by Nick M Lloyd
‘Welcome, Ben,’ said the prime minister, shaking Martel’s hand. ‘Well done up there.’
‘Thank you, Prime Minister,’ replied Martel, with a deferential nod.
Timbers sat down at the bare table and indicated a seat for Martel. It was just the two of them. As far as Martel was aware, even Nadia Peterson didn’t know about these briefings.
‘What can you tell me about the Ankor?’ asked the prime minister.
‘Not much yet,’ said Martel, ‘but we’ve bounced radar beams off them. There is one roughly cubic shaped craft, somewhere between one and ten miles wide, coming our way.’ Martel paused. ‘It’s fast but slowing. Probable arrival within three weeks. We cannot be sure it’s alone.’
‘Any evidence to suggest other alien ships?’ asked the prime minister.
‘None, but …’
‘If we’re measuring these things then others will be too,’ said Timbers. ‘I will front-run the information about the size of the craft in this evening’s public address.’
‘Understood.’ It wasn’t Martel’s gut instinct to share that type of information widely, but he had no logical reason to convince the prime minister otherwise.
Timbers drew a short breath. ‘How are the military preparations going?’
‘Given the Ankor overwhelmed the Earth’s entire communication network, it’s hard to see anything technological hurting them. So we need to be ready to deploy conventional weapons in space.’ Martel paused. ‘Fortunately, as the Ankor asked us to prepare space launch infrastructure, we can focus work on rockets and payloads without drawing attention to ourselves.’
‘Understood. Quietly, I hope.’
‘Of course, Prime Minister,’ replied Martel. ‘My team is carrying out all aspects of military preparation in a deep underground facility like this at Porton Down,’ said Martel.
‘Are they invading?’
‘There’s no easy way to reconcile the facts: they gave fair warning of their arrival, they haven’t done anything aggressive, but they have an uncorroborated cover story and are making demands for us to send them materials.’
Most of the scenarios Martel had developed over the years at the MOD had included aliens arriving with their own weaponry or remotely subverting Earth’s own military facilities.
‘We don’t know what they want us to launch yet,’ said the prime minister. ‘What type of materials could they ask for that would worry you?’
‘Assuming they ask for large volumes of metal, then they could be dropped back onto us,’ said Martel. ‘However, given the size of their craft, if they need orbital bombardment weapons, they could simply scoop up asteroids between Jupiter and Mars.’
The prime minister summarised. ‘So, nothing obvious?’
‘The most likely explanation is that they need the materials for the shield, or the materials are a pure red herring. We will have a better idea when the required payloads are communicated to us.’
‘What’s your take on their refusal to respond to questions?’ asked Timbers.
‘We have to assume they have a good reason,’ said Martel. ‘If the gamma ray burst is real, then it probably happened between one to three hundred light years away and has been travelling for one to three hundred years towards us. They could have been studying us for a few centuries and, based on those studies, taken the view that the authoritarian approach is best.’
‘A lot of assumptions,’ said Timbers.
‘Were the messages you mentioned in COBRA new ones?’
‘Each of the world leaders I’ve spoken to has only admitted to receiving one message, which came at the same time as the original broadcast,’ replied the prime minister. ‘They were all variations on the same trust us routine. Although, some, like my own, had specific people of interest mentioned.’
Exhibit A – Francis MacKenzie.
Martel had already met Timbers in a similar secret briefing the previous day, just hours after the Ankor had broadcast. One of the reasons he was focusing half his efforts on investigating Francis MacKenzie was that MacKenzie been singled out by the Ankor.
‘I know about his business ventures,’ said the prime minister. ‘What can you tell me about MacKenzie as an individual?’
‘Only a handful of non-business interviews exist,’ said Martel. ‘Of a personal nature, I mean. He’s assiduously single, mildly asthmatic, and reads a lot of history books.’
‘That’s all we have on his personal background?’
