* * *
Meanwhile things were getting steamy in Sanam’s room. The teasing innuendo was still going on while they discussed everything from philosophy through sociology to cosmology, but she was touching him with little gestures; his arm, his hand, his face. Finally he exploded, lifting her into the air and cradling her as he kissed her with trembling passion. Sanam just complied, arching her back and thrusting up her breasts. She smiled, eyes half closed, as he laid her on the bed, stripped off her clothes and then his. She looked at the slender, elegant body before her, put her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist, and pulled herself effortlessly onto him.
At that precise moment they heard a distant ‘pop’ somewhere in the ship. The lights flickered, and Sanam and Arun, entwined as they were, drifted away from the floor, weightless. Neither gave a moment’s thought to the cause of this astonishing physical freedom that had been bestowed on them, and, as all creation lay before them, they engaged in the most exquisite sensation that either, or in fact anyone, had ever experienced.
They went on, greedily drinking in the sublime pleasure of it as the stars before them began to flash by at an incredible pace, transforming their view into a kaleidoscopic rainbow. A brief shadow flashed over them and then the process reversed and a completely alien window on the universe began to form from the chaos.
Exhausted, Sanam and Arun slid apart in mid-air, just holding on to each other by their fingertips, watching the galaxy in all its splendour rush by.
15
Assault
Arlette’s mind raced as the restraint belts of her ergo-couch were automatically activated. She called the Induced Gravity section head. “Dima, what’s happened?”
“We’ve lost the main generator in the lower ring,” came the anguished reply. “I can’t get a response from my crew down there in the control room and the video link doesn’t seem to be working. I’m on my way right now.”
Her blood ran cold at the mention of video problems. She mentally redialled. “Henri, I’ve…”
He cut across her, his voice calm and precise, without a trace of his usual Haitian accent. “Lock the control centre down. Put on your weightless gear. Prepare for possible armed assault. You will have military protection within two minutes.”
“Dima reports a video link problem with the lower IG control room,” said Arlette breathlessly. “Is it…?”
“Yes, the monitoring system is being compromised. Act as instructed.” It was clear from Henri’s voice that he was on the move.
Arlette initiated the lock-down sequence and shouted out instructions. The other occupants of the control centre acted with varying degrees of effectiveness, some almost immediately into the weightless mobility outfits and scrambling for what little cover there was, others drifting about helplessly and calling for help.
There was a deafening explosion as the steel lower access door was blown out of its frame. It arced into the control centre, hitting the roof with a crash and a shower of debris before careening around the room, arbitrarily taking out electronic equipment with showers of sparks. Five men in fatigues and masks raced in, their magnetic boots clattering on the floor as they spread out and, on a shout of “Pandora!”, opened fire indiscriminately on the helpless floating figures, screaming abuse as they did so.
One man, the apparent leader, made his way to the centre of the room and held up a sword above his head. “Cease fire! Give me the scumbag Piccard, or I’ll kill every one of you!”
No one moved. He pointed the sword at the helpless, floating figure of Jake Thibault, desperately trying to paddle his way back down to his station, and a burst of automatic fire followed. Arterial blood spurted from wounds in his body as it performed a macabre dance of death within the curling threads of crimson around it.
Without any warning a single shot rang out from the observation platform, high above. The man with the sword wavered and slumped, the back of his scull removed in an ugly puff of red vapour, and the sword drifted away from his hand. Henri Bertin’s voice boomed out over the loudspeaker system. “You are surrounded by snipers on all sides! Throw away your weapons!”
The response was a snarling pandemonium of screams and automatic fire as each of the insurgents lurched towards the remaining crew members, firing indiscriminately. They were stopped in their tracks by sniper fire before they had taken more than two or three steps, their quivering bodies waving like willow trees in the wind, their feet anchored to the floor where they stood by their magnetic boots.
“Be prepared for a second wave!” boomed the voice of Henri. Nothing stirred except for the muffled sound of the security militia scrambling to take new positions outside the control centre walls, then silence. Again the clatter of magnetic boots, this time those of the paramedics streaming in and up the walls, methodically sorting the living wounded from the dead.
Henri Bertin appeared briefly at the remains of the lower access door. He was on the earphone. “Shinji, what is the state of the monitoring system?”
“We have no breaches at present,” came the answer, “and no movement in any of the connection corridors. I’ll let you know immediately if there is any change in status.”
“OK,” breathed Henri, puffing out his cheeks with relief. “Now tell me where these guys came from.”
“They came up through the emergency stairwells from level 2, that’s all I have. The cameras on levels 1 and 2 were knocked out at the same time as the induced gravity generator blew.”
Henri turned this over in his mind. ‘Levels 1 and 2 – Propulsion and Fuel Storage. Why didn’t I follow my hunch and start the search at the bottom?’
He beckoned to two of his militia, entered the control centre and headed for the practically headless figure who had been wielding a sword just a few minutes earlier. There was just enough left of his face to recognise him. It was Brady.
