by A J Marshall
Professor Nieve nodded. “Yes . . . proven beyond doubt. I was there myself, when we discovered the anomaly.”
Richard interrupted the conversation by raising his hand. “What you’re saying is that this object, as it sporadically obtains the speed of light, drifts into another reality, and that’s why it keeps disappearing. And this reality is one where there is a different time reference. And because distance travelled is directly related to time . . . in this case the time reference of the fourth dimension . . . then huge tracts of space can be covered in what to us here on Earth is a relatively short period.”
Grillo nodded.
“So three light years could be peanuts, right? I mean such an enormous distance, trillions of miles, could be travelled in . . . months or weeks, or days even?”
Grillo nodded again. “Controlled excursions into the fourth dimension could enable this opportunity, yes. It may be the key to travelling to other galaxies in a man’s lifetime.” He took a breath and put a hand behind his head for a moment. “What I am trying to say is that travelling at the speed of light appears to challenge the established mass and energy premise. That is, it actually seems to defy Einstein’s Theory of Relativity.”
A voice interrupted. “The reality in question here is that if this object smacks into us at the speed you are describing – and even if it is relatively small in size – we are curtains.”
Rothschild turned to the gathering with a frown of disapproval.
“Gentlemen,” Grillo continued, impassively, “be in no doubt that this disturbance, this body, is on a collision course with the Earth. The sun has no influence. By whatever means, it has both speed and direction; the resulting velocity vector allows us no hope and no luck. Although there are signs of a general deceleration, because it appears to be spending more time when it is visible to us, our simulations show a direct hit. As to where, exactly, the impact will occur on the surface of this planet, it is too soon to say.” Grillo breathed a deep sigh. “I am sorry to pass on such news,” he concluded.
The room fell ominously silent. Rothschild rubbed his brow and ran his hand over his head. Another catastrophe loomed. “Mr Grillo, please,” he said, sombrely. “If this delegation is to instigate the Icarus protocol and inform the heads of state at the forthcoming conference, then we really need to know how long we have got . . . as close as you can . . . your best shot. We know the situation and the limitations you are faced with, but please, give us something to hang our hats on.”
Grillo referred to his tablet reader again and checked the latest data. The figures updated automatically. “Based on current parameters,” he said pensively, “and the latest simulation . . . we have calculated what seems to be an average velocity. I have my reservations and the closing distance is now one point eight light years. That in itself is incredible. My best shot – as you call it – taking into account the apparent deceleration . . .” He paused momentarily. “I would say we have nine days – plus or minus twelve hours.”
Instantly the room erupted into a multitude of heated conversations. On the screen, behind General Roper, people scurried feverishly. The General’s attention was diverted: Aides handed him acetate papers; a telephone was thrust into his hand. “The President!” said someone who was out of sight.
On the left-hand side of the screen Augusto Grillo tucked the tablet reader under his arm and turned away. Rothschild called him back. “Mr Grillo,” he said, “thank you very much. Please keep an open channel with us here in London. We urgently need an impact position, as soon as you have it – so that we can instigate an evacuation plan. We cannot go Icarus Imminent until we have that information. As such we remain Icarus Critical until further notice.” Grillo raised a half-smile and nodded.
Richard dropped his forehead into his hand and rubbed his temples for a few moments. Against everything that was happening around him, he thought of his old friends. He had been through basic astronautics with Matheson. He remembered those days at Canaveral’s Space Academy as some of his best. And the others too. And the loss of the Hera – all for the crystals. He considered his crystal, all but within his grasp. That one will not end up burnt out in a reactor, he reassured himself. Something else was destined for that one, another use, he just didn’t know what. All the same he had a gut feeling about the Icarus event – something is not adding up. This is not a wayward planetoid – it can’t be. He checked his chronometer and thought of Rachel – another Christmas . . . alone again, almost naturally.
Rothschild stood and addressed the gathering. “We remain Icarus Critical . . . State Departments will be briefed as such,” he shouted above the shifting mass. “I reiterate that this is a Level Three security briefing everybody – no leaks. For God’s sake, no leaks – I’ll hold you all accountable. Heads of Department to remain behind please.”
Rothschild searched for Laura Bellingham in the throng and beckoned her over. “Laura, call Professor Mubarakar, tell him that there has been a delay. We will call him tomorrow. Oh, and that applies to Professor Jones, too. Tell him sorry – although I think he probably gave up some time ago and went inside. He can continue with his work in Uxmal, but is to say nothing about his findings – not to anybody. Not until we have heard what he has to say. Make that point absolutely clear, Laura. We will be back to him tomorrow afternoon – let’s make it 4pm Greenwich Mean Time. Ten local in Mexico.”