‘There is an entirely uncorroborated interview claiming he lived in an orphanage in his early years. Certainly, there are no records of living parents. It didn’t seem prudent to drag his friends in for interview – not that he has many friends.’ Martel paused. ‘Everything on the internet is about his business ventures.’
‘Does that include the SETI material?’ asked the prime minister.
SETI was the American-led Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence.
‘He acquired his own radio telescope fifteen years ago when the Americans refused to entirely open their SETI data to him,’ said Martel. ‘We’re still digging there.’
‘I assumed you’d have found more,’ said the prime minister.
‘He’s a powerful businessman with wide-ranging interests,’ said Martel. ‘But there isn’t much out there about MacKenzie the man.’
‘Next steps?’
‘Paper-based research,’ said Martel. ‘Plus, we’re still trying to get to people on the inside of SpaceOp and MedOp without raising alarms. GCHQ are on the case.’
Timbers remained quiet.
‘I strongly suggest the MOD takes over the entire UK space response, Prime Minister,’ said Martel. ‘I understand you’ve received a direct request from the Ankor to keep MacKenzie in place, but the removal of one man cannot possibly be a deal breaker for them.’
‘On what basis?’ asked the prime minister.
‘Controlling the unknowns,’ said Martel. ‘Plus overseeing the general security of the response.’
‘I understand he has a large private security force in SpaceOp.’
‘He has a large private security force,’ said Martel. ‘We need the British army on the ground there.’
‘Sorry, Ben, but three-quarters of our prisons are run by private security agencies – and the Ankor explicitly told me to keep him.’
‘He’s outside the direct line of command,’ said Martel, trying to soften his tone – he was used to giving orders. ‘It feels like an unnecessary risk.’
‘His attendance at COBRA is already all over the news and it is trending positively,’ said the prime minister. ‘He enjoys wide public support thanks to MedOp. I can’t risk annoying the public as well as the Ankor. In any case, I spoke to him an hour ago. He will accept on-site supervision.’
Martel nodded; stationing trusted soldiers in SpaceOp would allay some of his concerns and give him more opportunity to investigate.
‘A safe pair of hands, is what the public are saying,’ said Timbers. ‘You wouldn’t want to have him for dinner, but you would want him to clean out your drains – thorough, meticulous, not afraid to get his hands dirty. Of course, he could be in league with the Ankor for nefarious reasons, which is why you need to keep digging.’
‘I will keep looking.’
‘And, meanwhile, I’ll be telling everyone how wonderful he is.’
CHAPTER 3
Butler Street, Tuesday 9th April
It quickly became apparent to Tim that he was the only person on the whole planet to have decided to go to work. As he left the house, his phone alerted him to the fact that the Underground trains weren’t running. He decided to take a bus, but after waiting for an hour he gave up on that too. In the end, he walked. It took two hours – plenty of time to wonder if people really expected not to work for the next one hundred and sixty-three days … if that was the case, humanity would starve long before the gamma rays hit.
As it was, when he arrived at the office, Sam was already there.
‘Hi Sam,’ he said as he came through the door. ‘How’s it going?’
Sam raised her hand to acknowledge she’d heard him but did not take off her VR headset.
‘Three mins,’ said Sam distractedly, still clearly focusing on whatever she was up to.
‘Okay,’ said Tim, booting up his workstation.
As he absentmindedly watched the opening screens on his computer, Tim’s thoughts drifted back to the radio call-in he’d listened to as he’d walked in.
Can we trust the Ankor?
Everything revolved around that question.
‘Fuck you, Charles Tiberius Taylor!’ screamed Sam, before pulling off her headset and throwing it onto the desk.
Tim didn’t flinch. Sam screaming her boyfriend’s name during a gaming session was slightly disturbing, but not unusual. ‘City guards?’
Sam smiled, and ran a hand through her hair. ‘I was hiding in the palace cellar … obviously testing the survey scripting. The city guard found me.’
Tim smiled, raising an eyebrow. ‘Before you finished the test.’
