by Sean Wallace
The thumping on the door was violent now, and he could hear the roaring again, growing louder.
“Who is it?”
He looked up to see Athy, tying a patterned silk gown of blue, yellow and red around her as she headed for the door.
“I . . . ”
He realized he was completely naked, and he had time only to gather a pillow from the lounge to cover his privates when Hari Wottard burst into the room flanked by six secret service agents and three aides.
“Mat. Where the hell have you been? I have been trying to reach you since 3:00 AM.”
“I . . . ” He had turned off his cell even before he left the reception.
Mat looked across to the clock on the wall. 4:17 PM. Christ!
Hari pushed into the room and drew the heavy drapes, letting in the harsh afternoon sun.
“Look down there, damn you! Look!”
Mat stumbled toward the window, shielding his eyes from the painful glare with one hand while he held the pillow with the other. He knew nine men would be staring at his white, skinny arse.
An angry crowd, swelling by the moment, packed the courtyard and entrance of the hotel.
Mat squinted, trying to read the placards, but his eyes were still too fuzzy.
“What on Earth do they want?” asked Mat.
“Want? They want to know how the fuck you got it wrong, Keterson. We all want to know!”
Mat’s hands went slack, the pillow dropping to the rich carpet. He felt himself shrivel to the size of a pin-prick.
“You mean . . . ?”
“Erebus is still headed for Earth. Still headed for Earth.”
“Excuse me, gentlemen.”
It was Athy, polite to a fault; and not the least bit intimidated to have ten angry strangers in her room while she was a good as naked.
“I think you should leave. Matrick will attend shortly.”
“He’ll be coming with us. Even if I have to drag him,” snapped Hari, his face flushing red.
Athy took a small cellphone from her gown and hit a speed-dial button.
“Afternoon, Mr. Kalls. Would you be so kind as to come up to the main suite with your staff?”
About ten seconds later four extremely tough-looking bodyguards moved into the room, flanking the other secret-service agents.
“I believe you are in my private quarters, Mr. Wottard.”
By now, Mat had collected his thoughts. If what they were saying was true, he needed to assess that data straight away. It made sense. Only the stations in Australia would be in position to track Erebus right now, but that would be changing within hours. When the US stations came on-line he wanted to see that data first hand.
“Wait outside, Hari,” he said. “I’ll be right out.”
Hari glared at Athy, then stalked out of the room, followed by his men.
“Ms Jates?” said Kalls.
“Thank you, Mr. Kalls. If you would be so kind as to wait outside for me. Perhaps you could keep those other gentlemen company?”
Kalls smiled, revealing two golden teeth amid a row of chipped neighbors.
“Yes, Ma’am.”
As the room emptied, Matrick walked across to Athy. He stopped a few paces away, unsure.
“I have no idea what’s going on, Athy. But I’m sorry to bring this down on you.”
She smiled and closed the distance between them, rising up on her toes to plant a soft, warm kiss on his cheek.
“Now, don’t you go worrying about me, Matrick. You just take your time. No need to rush into that shark’s den out there. Erebus is still more than twenty hours away, and you know as well as I do the US stations will not be on-line for hours.”
The smell of her soft skin and hair sent a thrill through Mat, and she smiled mischievously, sweeping her eyes down to his stirring member. She untied the front of her gown and leaned in closer. He could feel the soft warmth of her skin pressed against his. She tilted her head up and kissed him passionately before pushing away and retying her gown. He had one last fleeting glimpse.
“Business before pleasure, Mr. Keterson.”
She took a breath, her eyes growing more serious.
“Now. You can use the other bathroom. I will have some fresh clothes brought up for you.”
She smiled once more then disappeared back into her suite.
Mat felt foolish standing in the middle of the vast sitting room alone, and walked across to the other side where a set of sliding doors gave access to an unused apartment that was the twin of Athy’s.
