by Nick M Lloyd
Up on the mezzanine level, Martel was urgently typing on a small handheld tablet. Tosh and another security guard were circulating around the floor areas, but mostly keeping close to the main doors. Private Hunter shadowed Martel whilst constantly listening to his radio set.
Tim climbed the internal stairs and reviewed the key screens. RL3 countdown was nine hours away and internal radiation was up, now matching the external readings from earlier.
Internal
.1 millisieverts per hour
Whoever stayed in Mission Control for the next eight days, to oversee all the launches, had a twenty percent chance of being dead within a year.
Assuming no further increase in intensity.
The insidious presence of the radiation played on Tim’s mind. Even knowing the feeling was psychosomatic, he scratched his tingling arms. He was not the only one, either. All around the room, people were doing the same.
A screen drew Tim’s attention – the space shuttle Lincoln.
The image was dark – it was just before midnight at the Kennedy Space Center – but floodlights provided enough evidence to show imminent launch was possible.
Would the Ankor allow it to take off?
A separate screen, ten feet wide, showed a composite image of thirty-six prominent cities that had A-Gravs installed. Tim’s eyes flicked between New York, Washington, and Los Angeles.
‘Tim,’ said Martel, who’d walked over. ‘What are people saying about the Lincoln?’
‘I’ll check,’ said Tim reaching for the workstation keyboard. ‘Although I’m not sure how unbiased it will be.’
As far as Tim was concerned, the Ankor had total electronic control everywhere except the Faraday room. He wasn’t sure what they would like to make Martel believe about the Lincoln, but if they had an agenda any search would be worthless.
‘I understand,’ replied Martel, returning his attention to his tablet.
Tim launched a series of searches.
Lincoln was dominating the newsfeeds.
‘Most people situated near to an A-Grav are unsympathetic towards the Americans. Most people far away from an A-Grav are sympathetic towards them.’ Tim paused. ‘Irrespective, generally people think it’s a counter-attack of some type.’
‘It helps that their country is so big,’ said Martel.
Martel was spot on. In America, it was considerably easier to get twenty kilometres away from the nearest A-Grav without getting close to another one.
Tim searched. There was no information on potential launch times, or on the purpose of the mission.
‘What else can I help you with?’ asked Tim.
‘I’m still trying to get the Ankor to confirm a delay to the RL4 launch schedule to allow us to get momentum on the volunteer programme.’
‘How’s it going?’ asked Tim.
Will this be jail clean-out?
‘We’re hoping to get enough terminally sick, remarkably brave, or entirely mad people to go ahead with the exchange. The prime minister got agreement from the Cabinet and is going to launch the scheme now. I want you to track responses. We need to understand our chances. We’ve got just over twenty-four hours before the Ankor demand RL4 preparation starts.’
‘I guess,’ said Tim, ‘if we could give the Ankor sufficient assurances that the replacements would be healthy brains. Particularly if their ethical position is one that minimises unnecessary suffering.’
Martel looked down towards the main floor but didn’t reply.
‘If we don’t make the numbers, will the prime minister agree to killing Anglesey hostages?’ asked Tim, aware the Ankor would hear him voice the question.
‘He may not have a choice,’ said Martel. ‘Given the locations of the A-Gravs, we have about sixty million actual hostages. The whole of the UK.’
Tim noted that Martel didn’t repeat the point Whaller had voiced earlier that perhaps only a few of the UK’s A-Gravs were viable bombs. His assumption was that Martel was continuing to look beaten so that the Ankor were less vigilant and missed the Chimera virus currently being loaded into RL3.
A moment later, the whole of Mission Control listened to the prime minister as he broadcast the request for volunteers on long-wave radio.
Timbers, speaking from a helicopter on his way to Anglesey, stated the case simply. The Ankor were not prepared to leave without the brain materials they needed, but they were prepared to allow substitutions if done in a timely manner. The prime minister went on to state that, in times of national crisis, moral sacrifices, as well as physical ones, sometimes had to be made, and that this was the least bad option in the face of overwhelming military might. He finished his briefing by giving locations where volunteers could meet transport helicopters.
Murmuring rose across Mission Control, not least because the prime minister had reaffirmed his belief that each of the eighty remaining A-Gravs across the country was a functioning nuclear bomb.
RL4 delay predicated on RL3 clearing tower by 10am. No exceptions.
The Ankor broadcast was clear. Tim looked at the countdown clock on the wall. It was now three o’clock. Seven hours to go. It would be a serious challenge to the meet the launch window, and probably even harder to get four thousand volunteers into the Hot Zone in whatever timeframe the Ankor allowed them – the length of the RL4 delay had not been stated.
How will the Leafers deal with swapping hostages for volunteers?
It seemed more likely to Tim that the volunteers would simply disappear into the caverns, never to be seen again.
Turning to the main floor, Martel waved for Dexter Hadley to come up to the mezzanine.
All eyes in Mission Control tracked him as he climbed the stairs.
When he arrived, Martel addressed him directly. ‘Can it be done?’
