***
Five minutes of chemical rocket had taken Santa Maria to the verge of waypoint three and the making of history.
“Waypoint three reached in ten seconds,” announced Townsley. After a short pause she continued, “Waypoint three now reached. Termination of chemical rocket engine…”
The world held its breath. Billions of eyes fixed on screens around the globe, on the moon, in orbit and on asteroid mining outposts. The question-of-questions: ‘Are we alone?’ The question humans had been asking since they’d understood their planet to be a tiny island of life in the vast emptiness of space. The wheels had been set in motion to reveal the moment of truth.
As the last few seconds in the Solar System ran down; the rocket nozzle flares could be seen to fade away on the close-up camera feed.
“...Initiation of the FTL drive and transit to the Avendano star system in five, four, three, two, one...”
One second Santa Maria was there and the next she was gone. The only visually detectable sign was the momentary blotting out of the dense starfield in the vicinity of the jump. The gravity spike had caused a well in space-time through which the probe had jumped, like a momentary black hole.
“And ... transit assessed as successful… Confirm we have pre-jump diagnostic assessment of a successful transit,” concluded Townsley with both relief and excitement in her voice, a beam of joy growing on her face.
Rapturous cheers erupted in the mission control room, throughout the WGA complex and all over the planet. They’d done it! Five and a half years of hard, exacting work and they’d made history. Or at least that’s what the diagnostics showed in the last transmission before the probe’s jump. Sent nanoseconds before the transit, it was as good a confirmation as they were going to get until the messenger probe turned up in a day’s time. Tests had shown these last-nanosecond reports to be a reliable indication, so the celebrations were certainly well justified. Those not in the know went along with the celebrations, relying on the technical folk to declare the first part of the mission accomplished.
Chapter Eight
September 7, 2061 Western Global Alliance Joint Research & Space Centre, Seattle
Jenna Perez, a.k.a. Dasha Morozova, had deliberately chosen work, rather than their shared apartment, to tell Dr Alan King of her imminent leave of absence. As personal assistant to the chief scientist, their relationship had been reluctantly accepted by the director, who could find no conflict of interest. Besides, so his reasoning went, it would be relatively easy to move a PA to another team if any problems came about. They hadn’t, and nothing more was said. Dr Alan King and Jenna Perez were a nice looking, professional couple and permanent fixture in the WGA Research offices. Dr King, smartly dressed, his high spec smart glasses atop his distinguished aquiline nose, was an esteemed leader of scientific research. Jenna Perez, an attractive, dark haired, early-middle-aged woman looked many years younger than her chronological age.
In reality, she was a deep cover agent for the Russian SVR. In the seven years she’d been in place, not once had her true identity been suspected. The mission that had taken up a quarter of her career was reaching its end game. She’d been promised that she would be withdrawn, debriefed and allowed to retire after years of extraordinary loyal service. Dasha had lived the life of another woman for seven years and done it flawlessly. Ironically, she felt closer to King than she’d ever been to anyone, including her own family—which was to say it was the first time she’d ever felt any sort of meaningful bond. Her story of how she’d come to be so cold and numb to the world of human relations was a travesty of upbringing mixed with a sociopathic neurobiology. She valued things far more than people and would soon be in a position to indulge her desires. The reward of wealth and the freedom of early retirement awaited her.
She was surprised at the contact late last night after King had turned in for the night. Her recall back to Russia was at least two months earlier than she had expected, but was welcome nonetheless. She’d been told they didn't need her for the return of the probe after all. She felt confident she’d already worked out most of what the plan was, despite the SVR’s need-to-know policy. Dasha considered herself a ‘smart cookie’ as the Americans would say and knew exactly what information and technology her Russia needed to take from the Westerners. The message she had received from her handler the night before instructed her of two things: Firstly, to fly directly from Seattle to Moscow at 11am the next morning; secondly, to await further instructions on arrival in Moscow. She’d need to think up a cover story explaining that her leave of absence would last seven days and why it had come out of the blue.
She could have easily told him over the breakfast bar at home, but chose work instead. She knew he’d be too busy to question her about it there. Today was the day they would receive the first of five messenger microprobes back from Avendano. Dr King would have no time for anything but a perfunctory interrogation of her short notice leave of absence.
“Hello, darling, I got your message to meet here,” said King, as he went to join Dasha at the small, round table in the staff café.
Dasha looked upset as if she’d been crying. She took King’s hand and looked up from her bowed head, eyes moist with tears.
“I have to go. My brother's in hospital. It’s bad. He was attacked in the street and they don’t know if he’ll make it. I have to go and be with him,” she told him, sounding shaken and vulnerable. Her bottom lip quivered as she fought to hold back the tears.
“Oh my God, that’s terrible... What happened?” asked King.