‘Obviously not,’ said Sam. ‘The guard did find me in the cellar, but not until after I had ensured the scripts work. We now have twenty automated characters running around the OrcLore world. They will ask questions to player characters, and never ask anyone the same question twice. Plus, most players will think they’re interacting with another real player – maybe just one whose first language isn’t English.’
‘Very cool,’ said Tim. With tens of millions of people logged onto computer games at any one time, the automated extraction of information from gamers was going to be big. Assuming, that was, that the Ankor didn’t kill everyone and that MacKenzie gave them a licence to reuse MIDAS once MedOp was up and running.
The advertising revenue would be enormous, although to appease Sam on data privacy matters, they’d need to sell it in aggregate with zero chance of database purchasers being able to identify individuals.
‘Are you sure you want to be here today?’ asked Tim.
‘You’re here,’ said Sam.
‘Fair point,’ said Tim. ‘But my dentist cancelled my check-up. So …’
‘Anyway,’ said Sam, indicating all the screens. ‘Can you think of a better place to see exactly what’s going on?’
Tim noticed one of the smart screens.
MacKenzie: MedOp, Ankor, SpaceOp, Transhumanism, Immortality
‘Are you spying on MacKenzie?’
‘What’s the issue?’ asked Sam. ‘We’ve got the greatest search engine the world has ever seen. He expects it.’
‘You know he receives records of every search we do,’ said Tim. ‘He went mad at me last year when someone submitted the search, Is Francis MacKenzie a sociopath?’
‘That was Toby,’ said Sam.
‘What’s behind the Transhumanism link?’ asked Tim.
‘It’s the standard stuff about MedOp and what it could lead to. Merging technology and biology, and all that,’ said Sam.
‘And Immortality? Physical, right?’ asked Tim. They’d had the discussion many times before. There were three main varieties of immortality: spiritual, legacy, or the genuine live-forever physical version.
‘I don’t think he’s given up on spiritual and legacy,’ said Sam. ‘But, you’re right, most recent comment is on the physical one … entirely linked to the Transhumanism and MedOp.’
‘Not the Ankor?’
‘Nope,’ said Sam. ‘Have your views changed since the alien invasion?’
‘Physical immortality … Unchanged.’
Six months ago, Sam had defended the right for people like MacKenzie to search for physical immortality on the basis that the world was already rife with inequalities. Life expectancies of people in the poorest areas of the world were well under half of those in the richest. Life-saving medical procedures, such as kidney transplants, were simply not available to the bottom tiers, and so new longevity treatments would not be any more unfair. Ruling out these treatments to one group of people would not save the others.
Tim had not outright disagreed with her – because eventually the technology would trickle down – but he’d taken a slightly dimmer view about the long-term damage of physical immortality from a cultural and happiness perspective. Without death, population controls would become fundamentally necessary. What about the billions of new lives not created? What about the loss of purpose for individuals? Death would become a curse that only happened to unlucky people.
‘Anything new relating to the Ankor?’ asked Tim, pointing at the smart screen.
‘Nothing more than he owns SpaceOp and is currently a valued member of COBRA,’ said Sam.
‘Has Charlie said anything to you about the COBRA meeting?’
‘Nope,’ said Sam. ‘He doesn’t talk about Francis.’
‘I suspect it’s all covered by the Official Secrets Act,’ said Tim, sighing inwardly. Having been best friends with Charlie during their doctorate studies, after a few years of Charlie working for MacKenzie, the two of them had drifted apart and the juiciest gossip had dried up. A few years after that, Charlie had started dating Sam and pretty much all non-work contact had stopped.
Tim’s phone buzzed. A text from Francis MacKenzie.
Update?
Knowing that replying with, ‘I stopped thinking about the possible security breach when the aliens invaded’ would not be taken as a joke, Tim replied that he had dug into the issue and it was highly likely to be linked to the Ankor broadcast, but that he was continuing to investigate.
‘Shit!’ exclaimed Sam. ‘Just got a text from Charlie. Any second now …’
‘What?’ Tim looked up from his screen.