He went straight to the shower, his headache now compounded by nausea as the effects of the night caught up with him.
He needed to break down events, analyze them, but he hardly knew where to begin.
He let the hot stream wash through his hair and down his back. The citrus smell of the hotel shampoo refreshed him as he worked it into his hair.
How could 2047KW13—Erebus—change orbit? Every calculation, every projection they had made had been broken down and checked to the last line, the last constant. Double-checked. Triple-checked. Ratified and cleared by five teams of independent experts. They had even surveyed the huge body before installing the NTR thrusters and the automated mining plants. They knew the density, the composition. The rest was mechanics—and the basic laws of physics did not change. So assuming Erebus had flipped, how could it happen? Sabotage? A nuclear strike on the body itself? Some unforeseen geological event? Impossible. Nothing that small could be geologically active—not even the Moon was. Collision with another body? Also impossible. The nearby space was mapped down to objects the size of a pebble.
He turned off the shower and dried himself, marveling at the softness of the towel. He was surrounded by luxury. Which suddenly reminded him where he was: in the suite of Athy Jates, one of the wealthiest female industrialists in the USA.
He walked back into the bedroom of the twin apartment to find clothes laid out on his bed along with his personal effects. He felt mildly unnerved he had not heard anyone enter. He dressed quickly, checking his watch with concern as he pulled the expanding band over his wrist.
And what about his people on Erebus? Had no one heard from them?
“I’ve got to get to JPL. Fast.”
He combed his hair quickly, hardly sparing a glance for his drawn, ashen face in the mirror. His mind was already in hyperdrive, flashing ahead, running down alternate paths of investigation. If Erebus was headed for them, they had little time. None of it could be wasted on navel-gazing or over-analyzing the errors. The effort to re-divert that monolith must come first.
He swept into the sitting room, ready to call a quick goodbye to Athy on his way out of the apartment, but was brought up short.
A huge dining table had appeared in the middle of the room, its gleaming surface reflecting the last, glaring rays of the LA sun as it dipped in the West. A vast breakfast, all on silver service platters, was laid out on the table.
Seated at one side, with a place set up beside her, was Athy, now in a long dress of dark gray, her hair pulled back in a single ponytail.
“Athy, I need to get to JPL.”
She smiled. “Of course you do. But after you’ve eaten. If this crisis is as big as it looks, you may not get another decent meal for days.”
“But, Hari is outside—”
“Let him wait. I insist.” Her voice had taken on an edge of steel, and for the first time Mat fully registered the change in her demeanor. She had transformed herself from Southern Belle to Corporate Executive.
He stepped toward the table and pulled out a chair.
At the table beside her, until now concealed by a silver candelabra, were two top-of-the-line laptops, one of which was split into six small screens.
“I have had Dajourie scanning the airways for us. This story has gone worldwide. But nothing of substance so far, just rumors and panic. It will be more than half an hour before the US tracking stations are on-line.” Athy reached over and closed the media screen.
<
br /> A smartly dressed woman in a red skirt and jacket entered the room.
“Ah, Dajourie. I want you to rustle up a secure phone for Mr. Keterson. I think his standard link will be useless.”
“Yes, Ms Jates.”
Mat cursed himself, realizing he had still not turned on his cell. He pulled it out of the pocket of his coat and switched it on. Within seconds it gave an insistent beep and loaded with no less than one hundred and thirty-eight messages, then abruptly began to ring. Startled, Mat answered.
“Hello, erh—”
“Mr. Keterson, this is Twal Chen from the New York Times. Would you be able to comm—”
Mat switched it off and laid it gently on the table. What sort of a shit-storm had he landed in?
Athy lifted one of the silver food covers, which rang with a soft ting.
“Greasy bacon and eggs, it’s a patented hangover cure . . . Well, that and these.” Athy slipped two small white pills across the table to him.
He raised one eyebrow.