“He was out with friends last night in Miami and was going back to his car and was confronted. We don't know what happened after that except he was stabbed and now he’s hanging on. I’ve got to go there on the next flight!” She wrapped herself into an embrace and sobbed, her body racked with fake sorrow.
“Ok, of course, of course. Is there anything you need?” he whispered tenderly in her ear.
Breaking the embrace and pulling herself together enough to speak, she breathed, “No, it’s alright. You have your work and this is the big day when we hear back from the probe. Look, I’m sorry I’ve put this on you at a time like this ... but I need to be with him.”
“Don't be silly,” King replied, “you need to be with your brother. When is your flight?”
“Departs at eleven.”
“You’d better go now if you want to catch it,” advised King, looking at the clock on the café wall. “Call me, darling, if you need to talk. I’ll be here for you no matter how busy it is.”
They hugged a long embrace and went their separate ways outside the café. Dasha made her way to the bathrooms to tidy herself up. That will be the last time I ever see you, thought Dasha. “Nice knowing you Dr Alan King,” she said quietly to herself with a wry smile. She touched up her lipstick in the bathroom mirror. Her cheeks were now almost dry of tears. To Dasha her performance and leaving her companion of the last seven years meant very little. She was already thinking about the flight, her debrief in Moscow and her freedom. How her disappearance – most probably Jenna Perez’s demise – would be neatly explained she would leave to the SVR. This was what they were good at, making characters like Jenna Perez appear and disappear while their enemies suspected nothing.
***
The X-Space suborbital flight from Seattle SeaTac to Moscow Sheremetyevo Air and Spaceport took only forty minutes. In 2024, the inaugural suborbital passenger service had ushered in an era of faster air travel. That, and steadily falling ticket prices had made Earth the smallest it had ever been. Now these flights were routine—although still beyond the reach of the world's burgeoning ranks of poor. It didn't matter to Dasha, she was now an independently rich woman as her secret offshore bank account balance showed. The Russian state valued her work and rewarded her accordingly. Peanuts to these guys, thought Dasha, as she walked down the air bridge. She entered into the ultra-modern glass and steel cathedral of travel that was Sheremetyevo Terminal Five.<
br />
***
September 7, 2061 Sheremetyevo Air and Spaceport, Moscow
Ethan Marsaud sat at the gate in Terminal Five of Moscow’s Sheremetyevo Air and Spaceport. The fusion reactor specialist had taken the early morning flight to make the connection he needed. The miniaturised fusion reactors that he’d help oversee in the far northern city for the WGA were now installed and on board the two interstellar space probes. To think … the reactor he had had a part in and physically touched was now in another star system fifteen light years away. Marsaud found this mind-boggling. To say the reactors were operating as advertised, though, was something he knew was definitely not true. He was scared shitless by the blackmail setup he’d been subjected to by the SVR and had kept himself to himself for the last three years. And they, in return, had left him alone. He’d even gotten used to living in Severodvinsk, his Russian language skills growing with his time spent there. He had not left Russia ever since that fateful morning after meeting the gorgeous – and fake – Elena. He’d been warned to stay put until the probe was back from Avendano and he had.
Staying in Russia had had its cost though. Marsaud still felt the aftershocks of his split with fiancée Nicole, who’d grown tired of him delaying his return to the States and marriage. She had refused to live in Severodvinsk and who could blame her? She’d actually been there and seen the place. That had been a year ago and he’d only slept with hookers since then—either in virtual sex rooms or in person. He didn't want to get tied down or committed. He didn't know what he wanted anymore. Russia had almost become his home. He’d built something of a life in Severodvinsk and, compared to most of the downtrodden local masses, lived well. But something had come up that compelled him to leave two months earlier than he’d been instructed to: his best friend’s wedding.
Marsaud cared for his friend, David, like a brother and had been honoured, although not surprised, to be given the role of best man. He could not refuse. Although scared at the time, the fear of Bekov and the SVR had dissipated over the intervening three years. He didn't think they’d care, and, besides, it wasn’t as though he could give them a call and ask for permission to leave. What if I’d been assigned somewhere else? Even if they are still bothering to have me watched, they must allow for some flexibility. What if I had to move and it was outside of my control? reasoned Marsaud to himself. They've got what they want and I’ve proven I won’t talk. Jesus, they even cost me my fiancée, the bastards! Thoughts turned to his best man’s speech—now that was something he was really scared of.
