Dr. Bebbington shoves his face forward between the two women.
“Hey, Luce! How y’doing?”
“Just fine, Dr. Bebbington. I have kept the Afrika in good order.”
“Good girl! We’re glad to have you back. Hey! You’re one hot babe!”
“Put her down, Bebsie,” Panchen says, “She’s too much woman for you.”
Lucy looks sharply to Robert for guidance on the remark. All he can do is shrug his shoulders with a weak grin as Panchen laughs out loud, leaving Bebbington looking somewhat sheepish.
Even Toor has a discernable smile, Robert noting the raising of eyebrows at Panchen, betraying an exchange between two women that no man could ever hope to discern, some message having passed between them.
A slew of alerts on the central console has Lucy bringing up her own display.
“One moment. One moment…Dr. Panchen—”
“I see it, Lucy.”
“We do too—” says Toby.
“See what?” demands Robert.
Mission control and the Pegasus feeds cut off, the screens blanking.
* * *
The Veil feed is still up on mission control’s big board, but Landelle has cut the direct links with the Afrika. Their conversations with the Pegasus are now private, as is a back channel via Robert’s phone earpiece and Lucy’s diagnostic stream. Let the people see, so that they do not see. But it’s a risk. Any hint that something’s not right—
“The Afrika’s reactor is executing a series of commands,” Lucy says over the back channel, her lips silent in the Veil feed. “It’s preparing for ignition.”
“The fusion drive is going to fire?” Landelle says.
Montroy is making his own analysis from the systems data.
“It’s just the main reactor,” he says. “The fusion drive is offline.”
Landelle doesn’t see it, but Panchen shares a worried gaze with Chief Justice Garr, a set of wide eyes boring down from the big board.
“Lucy, can you shut it down?”
“I cannot, Special Agent Landelle. The reactor’s systems have been locked using reverse quantum encryption—”
“What—who?” But the what and who are not the priority. “Can you break the codes?”
“Not in the time remaining. And nothing else will be able to.”
“The time remaining—?”
“The reactor preheats the propellant to a plasma prior to injection into the Star Light drive,” Lucy explains. “But without a burn sequence there will be no flow. The core will overheat and eventually melt down, forming a critical mass in zero gee that will then undergo spontaneous fission.”
“How long?”
“I calculate approximately forty-five minutes. There are many variables.”
“Dr. Panchen—how is this even possible? The fail safes—”
“It’s a self-destruct sequence,” Panchen says, her voice laced with guilt.
It’s a statement that needs no further explanation, given the circumstances. Landelle can guess the rest. Only a few would have known—Blake, insisting upon it in exchange for his complicity, Panchen to set it up, and Chief Justice Garr, upon whom Landelle’s gaze now rests.
“Tell me this wasn’t you,” Landelle says, rounding on her.
But Garr is at the tail end of her own thought process, the anger welling up inside her concealed by a heavily managed demeanor that is now cracking under the strain.
“Where is Senator Blake?” she hisses.
“Backup mission control is online,” Montroy calls out.
Garr exits in haste, collaring Montroy and two armed MPs.
“Can the Pegasus get there in time?” Landelle asks of Panchen.
“Possibly. At maximum burn.”
The grave faces all about are the real answer to that question.
“Bob,” Landelle says. “You need to get off the Afrika.”
* * *
Robert pulls himself along the main corridor, Lucy’s avatar projection appearing next to him.
“Where are you going?”
He ignores her.
“Bebsie, can you hear me?”
“Right here, Bob.”
“Going to need your assistance.”
Bebbington is in the Pegasus’s passenger cabin, the prep for a possible Afrika rendezvous hastily completed over the past few days. Before him is a view of the Afrika’s main corridor, with Robert arriving at the hatch to Lucy’s room.
“Bebsie!” Panchen calls back from the flight deck. “Strap yourself in!”
“Crap,” he mutters in a panicky struggle with his harness.
Forward, on the flight deck, Panchen is completing the setup for maximum burn. They need to push the Pegasus to its limits, and in that regard she outranks Commander Toor.
“Okay, everybody. Hold on tight.”
The Pegasus lights up.
Robert hauls himself into Lucy’s room in a single motion, floating to a hand hold on her cradle.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“The cradle has six anchors attached to grips,” Bebbington says over Robert’s earpiece. “Three at the bottom, three at the top. Each has a quick release clamp.”
