by A J Marshall
“Yes he is!”
“Commander Race, Sir. We have a serious security situation in the Elysium Sector – unidentified intruders. You will have my report within the hour.”
CHAPTER 10
For the Love of Carbon
London – same day
15:02 Greenwich Mean Time
“Peter,” said Laura Bellingham standing in the doorway, “I have received a transcription of the message sent from Space Station Spartacus to the Science Federation Headquarters this morning. I’ve sent it to your computer. In response to your request for further information Mr Brian Grant will call you in fifteen minutes – you will recall that he is the Senior Scientific Analyst for the European Space and Science Agency.”
Peter Rothschild looked up from his desk. Laura, he thought, is beginning to look tired. She had very dark bags under her eyes. “Thanks,” he said, and stared for a moment.
“Will that be all?”
“You are working too hard, Laura,” Rothschild said, in a concerned manner. “I want you to take some time off . . . okay? As soon as we get Abbey back from America, then you’re off for a few days. Is that clear?”
“It’s cold and damp at home, Peter. I’ve almost run out of heating oil and so have my neighbours – we’ve been pooling resources. They are saying that further deliveries are unlikely and I hear electricity rationing being mentioned again in certain quarters. So, if you don’t mind, I would prefer to be here, where it’s warm. Anyway, I’m expecting some news from Richard. He should have landed in Egypt by now. I need to coordinate his security.”
Rothschild nodded, acknowledging the reality of the situation. “Any of that Admiralty coffee left?” he asked, smiling.
“I’ll see what I can do.” Laura closed the door behind her.
Rothschild turned his attention to the transcription and read the accompanying report. The Arius probe, a large satellite-type vessel that brimmed with ultrasensitive equipment for deep space research, was now five days from Jupiter. Designed with a broad-spectrum sensing capability that also encompassed most terrestrial frequencies, she had intercepted a radio signal that seemed to emanate from the moon Io and had attempted to rebroadcast it to the ISSF facility in Canaveral the previous evening. However, due to the debilitating effect that Jupiter’s gravity has on radio waves, the relay was degraded and only intercepted as a weak, distorted signal by the Space Station Spartacus that was holding station between Mars and Jupiter in support of the original ISS Hera mission. There an alert operative, who had become suspicious by the nature of the signal, had rebroadcast it to Osiris Base. The red telephone on Rothschild’s desk rang.
“Rothschild here,” he answered.
“Peter, good afternoon, it’s Brian Grant from the Space and Science Agency. You have requested an update on the signal from Jupiter, I understand.”
“Yes, that’s right. I hear it’s causing some concern.”
“More than that my dear chap – put the cat among the pigeons, I’m afraid.”
“Go on.”
“Spartacus is holding station in the Omega Sector, about four million miles from Jupiter – just beyond the outer asteroid belt. We decided to keep her there until more precise information is available on the Hera’s disappearance. She intercepted a weak signal from the Arius probe at 23:14 GMT yesterday. It was a relay of a signal that appeared to emanate from Io. Normally the signal would have been processed as a low priority occurrence, but the operative noticed that the form was binary tonal – not one used generally for space communications. Listening to it would be like listening to the shrill from an old facsimile machine, for example. Unable to decode it, the operative relayed the signal to Osiris Base for onward transmission to Canaveral by their Accelercom facility, marking it Sceptre Code Two – that means of special interest.”
Rothschild was beginning to wonder where all this was leading when, in the background, he heard someone say, “Mr Grant, the signal is confirmed, auto-synthesis!”
Rothschild interrupted. “I overheard that Brian, what does that mean exactly – auto-synthesis?”