***
Dasha turned right out of the air bridge, past the two waiting policemen who scrutinised her, stony faced, along with everyone else leaving the spaceplane. She rode a short way on the travellator and got off after the first section, spotting the ladies’ bathrooms. After visiting the stall, she washed her hands and took a moment to assess herself in the mirror. As usual, she was pleased with what she saw, although a few lines had become apparent over the past few months. She figured the plane’s dry air had made them more visible ... and the harsh lighting over the washbasin. Still, plenty of time to get myself looking younger once I’m done. Perhaps I’ll find a virile young stud to take care of me. Perhaps two or three. Desperate and dependent would be best. Men do it, why shouldn’t I? she thought, the corners of her mouth starting to form a smile at the indulgences yet to come. She passed through the narrow corridor back out to the main terminal, brushing past a blonde woman who apologised because she wasn't looking where she was going. A moment later Dasha’s comwatch pinged. She pulled up the sleeve on her merino cardigan and read the message. It looked like it had been transmitted by near-field communications—probably by the blonde who’d brushed past her a short time before.
[Start] You are booked on XSX-17 to San Francisco departing in thirty minutes - go straight to gate 41. Boarding code 115685. Your target is already there. See attached photo. You are seated near him. Trail him until further notice. [End]
She gritted her teeth in anger. “What the fuck is this?” she muttered harshly, taking in the curve ball her handlers had thrown her. She had expected to make her way to SVR headquarters in Moscow for debrief, not to be sent back to the States again. It made no sense! But until she was off the payroll she knew better than to disobey orders. At least, not until she’d carefully planned an evasion plan so watertight that even the SVR wouldn’t be able to find her.
Dasha knew if take-off was in thirty minutes’ time they’d be ready to board soon. She made her way back to where she’d come and found Gate Forty-One on her right. She approached the retinal scanner and entered the boarding code. The glass turnstile admitted her to the waiting area where she took a seat in the far left corner furthest from the gate. She’d already memorized and deleted the message and photo. She never forgot a face or a message or anything else for that matter. Her memory was truly photographic. There he was. Sitting staring into the yonder even though there was nothing much to look at. He was wearing a pair of bog-standard smart glasses and was mouthing something Dasha could not make out exactly. A few of the words that she managed to lip read seemed to be English rather than Russian. She decided he was probably dictating something. She had no idea who this guy was—late thirties, medium height and build, not bad looking really. Nicely dressed. Designer clothes, so pretty well off. At least from the professional classes, she decided. Not Russian—plenty of Russians could speak English, but something about his mannerisms and dress sense told her this. Harmless looking. She guessed a technical guy like a robotics engineer or similar. Although stylish, there was something geeky and studious about him. Well, who cares? Looks harmless, won’t be armed on a commercial flight—no danger, unless he’s better at unarmed combat than me, which is highly unlikely. So I’ll just follow him and hopefully be done with this goose chase, she thought.
The call to board came two minutes later, the glass gates to the air bridge sliding open to allow passengers to their seats. There was no longer any staff on board most airliners and none on spaceplanes such as XSX-17 to San Francisco. Pilotless AI had long since surpassed human pilots in terms of safety and reliability. Travellers long used to unpiloted flights feared the developing country airlines, which still employed human pilots. Food and drink were reconstituted on board from basic substances – proteins, fats, starches and so on – and tasted almost as good as the real thing. It was delivered by wheeled auto-carts, which efficiently delivered the right items as ordered by passengers from their devices or verbally if they called the robotic waiters. Sale of food was not usually very brisk on shorter flights like this, but people still seemed to like an alcoholic beverage or two during the forty-five minute journey.
Her mark was a row in front of her and to her right across the aisle. He continued to stare, occasionally dictating something. As the spaceplane smoothly accelerated to its cruising altitude of 120 km, Dasha started to think ahead as to the purpose of the mission. It wasn’t a termination job—they’d have just done it in Russia. She ordered some mineral water and sipped at it slowly, thinking, analysing possibilities.
Her train of thought was interrupted by the overweight middle age businessman sitting next to her. “Hi, John Tippett’s the name,” he said by way of introduction. He was trying to put on his best smile and failing miserably in Dasha’s view.
She had no desire to have a conversation with the balding, ruddy-faced, American pest, but, unfortunately for her, she was a captive audience.
“Hello,” she replied blandly with a deliberately fake grin. She looked away, hoping to disengage from conversation. It wouldn't be long now she thought, the spaceplane already on its descent through the thermosphere.
Moments later, she later felt the pulse of the explosion as it ripped through the spaceplane sending pain searing through her body. Then her world went black.
***
“Report Delta-5,” demanded Bekov
“Mission accomplished sir. Bird destroyed on descent. Scratch Morozova and Marsa
ud.”
“And Omar Khalilov?” asked Bekov, referring to the man they’d labelled an Islamic terrorist but had, unbeknownst to him, assisted in his escape on flight XSX-17.
“Sir, Khalilov was on-board also. He will be the prime suspect in the bombing sir.”
“To his people he will be a martyr. For us he has provided a nice boost to our security budget. Excellent work by all involved. As you know, our job is not yet done, Delta-5.”
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