“Anti-nauseant and pure codeine. Definitely not over-the-counter. But, this is an emergency . . . ” She reached over and poured him an orange juice.
He swallowed the pills, wincing at the brief bitterness on his tongue—they were not sugar-coated, but then nothing today would be. It would be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the ugly truth. Gritting his teeth, he took some of the bacon and eggs. He began eating methodically. “Well, Matrick. The timing is hardly conducive, but I must admit to having an ulterior motive.”
Mat was about to smile at what he thought was sexual innuendo, when he saw how serious she was. Any lover’s playfulness had long vanished.
“As you know, the world headquarters for Jates Industries is in Hong Kong. I have strong business interests in China. That was where we manufactured most of the reactor components for the NTRs in your Erebus program.”
Matrick poured himself a coffee, hardly taking his eyes off Athy. She seemed suddenly unsure.
“Hell, Matrick. It was no accident I was sitting next to you last night. My Chinese associates and I wanted to offer you a job heading up our asteroid mining program. The Chinese have already committed heavily, with the government in as one-tenth partner. We have the full support of Director Tein, who will be giving us priority use of Chinese space assets.”
Matrick felt the ground shift beneath his feet. It had seemed a carefree accident—a delightful night of magic—but was it nothing more than manipulation?
“Then, last night . . . ”
Athy’s eyes blazed. “How dare you even suggest that! What do think I am?”
Matrick dropped his fork and rubbed his temples. “I’m sorry . . .
I . . . it was wonderful.” Athy took a breath and pushed her plate away from her. “We wanted to offer you a job, Matrick, leading the program for the consortium. The rest was . . . well, unplanned . . . ”
Mat wanted desperately to heal things between them. His first wife had left him six years ago, accusing him of . . . how had she put it? “Being an insensitive, over-analytical robot with the tact of a Nazi.” He had tried hard to improve, but it seemed he still had a disastrous talent for ruining relationships.
He looked at her hopefully, searching for any sign that he had not destroyed their intimacy utterly, but she had receded into an impenetrable corporate shell. He knew then that what they had shared was something rarely given. Something quickly withdrawn.
“I see now that . . . well, with recent events it is completely impractical,” said Athy.
She pushed back her chair and rose.
“Good day, sir.”
She walked back into her apartments, her stiff manner the only hint at how deeply he had wounded her. “Blast.”
He turned his phone back on. It rang immediately, but this time he recognized the ring tone. He had it set to recognize Hari’s cell.
“Keterson,” he answered.
“Mat, finally. Look, are you coming or what? Jates’s goons won’t even let us ring the doorbell.”
Hari sounded more relaxed.
The drugs Athy had given Mat were killing the pain, and the nausea had vanished. Suddenly he was ravenous.
“I’ll be right out.”
He wolfed down two helpings of the rapidly cooling breakfast, then stood, sweeping his eyes across the table setting and running his hands down the fresh, new suit Athy had provided for him.
She had been wonderful, and kind; and he had repaid her with accusations.
“Damn it!”
Dajourie appeared.
“Here, Mr. Keterson.”
She handed him a slim video-phone, the casing metallic and reflective.
He tapped it with his fingernail.
Dajourie turned to go, but he halted her with a light touch.
“Could you please thank Athy for me?”
Her eyes were cold and she pushed his hand away. “You can thank her yourself. Her number is programmed into the cell.” Then she was gone.
Outside he pushed through Athy’s guards to see Hari and all three of his aides busily talking on mobile phones.
Hari ended his call and nodded to the agents, who ushered Mat down the hall and into an elevator.
“Has the team been assembled?” asked Matrick.
“Yes, they have been working the problem, but without data . . . ” said Hari.
“When do we come on-line?”
“In twenty minutes. We should make it to JPL in fifteen.”
“I would love to know what the hell is going on,” said Matrick.
Hari simply stared at him, and Mat had the uncomfortable feeling he was measuring his neck for a noose.
Pestilence!