“There is a scientist on Mars, Peter, by the name of Ramir Pushtarbi; he works in the Robomotive Department. Been there for years apparently – their longest serving robologist. Someone in the communication centre on Osiris asked his opinion, knowing that he had a synthetic language background. It transpires that he is a former employee of Interface Cybersystems SL, a company within the Epsilon Rio group. In fact, he was on the original development team for the Humatron series. These were Level Seven, self-aware robots, built originally for piloting deep space probes and also operating long-term space amenities such as the atmospherics control centre on orbiting facilities like Spaceport – relieving humans of such menial tasks. As such they were built to last – a guaranteed longevity for the primary power cell of one thousand years, in fact. This morning, at 04:48 GMT, Mr Pushtarbi recognised the binary transmission as a communication between Humatron systems; indeed, he has specified the model HU40. This robotic system was banned several years ago by international law. There were numerous reasons, not least uncontrolled acts of violence towards humans – the result of programming deficiencies.”
“I know of this system, Brian, our operatives have encountered them in the past, and you are quite right, they are extremely dangerous. A mind of their own, it seems. So, a conversation between robots, you say?”
“The ISSF’s security directorate acquired the entire Humatron language code when they closed down the Interface production facility in Brazil a few years ago. My people have just confirmed the transcription: Ramir Pushtarbi was correct – it appears that there is, or was, at least one HU40 system on the surface of Io and another in orbit!”
“Good God man! Could they have been responsible for the disappearance of Hera . . . ? What are they doing there?”
“I am in receipt of the full transcription . . . in English – came through just a few minutes ago. Part of it appears to be a series of technical instructions; data for adjusting the centre of gravity and centre of pressure for, we presume, an ascent of a landing vehicle. An additional forty-eight kilograms was specifically mentioned. And other data includes settings for escape velocity and orbital concentricity calculations for a docking manoeuvre.”
Rothschild sat bolt upright in his chair. “Can it be that robots are doing what we sent the crew of Hera to do? Surely not . . . surely that’s not possible!”
Moon Base Andromeda – same day
Freight Terminal Communication Centre
15:32 Lunar Corrected Time
“Colossus Zero One, we have your arrival request. You are clear to station. Orbital Profile Four, Four, Seven. Arrival Sequence Zero, Zero, Zero, Four – Tranquillity Transition. Initial holding seventy-eight per cent elliopheric, reducing sixty-five per cent at Gate Sequence Alpha, Alpha, Charlie. Do you copy Colossus?” The controller had an American accent.
The reply was from a woman with an Asian accent and the words were clipped. “Colossus copy, thank you Andromeda. Automatic sequence in place – acknowledgement download code Tongsei One, Two, Two. You have code, correct?”
“Yes Mam, we have Tongsei One, Two, Two in the data sequence. You are clear to proceed. Welcome to the Moon.”
The recent refit of the interplanetary mineral barge Colossus had increased her payload from 125,000 metric tons to 160,000 tons, and resumption of the near 500,000 mile round trip had allowed much needed supplies to reach the Earth, particularly mineral-rich fruit and vegetables grown inside Andromeda’s extensive biodome network. Cold storage of foodstuffs was highly convenient, as after harvesting it was simply conveyed to the freight terminal in louvred Space Chillers – bulk storage containers that allowed the extreme cold outside to slowly permeate the food, and then, after the louvres were closed, maintain an internal temperature fractionally above freezing point. The food subsequently remained super-chilled in the vacuum of space until its arrival on Earth.
Construct
ed in space, Tongsei Space Ship Colossus was far too large and underpowered for re-entry manoeuvres and as such was attended by a fleet of service vehicles at either end of the two-week cycle, where a medium level geostationary orbit was normally required for three to four days.