Laura Bellingham nodded and left for a quiet place to make the phone call. Rothschild saw Richard reflecting on his bad luck and put a hand on his shoulder. He sat down next to him and shook his head. “It never rains, but it pours,” he whispered. Richard looked up to hear Rothschild’s telephone ring. “Yes, Rothschild . . . ! I see, when . . . ? Understood . . . 14:00 hours, London Main Airport. I see . . . He will be met at the VIP Terminal . . . Squadron Leader Houtris, from the Air Force. That’s good. And the return flight . . . ? 20:00 hours, Local Time. From Le Bourget. Same terminal. Okay, that’s noted . . . I’ll let you know if there are any changes. Thank you. Goodbye.” Rothschild put his telecom into a pocket and thought for a few seconds on the situation. “I could do with Abbey Hennessy back from the US,” he said ponderously. Richard stared expectantly. Rothschild pulled out his telecom again, flipped up the lid and pressed a pre-assigned key. “Laura? Book a car for Richard, 13:00 hours, London Main . . . Yes, that’s right.” He covered the microphone with a finger. “Give you time for some lunch, my dear chap,” he said quietly, more mouthing than speaking. “Thank you, Laura.”
Rothschild looked Richard in the eye as the telecom lid clicked shut in his hand. “Well, there you are. You have your flight to Paris, Richard. A military helicopter. A Captain Houtris will meet you. I will have a brief sent to your pager, but take-off is at two. Go and see Madam Vallogia. Give her my regards. Take a look at the Ark, particularly the inside; there may be clues we have missed. The Icarus Protocol is one thing, but we must continue with trying to resolve the energy dilemma. Be cautious. We will debrief this evening at 22:00. My office.” A smile jabbed his lips. “Now, if you will excuse me.”
CHAPTER 8
Nowhere is too Far
It had been some time since Richard had flown in a helicopter. More than four years, in fact, he recalled: from Rome to Venice. This model, the Jackal, was a Joint Strike Helicopter that had been produced as a collaborative venture between the North Atlantic Boundary Organisation countries and the United States. They shared development costs and technology flow. He knew of it and the machine seemed impressive. He was sitting in the rear compartment behind the pilot and he twisted and leaned forward in his seat in order to see the instrument panel. Three hundred knots was good for a helicopter and there was no vibration to speak of. Normally he would have been enthusiastic, would have talked a bit, shared some stories; but then again, he thought, normally I wouldn’t be in this situation. This time he would just sit in the back and let the pilot – a Squadron Leader – get on with it.
A change in engine tone wrested Richa
rd from his thoughts. Moments later he felt the undercarriage deploy but there was still nothing to see. Then suddenly they broke through the clouds. Two hundred feet, Richard estimated; there were buildings all around. Drizzle on the windscreen that quickly coagulated into droplets was periodically swept aside by the wiper blade, and the city that passed down the left-hand side had a grey, drab feel about it.
Richard caught sight of Charles De Gaulle Airport on the right, but nothing there appeared to be moving; not even the runway lights were illuminated. Established on the final vector, Richard looked ahead a mile or more in order to see the airfield. It was difficult to make anything out in the misty conditions but then suddenly, directly ahead of them, the approach lights came on. Their brightness and layout changed everything. Since Richard had his intercom switched off, the pilot half-turned and shouted over his shoulder: “One minute!”
Moments later, as they passed over the perimeter fence, the pilot banked to the left and set a course for the terminal building. The runway lights promptly faded and, after a short hover taxi, they landed. As the rotors slowed and the individual blades separated from the blur, Richard unbuckled himself. He put a hand on the pilot’s shoulder. “Thanks, nice flight,” he said, appreciatively. “Take off at eight? That’s what I was told.” Captain Houtris nodded.
“This is your driver, Mr Reece,” said the girl behind the reception counter.
A middle-aged man, neat and well presented, stepped forward. He smiled in a friendly manner. “Bonjour monsieur,” he said, clicking his heels and faintly bowing in an unusually courteous way, and then he looked for some luggage.
Richard shook his head. “Bonjour. No, there is none. Pardon monsieur. Je ne parle pas bien Français. Parlez-vous Anglais . . . ? You do know where we are going?”
“I speak good English, sir, and oui, I know the place.” The man was nonchalant, as if every day was routine and there was nothing he hadn’t seen or experienced in his forty-something years. He unbuttoned his expensive Crombie coat and showed Richard a badge that hung from the breast pocket of his jacket. The government motif was clear, as were the initials of the French Secret Service that concurred with Richard’s security brief. Below the mug shot was the man’s name – F. Dubieu. “This way to the limousine, monsieur,” the man said with a soft accent. “It is not far from here, probably forty-five minutes – there is no traffic in the city these days.” He nodded in a reassuring way. “The government has little gasoline, so I assume you to be an important guest.”
Richard concurred, albeit reluctantly, with a weak smile. Although he would never admit to it, he was growing excited at the prospect of seeing Naomi again. Should I give her a warm hug, he pondered, or perhaps one or two of those air kisses the French still insist on?
He followed the agent outside to a black sedan that was parked in a preferential area. It was a fairly old but solid-looking Citroen. He smiled to himself, preferring a Jaguar. A thing of the past now, he mused. Inside, the black leather trim was well worn. Richard sat in the back. It was comfortable enough. Grubby, embroidered motifs on the foot well carpets indicated that this was an official car. It seems Rothschild has some influence over here, Richard speculated.
Dubieu casually checked the surrounding area, climbed in to join Richard and shut his door with a loud clunk. Within minutes they were through the airport security checkpoint and onto a section of dual carriageway that headed west. Dubieu made haste through rundown suburbs, but not enough to draw undue attention.