* * *
Induced gravity was restored some two hours later.
Dima Koval sat before the Command Group, his head in his hands. His eyes were red, his lips pursed and he was breathing heavily.
“Dima, please tell us what happened with the lower generator.” Arlette’s voice was soft. She was shocked, she was grieving, and she let it show.
“Hah!” said Dima. “It was shorted out by an explosive charge, quite a small one, just enough to knock out the system. We just had to replace a couple of components. It’s working fine now, but…”
“Take it easy,” said Arlette quietly.
“I have two dead comrades!” he blurted out, his chin quivering with anguish.
“Yeah,” said Arlette, “we have all lost comrades. We are on a mission where loss of life is a possibility we have to manage. In this case the cause must be thoroughly understood so that it can be contained. Was there a security breech prior to the explosion?”
Dima stared at his hands. He shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “I have to suppose that someone entered the control room who had the authority to do so, killed my people and set the charge. I have no records. The security door was intact.”
Arlette looked up at Henri, who sat with his head bowed, listening intently. He did not react.
“OK, and the system is now working normally?”
“Yes, but I don’t have enough people to run it reliably, let alone protect it.”
“OK,” said Arlette again. “Take two engineers from the maintenance team. Philip Schneider will be expecting you.”
Dima rose unsteadily from his seat. “And what about protection?” he demanded, looking accusingly at Henri.
“Entrance to your section will be restricted to your team and the command team only, as of now,” said Henri flatly. Dima left.
“Right!” said Arlette. “We have lost five valuable people, not counting the five assailants, on top of the loss of Kazarov and Schindler. Why?”
“I am expecting that the post-mortems on the five dead assailants will give us a lead. They were all first-class people, with no record of
criminality or instability. Their crazed behaviour in the control centre was too bizarre, too out of character to have been natural. They were under some kind of influence and I’m sure it has something to do with that micro-syringe.” Henri looked steadily at Arlette.
“Theories, theories, Colonel Bertin, and not enough facts,” she said firmly, but not unkindly. “What do you suppose was the motivation behind this attack?”
“Clearly to kill you, Commander,” said Chang, who had been in the control centre at the time, “and that suggests they were trying to take control of the mission.”
“I agree,” said Henri quietly. Everyone looked at him. “The Pandora jibe in both the murders was an obvious reference to your stated objectives for the Prometheus mission. I have no doubt they would have killed you if they could have.”
“And why?” Arlette asked. “I may have ruffled a few feathers in my career, but I don’t think I’ve made enemies on this scale.”
“It’s not personal, Commander,” interjected Julia. “There has to be another agenda here. Control of this mission could have political or even criminal implications. They could have blown us up by now if they had simply wanted to stop us. We must assume that the protagonists are trying to use us, not to destroy us. To sustain this mission requires the compliance of most of those on board. You could not do it with a skeleton crew.”
There was silence. No one disagreed.
“So, what about this man Brady? He was clearly the leader, but you don’t seem to think his death marks the end of it? Who else is in this?”
Henri sighed. “I’d just be guessing if I went any further,” he said, “but I am sure that all five of them were being manipulated by someone on board. The communication time lapse alone makes it impossible to control this kind of activity from Earth. We have to find out who he/she/they are and neutralise them. It is as it was before – a police action – except that we should soon have much more to go on.”
“Colonel Bertin, all the other four assailants were, as far as we knew, loyal and reliable members of this crew until yesterday. How do we know how many more could be influenced to carry out this kind of attack?” Arlette was beginning to get angry.
“I’m expecting data from Mission Control and from the post-mortems at any time. The next part of this discussion has to be based on facts, not speculation.” Henri got up.
“Sit down, Colonel Bertin!” shouted Arlette. “The loyal members of this crew will all know of this attack by now and will be wanting an explanation. Their concerns can’t wait until all this testing is complete. I have to talk to them now! So let’s get busy with a holding story.”
Julia took this as her cue. “I’ll write a script for you, Commander,” she said. “I propose that the story will be as follows: a terrorist attack occurred yesterday afternoon, prefaced by the temporary disablement of the gravity system, taking the lives of two members of the Induced Gravity team and three members of the control centre staff – I will of course detail their names and service records. The Prometheus security team engaged immediately and neutralised the terrorists, and we are grateful to them that our losses were not even more severe. We have been working with home-base security to ensure that this threat has now been eliminated. Our hearts go out to the families of our lost crew-mates etc. etc. The funerals will be held tomorrow at 10.00 hours.
“Despite these tragic events, our capacity to complete our mission, and our resolve to do so, will not be affected. Then I’ll reconfirm our mission rationale and objectives, work in a bit about our historic transition through the wormhole, and end with a glowing reference to the exploration of new worlds which lie before us. OK?”
“Fine,” said Marcel, “and I’ll release my report on the new science of wormhole transition about an hour later, just to keep everybody distracted and upbeat.”
Arlette nodded, her face grim, and waved the meeting closed.