Robert sees, setting about releasing each one. Lucy sees as well.
“You do not have time for this!” she wails. But Robert pays her no attention, leaving her to look on distraught.
The MBI unit is hooked up to the Afrika via a number of thick cables, each ending in a rubbery pad slapped onto its surface—there are no physical connections to Lucy.
“Don’t worry about the cables,” Bebbington says. “The induction pads will detach. Just give it a really good shove.”
Robert braces himself against the bulk head behind the MBI unit, and kicks out at its short edge with both feet, launching it toward the hatch, each induction pad peeling off with a pop.
The diamond composite mono-bloc bashes against the upper lip of the opening, but Robert is on it, grabbing hold of the suction grips still attached to it. Still, its mass is sufficient for Robert to struggle with the momentum, having to wrestle the slab out into the main corridor.
* * *
Upon arrival the MPs expedite their entrance into backup mission control by simply kicking the doors in, Garr and Montroy right behind them. There is only one occupant, a figure at a control desk with his back to them, and upon whom two weapons are drawn.
“You will cease and desist!”
Senator Blake slowly places his hands to the back of his head, keeping his placid gaze forward. A seething Garr gestures for Blake to be hauled out of the way, and Montroy to inspect the console. Blake does not give them the satisfaction, choosing instead to stand for himself and step aside.
Montroy is quick to examine Blake’s handiwork. A shake of his head at Garr confirms there is nothing to be done.
“Bring him,” Garr says to the MPs. “I want him close.”
* * *
Landelle watches as Robert transits the MBI unit down the corridor in an unceremonious fashion—a series of kicks that has it bashing its way toward the garage. A distraught Lucy darts about to keep herself in his line of sight.
“There is no time for this! Leave me here.”
“There is time, Lucy,” says Landelle. “Let him do what needs to be done.”
“This does not need to be done.”
Garr is at Landelle’s side, with Blake being sat down nearby under the encouragement of the two MPs.
“He must get her out of there,” Garr says. “She is everything now. We cannot afford to lose her.”
The two of them look at the Veil feed. It’s showing everything, but not the why—Robert has snatched what moments he can to communicate via the back channel, out of earshot and keeping his comments vague. But it isn’t enough. The constant monitoring of the media and social feeds indicates that while they have dodged details of the self-destruct protocol getting out, there is a growing suspicion that something is seriously wrong. It
looks like Robert and Lucy are going to use a lander to disembark from the Afrika, the speculation rife as to the haste, with Lucy’s distressed state serving only to fan the flames further.
“The Veil are letting us get away with it,” Landelle says. “They could easily expose truth.”
“If the world knew of what Blake has done…we’d be back to where we were two weeks ago. Or worse. They probably don’t want that any more than us.”
“Then why don’t they help?”
“Why indeed…” muses Garr. “But that is not the question. The question is how did Blake do it? He has the access, and the ability, but not the specifics needed to initiate the self-destruct protocol.” Garr fishes a phone out her pocket, presenting it to Landelle. “He was speaking to someone all the while—identity withheld. I’ll bet they guided him through the procedure.”
“But we’re in lock down…someone here?”
“Somebody…somewhere. Pretending to be from here…perhaps?”
“The Veil? Why would they do that?”
“What if Mars was not the test?” Garr says to her squarely. “What if this is the test?”
Landelle is left momentarily speechless, Garr taking a moment to observe the penny dropping.
“Shouldn’t we tell them?” Landelle asks of her.
“I’m just speculating, Deborah. Let’s not confuse an already difficult situation.”
Having deposited the minimum amount of information sufficient for Landelle to act, should she need to, Garr nips the resulting concern in the bud.
“Speaking of lock downs,” she quips, “The White House is becoming extremely agitated. If I don’t tell them something soon they’re likely to turn the perimeter troops on us. So if you’ll excuse me, Joseph and I have a plan to placate them.”
“What’s the plan?”
“Blatant lies.”
With Garr’s departure, Landelle returns her gaze to the Veil feed.
“Bob! Not the Mombasa—it was wrecked. Use the Nairobi—”
* * *
Robert has managed to get Lucy’s MBI unit into the garage, but is now struggling with its momentum again as he manhandles it into the Mombasa—
“Yeah, it was wrecked, Debs. But rebuilt using technology a thousand years beyond our own. I know which of the two I’m going to trust.”
“Right. That’s…uh…a good point.”