Dexter thought for a few moments. ‘Bringing forward RL3 … yes, if the Ankor are prepared to accept additional launch risks. We’ll have to pump the tanks at a higher flow rate than we’d generally like, and we’ll have to halve the time gaps between filling the separate tanks.’
Instantly, a message was displayed on one of the large Mission Control screens.
We accept these risks.
Martel waited for Dexter to nod his assent, and then addressed the floor. ‘Bring the launch forward. Set the clock for ten.’
The noise levels on the main floor tripled as people set to work whilst also sharing urgent conversations with their neighbours.
Martel turned to Dexter. ‘Thank you.’
It was a polite dismissal, but Dexter didn’t leave. He spoke quietly, such that only Martel and Tim could hear. ‘It’s not a foregone conclusion that the launch teams will support RL4 if there is any hint that existing hostages will be killed.’
‘I understand,’ said Martel.
As Dexter descended back to his desk, an alarm sounded.
The external radiation levels were up again.
External
.7 millisieverts per hour
Some members of the launch teams may not want to support RL4 – but they weren’t going anywhere else any time soon.
Should I warn the Ankor?
The thought came unbidden and unwanted, deep from Tim’s unconscious.
A rush of shame spread through him. Somewhere in his brain, his survival instinct was considering telling the Ankor about the Chimera virus.
Assuming the virus instantly disabled the Ankor, then all was well. All other outcomes would lead to retaliation, and just about any retaliation would result in more than forty thousand deaths.
Tim pushed the thought down.
A second later it came back in a different form.
What if Charlie was right? What if the Ankor were right? What if the whole of reality was running on an extra-dimensional computer, and the programmers of that computer had created a set of moral imperatives that they expected humanity – all sentient life – to adhere to?
If those moral imperatives assigned a higher value to ‘units of life�
�� than to ‘honour’ … then what?
Am I breaking some universal moral law by potentially condemning millions of lives to save forty thousand?
Taking a deep breath, Tim loosened the collar on his shirt. After the relatively cool temperatures of the underground tunnels, the main floor felt like a furnace. Martel had ordered all the air-conditioning turned off to reduce the spread of radioactive dust.
Clearing all notions of betrayal out of his mind, Tim looked at the screens around the room, his eyes drawn to the one showing the alien craft composite. Over the previous day, even more Ankor pods had risen to the operational temperature of 305K.
Tim checked the details coming from the CNSA feed. The data may be being hacked by the Ankor but the CNSA assured anyone logging onto the system that there were over one hundred independent infrared telescopes concurrently analysing the pod temperatures and sharing readings via long-wave radio.
Ankor Mother ship – Pod Temperature Distributions:
343 Pods
276 Operating at an average 305K
42 Operating at an average 220K
25 Operating at an average 4K
More pods were waking up.
Given the immense changes in pod temperature from just the single payload of brains delivered by RL1, Tim wondered if the Ankor really needed the ten launches that had been originally scheduled for SpaceOp. Had they put redundancy into their plans?
Maybe they only need three or four rocket-loads?
If they had, it gave the volunteer programme a bit more breathing space.
‘You’re able to track response to the volunteer programme?’ asked Martel, appearing at his shoulder.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Tim.
Within minutes the information started to drip through MIDAS. Analysis of social media feeds indicated thousands of people were already considering volunteering – although there was a big step from social media bravado to physically turning up at the processing station having said goodbye to your loved ones.
Kicking off a quick aggregation routine, Tim turned his attention back to Mission Control. Down on the main floor, the teams focusing on RL3 continued to run checklists. Everyone else watched the screens: internal radiation rising, external radiation critical, panic in the streets.
Obviously, there was ongoing panic, but had anything meaningful changed?
MIDAS pinged its response – not optimistic. A meme was already spreading quickly concerning the expectation that the number of actual volunteers would fall well short of the Ankor’s needs.
Would the prime minister take any shortfall from the existing hostages?
Would vigilante mobs start to volunteer people?
‘Hey, champ.’
Sam!
Tim leapt up from the chair and gave Sam a hug.
‘It’s your turn to get some rest,’ she said. ‘You need some sleep.’
‘I think I’ll keep you company for a bit,’ he said.
‘No,’ said Sam. ‘You haven’t slept for ages. Go.’
--------
9am
Tim felt like he’d only just shut his eyes when he was roused from sleep in the server room by Tosh.
‘Anything new?’ asked Tim, as he followed Tosh up the corridor to the main floor.
‘The prime minister arrived. Apart from that, RL3 is on track. An hour to go.’
Tim climbed to the mezzanine level whilst taking in the latest information from the screens.
Internal radiation was up again. Eight days’ exposure would now kill over half the people in the room, and they knew it – almost everyone had scarves wound around their faces.
‘Trying to filter out the radioactive dust?’ Tim asked Sam, giving her a hug.
Sam shrugged. ‘Some of them. The others are hiding their faces in shame.’
‘Surely they know the Ankor would murder millions,’ said Tim.
‘What they really know is that they are complicit in murdering thousands,’ said Sam.
‘The latest on volunteers?’
Sam shook her head. ‘Not good, but Martel asked us to be optimistic in any dealings in here.’
