himself down there, on a video call – now – and call General Smith; or if you can’t get him, the VP, and get them to tell the local authorities to pull their heads in,” Wisneski asked his brand new executive assistant. Such was his newfound status that people positively leapt to do his bidding and got in each other’s way in the process. Under any other circumstances it would have been comical to watch.

  Wisneski prided himself on his ability to keep calm even in the most difficult and stressful of situations. He liked to think this was why he had been plucked from his position of relative obscurity to become the adhoc Security Chief of one of the largest black non-programmes in US history. But, he acknowledged, the truth was probably more mundane – more likely it was because he had helped Myfair out of a tight spot not so long ago and his superiors hoped this might give him some leverage or bargaining power with the Skidian. With the benefit of hindsight, this was just another deluded fantasy from the higher echelons he had once looked to with respect and for guidance.

  “Detective Moore online, sir.”

  “Detective Moore.” Wisneski began walking over to the monitor and speaker. “Do you know how to follow orders?”

  “With all due respect, sir, I don’t take orders from you. I only take orders from the New Zealand Police Commissioner via my designated command authority.” The local policeman was looking like an opossum caught in a set of headlights, Wisneski thought. The poor bastard probably did not know which way to turn, he decided with a little sympathy, as he watched the man’s eyes flick nervously one way and then the other.

  “Is everything OK down there, son?” Wisneski asked in his most fatherly manner, although as far as he could tell he was close to the same age as the man he was speaking to.

  “There have been developments,” Moore began, now clearly unsure how much information he could or should share with the caller. He knew the New Zealand Police had been asked to keep the farm under surveillance for the American authorities but he didn’t have any context or supporting information. The characters they had corralled on the site were an odd bunch, to say the least. The three of them were clearly alien to this part of the world and if he had not known better, he would have said two of them were not from this world, period.

  The three suspects were unable to adequately explain their presence on the farm, except to say they were waiting for the owner’s son, who was away overseas, to return. For some reason not immediately obvious, they seemed to expect Harwood back momentarily, which seemed logical enough until the male of the group mentioned something about losing contact with the ship which made no sense to anyone.

  The whole situation smelt more like some weird cult, not drugs or terrorism, as he had been led to believe. A brief search of the house and farm buildings had come up empty-handed, and the SAS guys who had set up a surveillance operation up the road and along the beach had not seen anything untoward either. Though they did report the presence of another woman, presumably Ngaio Tauroa, who was now nowhere to be seen since she was spotted feeding the dogs and talking to a European man a holding child. Presumably Bruce Harwood. Neither Harwood or his baby son were now anywhere to be seen either. It was also a bit of a mystery how they had all got to the farm in the first place.
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  Then Rangi Tauroa had turned up looking for his daughter, and the old boy had been taken into custody after he pulled out a rifle, threatening an armed, plain-clothes constable when they started asking questions regarding his appearance on the property.

  Rangi Tauroa had clearly believed they were masquerading as police, and had taken over the house and taken his daughter hostage as part of an illicit drug manufacturing operation. Once they had got the rifle off him it had still taken a while to convince Rangi they were legitimate police.

  What a disaster, Moore thought. This whole operation had been poorly conceived and mounted in unseemly haste with little real intelligence to go on. Now it felt like the operation was going to unravel around him. His boss had ignored all standard investigation protocols in his haste to give the Americans anything they wanted without question. Moore was not sure how the boss thought he would be rewarded for breaking just about every rule in the book and not bothering with a search warrant. A pat on the head, a visit to the FBI headquarters, a commemorative coffee cup. Fuck all, probably.

  With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as he thought ahead, Moore knew he would be hung out to dry as a scapegoat if the press got hold of the story, and he wasn’t looking forward to having to deal with a pack of journalists in search of the next headline baying for someone’s blood. Sure, there would be an enquiry, but his head would roll long before any results would be made public to exonerate him.

  “I’m listening, son.”

  “We’ve taken five people into custody and are currently determining the whereabouts of two other individuals related to this enquiry.”

  “You won’t find them, son. Now, you have two rather interesting individuals with you, I understand. How are they behaving?”

  Moore glanced at the group of people he had in custody. The local farmer and his wife were outside arguing with one of his team, while a female officer was trying to get them to come in and have a cup of tea. The other three detainees seemed to be quite happy watching TV for the moment. They had very little interest in the drama unfolding around them, they were cocooned in their own little world, and the police presence seemed immaterial to them.