There were mining operations on the Moon almost before permanent accommodation had been built. Following the global recession of 2008–2017, governments the world over had withdrawn from the costly research and development programmes required for lunar colonisation and had instead pooled resources under the auspices of the first space alliance – the International Space and Science Federation. But it was the wealthy and faceless industrial conglomerates that had paved the way for a return in 2016 by negotiating one-sided – and regarded by many as illegal – trade agreements that effectively gave them a monopoly over the Moon’s precious resources. The 1967 Outer Space Treaty between Russia and the United States of America, which defined the Moon and all outer space as the “province of all mankind” and also restricted the use of the Moon to peaceful purposes, explicitly banning military installations, and the 1979 Moon Agreement created to restrict the exploitation of the Moon’s resources by any single nation, simply fell by the wayside. By 2019 the giant China-based conglomerate Tongsei Heavy Industries and other similar unscrupulous multinational companies had stock in the Moon, and their initial investment would turn in hitherto unheard of revenues for the coming three decades. That continued until 2050, when their criminal aspirations for controlling world-energy supplies had been curtailed and subsequently their trading activities severely restricted. But now, with mineral and commodity revenues once again filling their coffers, other designs loomed – perhaps the independent colony itself?
Based on the layout of the world’s largest but long obsolete nuclear-powered submarine, the TS Shinan Po, but with hugely increased dimensions, the menacing black hull of the Colossus neared the pre-designated orbital entry point. Her broad, flat upper deck housed eighteen pairs of hydraulically operated cargo doors that gave access to twelve cavernous cargo holds designed specifically for the bulk transport of minerals. However, post-refit, Number 1 hold had now been divided and adapted to carry other equally lucrative commodities, such as food and gemstones. The single, rear-facing, but manoeuvrable primary rocket nozzle that was positioned centrally on the truncated aft section of the hull occasionally glowed a fiery brilliant white and this rearward thrust was augmented by brief lateral burns of the retro rockets that were applied to align the vessel with the final approach corridor.
“Andromeda Control, this Colossus, we request one additional high latitude orbit at seventy-eight per cent elliopheric before establish final station. You authorise, please.”
“Your parameters look good from this end, Colossus. State your reasons for a change in the profile.”
“Er, we need additional time to decelerate. Must comply increased mass momentum computation.”
There was a pause. “I say again, your profile looks a-okay? Continue as briefed, please.”
“Must insist . . . velly high priority, Andromeda. Momentum calculation show increased speed for alignment. This no good for orbital concentricity – please allow additional polar orbit to decelerate.”
In the Freight Control Centre the American officer held up a hand and attracted the attention of his line manager. “Sir, what do you think?” he asked, as the older man stood beside him and leaned over to study an electronically enhanced approach profile that was overlaid on the circular radar screen. “The Captain of the Colossus is requesting an additional orbit at seventy-eight per cent in order to decelerate, but her profile looks good to me – it’s unusual, I mean . . .”
“Maybe they haven’t quite nailed the computations after the refit; I know that the barge is much larger now. What orientation is he requesting?”
“It’s a she, sir, and they want the Polar quadrant.”
“Seems okay . . . there’s nothing there.”
“But sir, we’re not talking rocket science here. Surely her navigation computer will have been updated . . . to account for the additional mass, I mean. And anyway, the far side sensors are down for servicing – that was clearly detailed in this month’s Notices to Spacemen. She must know that we can’t track her on the other side and therefore will not be able to provide trajectory or safety information. It’s highly irregular, sir!”
The supervisor paused for a moment, weighing up the implications. A wiry Englishman, he stood tall and then arched his back and scratched his head. “Listen,” he said, in a condescending way, “we don’t want an interplanetary diplomatic incident do we? Not on my watch anyway. Go ahead and authorise the damned orbit.”
“But sir!”
“Let it go, Smith . . . okay? Any degrading of safety in the orbital phase is down to her – it’s her decision – just remind her of the maintenance period for the record.”
Unhappy with the order, but complying in any case, the American opened the communication channel again. “Colossus, this is Andromeda Control. Your orbit at seventy-eight per cent elliopheric is approved – make it Zero, Zero, Seven degrees, East Polar Offset. You are advised that essential sensor maintenance is currently underway; in future, please check your notices. I will call you when we have you on radar again.”
“Velly good. One orbit in polar sector approved. Cancelling Tranquillity Transition and changing course. Colossus Zero One, out.”