‘Any second …’ Sam typed something into her computer and then looked intently at a blank part of the office wall.
A smart screen opened showing an apparently static image. Although blurred, it appeared to be an infrared of the alien craft. Details were lacking – all that could be seen was a grid of hot spots joined by slightly cooler sticks. The image had a scale superimposed; the craft was five miles high, five miles wide. As the craft was facing directly towards Earth, its depth was harder to determine.
A stream of text under the image indicated the pictures were taken from an orbital telescope that had been swung around to point towards the alien craft. The timer countdown indicated that another picture was due in just under three hours.
‘A pile of red ping-pong balls stuck together with drinking straws,’ said Sam.
‘I suspect the technology is a little more advanced,’ said Tim. ‘But you’re not wrong.’
‘Why didn’t they bring a shield with them?’ asked Sam, continuing to look at the image. ‘Why didn’t they simply appear in orbit above us?’
‘I guess announcing their presence near Neptune gives us a few weeks to adjust,’ replied Tim. Of course, he was suspicious about the Ankor, but not for the same reasons as Sam. There were plausible reasons for where the Ankor had appeared and for them not building the shield, which was going to have to be truly enormous – thousands of miles wide.
The issue for Tim, and the one bubbling on the internet, was why haven’t the Ankor given the location of the GRB?
The positive identification of a star likely to produce an Earth-shattering gamma ray burst would help to corroborate the Ankor story.
A screen at the far end of the room buzzed. ‘What’s new?’ asked Tim.
‘More alien predictions,’ said Sam, clicking through items covering alien abduction, invasion, and nuclear fallout. A lot of it was social media junk, interspersed with bland technical commentary from genuine scientists trying not to be dragged into wild speculation.
There were also many less scrupulous scientists diving straight in. Over five thousand separate and unique assertions, each one claiming to have predicted the Ankor’s arrival. Just under a hundred were from professional scientists with multiple citations in peer-reviewed journals.
Sam flicked acro
ss to a screen showing a graphic representation of the solar system with the alien craft’s expected track and predicted timings. The Ankor were decelerating hard, although still doing fifteen million kilometres an hour – over one hundred times faster than Earth’s fastest space probe.
A little while later, another alarm went off on the smart screens. There was live video footage showing MacKenzie arriving at Number 10. They all watched as he was greeted at the front door by the prime minister before being ushered inside.
Tim smiled to himself. At least MacKenzie wouldn’t be phoning him in the next few hours.
Two seconds later, his phone buzzed with a text.
Come and reinstall the security encryption in Anglesey on Friday.
‘I got the call,’ said Tim to Sam. ‘Security reinstall.’
The production MIDAS hardware ran in Anglesey, but the Butler Street offices hosted the security servers. Tim had to physically go to Anglesey and then coordinate with Sam back in London. MacKenzie had so much technology security that it took a full day to reboot the encryption.
Sam wheeled herself over to Tim’s desk. ‘In a way, I’m jealous … I’d quite like to get a look at the preparations in Anglesey. SpaceOp is bound to be involved if we’re sending shield material into space.’
CHAPTER 4
Sam’s Flat, East London, Wednesday 10th April
Reading an actual newspaper! The sheer retro nature of it made Sam smile as she put the paper on her lap and wheeled herself out of the lift towards her top floor flat. Even though the block was an ex-council building, and therefore had had to be built with strict economies in place, it had been designed and constructed well – it was bright, airy, and the lift only very occasionally broke down. The last time the lift had broken Sam had levered herself up the stairs on her emergency crutches, all six floors.
Two hours of character-building fun …
Having watched the prime minister’s afternoon briefing to the country only an hour earlier, Sam hadn’t expected to read anything new in the evening paper and, although Ankor-related items dominated the first four pages, she’d been correct. It was just more of the same. For the past few days, the Ankor had travelled at almost unimaginable speeds from Neptune to Uranus. During that time, they had not broadcast any more messages. It was still not clear what they required humanity to do.