Worse even than the Seekers of the cold clouds.
Parasites of hot, flaming breath, breathing radiation like a distant sun, and yet so small and cold.
I roll again to shake off the last and the wound rips open even further.
They have torn into me! Ripping the skin and stealing the frozen blood from my outer segments.
What are these biting pests? Like all Vendeth I have the memories of my ancestors, yet nothing in that blurred landscape prepares me for this.
My sleep had been long, a blissful silence to fill the years of darkness. Lost in beautiful dreams of my lover, all skin, hot magma, steam and ice.
Slowly my blood heats, my massive body still leaking a trail of vapor into space behind me. Instinct guides me; I know my course. I pump my thinnest blood through the deep, hot chambers of my insulated heart, through funneling veins of diamond to the rigid skin of my wings.
I unfurl, even as the rock-like skin of my lids draws back across my length. At last I take my first glimpse of this new solar system.
A cool yellow sun, triumphant in its middle years, and before me, the scent of my quarry. My ears grow sensitive once more as my blood flows and warms. Jets of superheated steam build in my outer jets, the strain against my inner walls welcome after such a period of dormancy.
. . . like a cold stone rapper,
street hard,
I don’t take no fall.
You can’t take my grill,
No, sucker.
Can’t take my grill . . .
. . . and today on the Yopa Linfey show we have a special guest, someone who has . . .
. . . the news today, Tuesday 23 May, 2054, headlining today’s stories, are the rumors true? Will Erebus . . .
. . Yeah, red hot!
I’ll burn you, baby.
Ahhh! I gotta get this!
Got to,
Gotta, get me some . . .
I scream and block my ears from the torrent of noise. It has been a trick. A ruse. No Vendeth mate awaits me. My heart tears with loss, then rage.
I am too small? My song too weak to attract a single lover?
Mother!
Before me lies my greatest disappointment, nothing but a planet. A cold planet, and yet . . .
I send huge jets blasting into space,
stabilizing me, correcting my course, wasting vital, precious fluids; but I have no fear, no.
Even through the disappointment I feel a jolt of excitement, of lust. Many are the empty, cold lovers I have taken, yet this would be my greatest conquest.
My eyes swell with greed at the feast before me.
Oceans of precious water. Surfaces swelling with organic carbon, neatly organized into easily digested pieces by the processes of slow, gravity-bound life. With this feast, I would be mighty. My song would resound with the vast chambers of magma I could harness from this sparkling planet of blue and green.
Yes, I could truly grow.
My fins unfurl, flexing and expanding, hardening. I will need them soon, to break my fall as I surrender to the embrace of this world. This cold, mindless lover.
Oh, I hunger for your embrace.
Feel me swell . . .
Matrick checked his models one last time, re-running the test cases through his programs. There was nothing wrong with the modeled scenarios, although he knew that already.
The Erebus mission room was packed. His team, led by Jereece, crowded the big monitors of the darkened room, the ghostly light of the screens making their drawn, hungover faces as pale as ghouls.
Jereece could not sit still. Wired on caffeine, he paced from one station to the next, talking rapidly. He leaned down to one monitor then looked back up to Matrick, where he sat with Hari and a small team of rapidly assembled experts led by Terry Kones, a presidential advisor Mat had never seen before. He was waiting to call President Yerry, a secure cell link placed with perfect symmetry on the desk in front of him. None of the “experts” had said a word, Mat’s small talk met by stony, slightly terrifying silence.
Mat had asked that Rotanski and Tein attend with their teams, but he was overruled. In less than a day his project had been turned from a shining example of international cooperation to another national security project that shut everyone out except NASA and the military. Rotanski was furious, and was downstairs with his team, periodically demanding access. Tein was already back in China.
“Three minutes to tracking feed,” called Jereece.
“Let’s get ready, gentlemen,” said Kones.
On cue, the three advisors flipped open their own heavy-duty laptops.