* * *
“Colonel Bertin!” Hannah’s voice was breathless. “I’ve just received the results of the initial examination on the five assailants from our clinical pathologist.” Henri waited. “They were all infected by a virus of some kind. It is not something we recognise, but it has some similarities to the meningitis virus.”
“Send me the report in a form I can transmit to home-base right away,” said Henri, “including any hunches you have. All they have at present is a molecular scan which may not even be relevant. Oh, and cultivate some of that stuff for further tests once we receive a response.”
“Right” said Hannah.
As he waited for the response from home-base, Henri began a search of the ship’s annulus at level 1. He had decided not to contact the section leader, but within a few minutes of the commencement of a burn to open up the hull to inspection, Genes Clayton arrived on the scene. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded.
“Inspecting the inner hull for traces of use by the assailants,” said Henri, looking straight at Genes with a bland expression on his face.
“Whoa!” said Genes. “Come and look at the operating layout before you charge in there. A burn in the wrong place could have very unpleasant consequences.” Henri and his two-man militia were shepherded into Genes’ office, where he promptly began to project a series of three-dimensional plans on the screen. Genes was in his element, detailing the location of the most sensitive parts of the fuel storage and transport systems and describing the function of each component in colourful language. “Here, here and here” he said, circling the areas with his laser pointer,” we have toxic particles nastier than a hornet up your ass, and here, here, and all over this area we have an explosion risk so delicate that it would vaporise you on a flea’s fart.”
“I’m aware of the general layout and the nature of the equipment,” said Henri, “and we don’t need to disturb any of it once we’re in the annulus.”
“I’m mighty glad to hear it,” said Genes, and Henri wondered whether his apparent relief might be genuine, and, if so, what the implications were.
It took the team sixteen hours to search the area and they found nothing. Genes seemed to be neither pleased nor surprised. “I reckon I’d have heard a bunch of terrorists holed up in my patch,” was all he said.
Alerted by a signal that a message had arrived from home-base, Henri charged into his office, closed the door, flicked on his computer and downloaded the video. General Lee made a short introduction, then handed over to a presentation by the high-security pathology team. He needn’t have bothered; the message was very short.
Summarising the data, the chief pathologist, a Dr Garfunkel, said, “We have found a structure in the molecular scan of the contents of the micro-syringe that almost certainly corresponds to the virus detected in the bodies of the assailants. The reaction of test animals to similar viruses which we have synthesised from our data shows that pathological behaviour is induced on infection by this type of virus in some, but not all cases. On further investigation we have learned that certain subjects have a genetic predisposition to this type of response. While we have more work to do on how this pathological behaviour is triggered in those affected, we are fairly certain that this virus can be used by someone, who also has access to the crew’s genetic data, to manipulate susceptible members and cause them to commit acts of violence. Fortunately you will have live samples of the virus in the samples withdrawn from the bodies of the assailants, so your pathology department can use standard procedures to produce a vaccine promptly.”
Henri sat back in his chair and stared at the screen. “Holy fuck!” he whispered.
16
The Wayward 19
At the hastily summoned command meeting Henri replayed the video. The reaction in general was one of relief; questions were still unanswered but the containment task was becoming better focused.
“So what is your next step, Colonel Bertin?” asked Arlette.
“The most obvious course of action would be to notify everyone that there’s a viral infection going aro
und and that we want to contain it by taking blood samples from all crew members. We’d know pretty soon how many other potential aggressors we have and who they are, either because we detect the virus in their blood, or because they refuse to give samples on some pretext.” Henri looked around, eyebrows raised.
“What are you going to do with them once you’ve identified them?” asked Julia.
“Isolate them and question them one-on-one as to how the infection came about and what they know about the triggers,” said Henri.
“Do you really think they’re going to tell you, given the sophistication of this conspiracy? What are you going to do if they don’t cooperate? Waterboard them?” Julia had her arms crossed, a slightly amused, quizzical expression on her face.
“If I’m confronted with non-cooperation, I’ll keep them isolated until they can be persuaded otherwise,” said Henri; “by whatever means I deem necessary,” he added, emphatically.
“Alright,” said Arlette. “I’ll call Hannah and get her to prepare an announcement, but tell me: how are you going to identify the organisers, and how are you going to prevent them from infecting others right after this series of tests is completed?”
“I don’t have an answer to the first question yet, Commander,” replied Henri, “but I am confident that I can prevent any more infections when I know who the targets may be, and we’ll know that as soon as we receive the genetic data from home-base. Once we have neutralised the potential assailants I think we can force the organisers to show their hands.”
* * *
The following morning Henri called Arlette. “I have the list,” he said. “There are 24 names on it, including all of the five dead assailants. Hannah’s team is working on a vaccine. We should be ready to inoculate against further infection by tomorrow morning but we don’t know whether the vaccine will prevent those already infected from responding violently if they are triggered.”
Omnipotence: Book I: Odyssey Page 11