Despite streets lined with unwanted cars that were discoloured and worthless, and shambolic parking that caused him to manoeuvre as if he was participating in a motor cross rally, they made good time – and there were several areas where keeping the momentum going was clearly advisable. Through those, even Dubieu looked anxious, scanning the streets before crossing them and fixating on his mirrors.
Finally, rundown conurbation gave way to countryside. But it was short lived, as the driver attracted Richard’s attention and pointed ahead of them. A few miles distant was a village built on a rounded hillock. The road ahead was straight, and in several places it was supported by embankments that maintained its level above a flat landscape. Occasional buildings and discarded machines hinted of agriculture, but there was no one visible working the land. They passed over a flooded river that was bordered by thick undergrowth and Richard could see that much of the landscape was marsh again; just like the Somerset Levels back home.
Their approach to the village was made impressive by two rows of tall poplar trees that lined the way for the best part of a mile. From the apex of the hillock a church spire was silhouetted against the grey background; its pinnacle high enough to scratch at the base of blowing clouds.
“This place is very old,” advised Dubieu, who turned to look at Richard whilst driving with his right arm stretched lazily over the pillion seat. “Some buildings were built in the eleventh century. You know . . . William . . . the man we sent to show you English how to cook!” He laughed in a pleasant way, sharing his humour. Richard could only smile and nod appreciatively. There was no malice; not a hint of the old, traditional rivalry, Richard thought.
They entered the village and began a shallow climb, but soon the gradient steepened as the road began to weave between more ancient buildings. There were towering stone walls blackened with age, small windows, heavy doors and cobbled streets, and Richard noticed the occasional vehicle. Where the streets were wide enough, cars were thoughtfully parked and not just abandoned, and he saw a bus carrying people heading back the way that they had come. Higher still, where the streets became claustrophobic because they were so narrow, a few pedestrians, well wrapped against the weather, scurried purposefully. It seemed they ventured out for only as long as was strictly necessary to complete their daily chores. Here Richard could smell smoke from burning wood, something he hadn’t experienced for as long as he could remember. The fumes, with an apple tone, hung in airless pockets.
Dubieu squeezed his car passed a pâtisserie, where a number of bicycles lay haphazardly against the walls on each side of the road. There were people in the doorway, more a gathering, and the windows were brightly lit and decorated for Christmas. Richard glanced inside before Dubieu accelerated again. There were bottles of drink and plates of food on trays. Would have been nice, he thought, seasonal festivities. He gave Rachel a thought again.
From the corner of his eye, Richard caught sight of a man in a dark jacket – he was loitering in the shadow of the entrance of the next shop. He watched them pass, his face almost obscured by a hood that was pulled low.
When Richard turned to look back at him, he had disappeared.
Almost at the top of the hill, and before the street curved to the left and began a downward incline, Dubieu suddenly turned into a side road. Richard winced as the sedan gathered pace, for the road was barely wide enough for a city car. Medieval terraces fronted the road on either side – and anybody stepping from their front door without looking would be foolhardy indeed, thought Richard. Gradually the incline lessened. Dubieu negotiated the chicane of stone door steps faster than he should, and on a number of occasions Richard heard tyres on both sides scuffing simultaneously. After sixty metres the road levelled and they entered a small square that was surrounded by fortress-like buildings. Dubieu drove slowly past the centre piece – a masterfully carved, life-sized statue of a woman cradling a baby in her arms. She stood on a raised limestone plinth with cherubs at her feet, but nothing flowed from the short copper tubes that poked from their mouths. Richard noticed that the water contained within the low circular surrounding wall lapped the coping stones and in one area it spilled over, causing black staining down to the ground. The fountain would be electrically powered these days, he speculated, but it still seemed a good place to throw coins and ask for things. Richard noticed Dubieu make the sign of the cross on his chest in the Catholic way.
The car vibrated over cobblestones that glistened with moisture until Dubieu fin
ally drew to a halt in the far corner. He parked on a shallow slope that led up to a pair of large wooden gates and pulled hard on the handbrake to prevent any mishaps. Then he gestured with his head and said, “This is the place!”
Shut tight against the world and all its sinners, the black tarred gates set within high walls deterred all hope of Christian solace, and Richard realised that a welcome here would be unlikely to say the least. “That’s the way in?” he enquired sceptically.
“Only if you are a horse,” Dubieu replied smiling, and he pointed to an arch with a pointed pinnacle of church-like design that was set in the stone wall not ten metres away and off to their left. “Go up there. You will see the door. I will expect you back in a few minutes.”
Richard looked back dubiously. “I’ll be an hour or two, maybe longer, I’m afraid. I’ve got something to look at.”
Dubieu seemed unable to resist a knowing, resigned, expression. Another smile flickered. “Listen, my friend,” he said in a secretive whisper, “the last man to go inside those walls was in May 1945. He went to tell the nuns that the war was over and was invited in for a Courvoisier, a cognac of 1890 vintage – but he was out again within the hour. It’s local history.” He grinned and patted Richard on the shoulder. “I wait for you.”