Tim looked at the screens. Although numbers, or projections, were not being given, headlines indicated that momentum for the volunteer scheme was strong.
Ankor propaganda to keep the SpaceOp workers motivated.
At that moment Martel, Whaller, and the prime minister emerged from the back door – having most likely been down in the Faraday room. Huddled together, they went over to Dexter.
An internal siren announced the formal pre-launch routine for RL3: payload lockdown, fuelling, and final checks.
The ten-minute countdown started.
Tick, tick, tick, tick …
The whole of Mission Control watched the ticking down of every one of the six hundred seconds.
When RL3 eventually took off, it did so to total silence on the main floor.
As it established a two-thousand-kilometre-high orbit without any issues, the teams responded again with silence.
The CNSA screen flashed briefly. The Ankor craft was rearranging its pod configuration – as it had done for RL1, though the CNSA feed stated that it was a different set of pods that were preparing themselves for receipt of RL3.
An additional worry …
Tim now knew that the RL3 cargo would be absorbed solely by the main Ankor faction. If the Chimera worked, but only partially, then the Transcender faction may have an opportunity to gain ascendancy.
The CNSA feed updated. More pods were rearranging. Ones that had been involved in the RL1 docking.
The Transcenders?
Likely, the Transcenders would want as much material as they could get; were they prepared to fight for it?
Tim watched as a second docking zone was prepared.
Shit!
The worst case would be a stand-off between the two factions that meant the material was not integrated into any of the pods.
The prime minister walked to the front of the mezzanine level and addressed the main floor. ‘None of us like this. But it has to be done.’
Tim and Sam shared a look. The prime minister was right; the brain materials sent up in RL3 were from people who had died before the full picture had become known. They could not have been saved.
Sam leant in. ‘What else will have to be done?’ she whispered.
Unless the volunteers started to flood in, the Ankor would flex their nuclear muscles in just under a day’s time, and then someone would make the decision whether another five thousand poor souls would be murdered.
A news broadcast screen flared to life.
The United States of America restates that transport of material is an affront to God and will not be countenanced. The fleet has been dispatched to neutralise the SpaceOp launch capability.
‘What do they mean by neutralise?’ Tim had to believe that the prime minister would have tried to reason with his counterpart in the US. However, the tone of recent US proclamations had had a fundamentalist tinge.
‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ said Sam.
CHAPTER 36
SpaceOp
It didn’t take long for the Americans to follow up their words with action.
The whole of Mission Control turned to watch the live feed as the Lincoln fired its initiation motors in Florida. The image of the shuttle on the screen bloomed white as the camera struggled to adjust to the intense light.
It rose.
It cleared the tower.
‘Every system must be hard-wired,’ said Sam. ‘Nothing for the aliens to hook into.’
A new screen opened showing a live broadcast from the US president.
‘The people of the United States of America cannot and will not accept the launch of the British tribute. It is a violation of God’s commandments and as the leader of a Christian nation – one nation under God, indivisible – I have no option but to take action.’
The shuttle continued to climb.
‘Co
me on,’ whispered Sam.
Nothing good can come of this.
Actually, Tim reflected, that wasn’t true. The Americans could destroy the Ankor craft and save the day, but anything less than that would likely lead to disaster.
If the shuttle only managed to intercept and destroy the RL3 payload then surely the Ankor would retaliate. With over two hundred A-Gravs across the US mainland, the price would be too high.
Plus it would end the chances of the Chimera working, and put the Ankor on their guard.
Tim felt hypocritical. Hadn’t he just helped launch an attack on the Ankor himself? The Ankor would quite easily work out where the Chimera virus came from.
‘Now we know why the Ankor asked for RL3 to be brought forward,’ said Dexter, who had appeared at the top of the mezzanine steps and was obviously waiting to speak to Martel.
‘Why?’ asked Sam.
‘To prevent the US from destroying it. Their delta-vees are all mismatched now,’ said Dexter. ‘The shuttle can’t intercept.’
‘Could the shuttle get up to the Ankor mother ship?’ asked Sam.
Dexter paused for a moment. ‘Not unless there have been crazily radical changes to the shuttle internals. Its usual configuration wouldn’t carry anywhere near enough fuel. The cargo bay would have to be full of fuel, and they would have had to remove thirty percent of its overall weight. Theoretically achievable with new compound materials … but unlikely as hell.’
‘But possible?’ asked Sam.
‘In the same way it’s possible you could toss a coin, and have it land on its edge three times in a row,’ said Dexter.
They watched as the Lincoln continued upwards.
‘How’s the volunteer programme going?’ Dexter asked Tim.
Tim turned in his seat and forced a smile. ‘People are assembling at the transport sites, but numbers are not clear yet.’
‘Will we get to four thousand?’
‘Hopefully,’ said Tim, one eye still on the shuttle.
Although, even more hopefully, Chimera will work and volunteers won’t be needed.
Dexter’s unconvinced expression said it all.
Tim’s stomach cramped. It would be grim for the volunteers and all their friends and family. They had no idea about the Chimera attack. They genuinely thought they were going to Anglesey to die.