As the blip on the radar screen slowly changed direction and set course for the Moon’s North Pole, Space Controller Herbie Smith closely monitored the ship’s velocity. The profile looked innocuous enough, but there was something about it he just didn’t like. There were no other space movements in the vicinity and so he watched the trace almost aimlessly until it neared the periphery of his screen and then disappeared.
With the dark side sensors out of action, it would be another three hours and thirty-seven minutes before the system registered the Colossus completing the orbit by appearing beneath the South Pole.
London – same day
16:32 Greenwich Mean Time
“Any sign of him?”
“Nobody has seen him since breakfast, Mr Rothschild – can’t understand it. He knew we were going live at ten this morning.” The man on the screen checked his watch. “That’s thirty minutes ago. He must have gone walkabout – possibly back to the temple. I know he had a couple of unresolved issues. Anyway, I’ve sent someone over to his hotel. Sorry . . . it’s quite unlike Professor Jones to miss an appointment.”
“Okay, I understand. May I take your name?” asked Peter Rothschild politely.
“Yes, of course – I’m Steven, Steven Trent. Doing a Master’s at Cardiff. I’m Professor Jones’ assistant. There are two of us in fact – Shelley’s gone off to the hotel.”
The tall young man had dark curly hair that spilled out from beneath his woollen hat. The collar of his patterned poncho-type coat was buttoned tight around his neck and he fidgeted with his gloves. He focused on anything but the camera and could feel Peter Rothschild watching him through the video link.
“What’s your area of interest?” asked Rothschild, becoming frustrated by the delay.
“I’m specialising in ancient symbology – the same field as the Professor. Shelley’s into early art – Middle America is her thing.”
“I see. And how old are you, if I may ask?”
“Twenty-one.” He nodded almost apologetically.
“Were you with Professor Jones when he discovered the new chamber?”
“Sadly not – kicking myself for not coming over with him. He could see the writings and the frescoes deteriorating. It surprised him. The process started almost immediately. Flaking, discolouring – it’s the humidity. That’s when he sent for some help. I mean, what he’s found is amazing.”
“Does he know how old they are?”
“Yes, he’s dated the chamber quite accurately by the position of the stars.”
“What, exactly, do you
mean by that?”
“The ceiling of the chamber is domed, finely plastered, and there is a perfect representation of the night sky . . . back then of course, when it was actually painted. The Southern Hemisphere, exactly as it was. The Professor took two days to take an image – he’s got this wide-angled, low-light device. Then he sent the image to a friend in Switzerland, a well-known astronomer. The results arrived last week – that’s when he requested some security from the regional government and contacted the European Space Agency. It’s not just the writings.”
“What’s so special about a painting of the night sky – then or now?”
Steven Trent rubbed his gloved hands vigorously for a moment in an effort to warm his fingers and his breath condensed as he spoke. “The midpoint of the chamber – by that I mean the orientation of the entire fresco – turned out to be the magnetic South Pole. Absolutely spot on, accurate to within a few hundred metres.”
“Yes . . . and?”
The young man looked surprised. “The Mayan civilisation, sir, here, the Yucatán Peninsula – we are in the Northern Hemisphere. These people had no way of getting to Antarctica, let alone crossing an icy wasteland that size to get to the bottom of the world.” He looked away nervously for a moment and checked the time again. “I shouldn’t be telling you this – the Professor has put a news blackout on the whole project – but . . .”
“Go on, I’m security cleared.”
“According to the results from Switzerland, the original aspect . . . because the lowest stars painted on the fresco would have actually been below the horizon and therefore not visible, well . . . the observer would have been flying!” Steven Trent paused nervously. “Sorry, I’ve probably said too much. I’d better wait for the . . .”
Rothschild pushed down on the arms of his chair and sat up straight. “No, that’s fine. There is no security issue here; I can assure you of that. What else do you know about this? How accurate is the fresco – what are we talking here?”