Cargo clamps secure Lucy’s unit in the rear cabin, a connection with the Mombasa being established by means of its own local network. Job done, Robert pulls himself forward onto the flight deck. Lucy is waiting for him, arms tightly folded,
“I am very cross with you,” she says with an angry pout.
“Okay, baby. You be cross with me. Now be a good girl and get us the hell out of here.”
The access ramp rises, Lucy sits, pout undiminished as she brings up her own flight console projection.
“Interlocks to safe,” she announces. “Rapid purge.”
Launch bay airlocks close around the Mombasa, sealing if off from the rest of the garage, the air around it sucked out in a matter of seconds.
“Opening outer bay doors.”
The launch gantry extends out to blue glow of the Earth, ready to slide the Mombasa into its detach position.
“Releasing docking clamps.”
The launch gantry takes hold of the Mombasa, pushing it down along its rails—to a juddering halt. The Mombasa has only partly exited the garage.
“Christ. What now?”
“The launch clamps have not fully released,” observes Lucy. “The garage still has us. We cannot launch and we cannot return.”
* * *
Landelle is quick to find an unrepentant Blake.
“They must not be allowed to return to Earth!” Blake shouts out to all. “Don’t you see? It’s a trick! A Trojan horse!”
“You’re insane,” Landelle says, desperately turning her attention to the Pegasus feed up on the big board.
“Docking in ten,” Panchen says.
“We’ll have to release the clamps manually,” Bebbington says. “And allow the launch to complete. It’s their only way out now.”
“It’s over,” Blake shouts up at the big board. “They won’t be able to get far enough away before the reactor blows. Save yourselves!”
Landelle’s on him, ready to beat the living—
“You’re going to drop a radioactive wreck right across Europe!” she screams at him. “Thousands will die.”
“It’ll be worth it—”
The swipe of her balled fist is caught by one of the MPs.
“I think there’s a way a way to delay the self-destruct,” says Panchen, all heads turning her way. “No use before, but if we can get on board…The protocol only overrides the start of the plasma injection sequence. Manual ignition of the Star Light drive and full thrust. That’ll keep the reactor in operational limits until the propellant is exhausted. But we will still need to get the Mombasa away.”
“Manual ignition can only be done from the flight deck,” counters Bebbington. “The Mombasa must be released first—she can’t launch under full thrust.”
* * *
The Pegasus was specifically designed to be the Afrika’s Earth transit vehicle and as such has a dedicated airlock forward of the garage, designed to allow the space plane to dock without obstructing garage operations. Blake had been careful to disable it.
Bebbington checks the seals on Toor’s slim-fit body-form suit, a couple of raps on her helmet signaling she’s good to go. The Pegasus’s docking airlock is topside, and Panchen has them sliding along under the Afrika. Through the docking view port they can see the Mombasa’s belly pass overhead, trapped in the garage.
A rapid sequence of thrusters matches the Pegasus with the Afrika.
“That’s our song,” says Bebbington.
Toor hauls herself into the airlock, Bebbington closing the hatch after her. With time running out, Toor initiates an emergency purge. Five seconds and she has the outer hatch open. Panchen has parked them right under the Afrika’s docking station—a wide cylindrical stub protruding out of the hull by five meters. To dock the Pegasus automatically its guidance systems must be active, but Blake’s actions have denied them that—and with the garage launch gantry deployed, pilot docking is too risky. Toor will need to spacewalk across the gap and board the Afrika manually.
The Pegasus’s outer airlock hatch is recessed into its upper hull—in flight it is covered by a retractable cowling, but now it provides a means by which Toor can traverse the void. With the outer hatch closed she attaches a lengthy tether to one of the grips around the inner lip of the recess, grabs two more either side of her and plants her feet against the hatch.
Crouch, push, release. Toor is away with a grunt, her aim good enough.
A few moments of blissful serenity pass by all too quickly.
Too much thrust—she hits the Afrika hard, scrabbling to get a hand hold, a successful grab whipping her body around to slam it against the top side of the docking station. A moment to calm herself and she reorients to find the airlock control panel.
A recessed handle, which she pulls outward.
The outer hatch unlocks, sliding open to reveal a cavernous, brightly lit chamber within.
Floating inside and tether discarded she pulls down on a large red lever—emergency pressurization closing the outer hatch and flooding the chamber with air. The turbulence is enough to tumble her in the zero gee. Ten seconds and she is safe—as safe as you can be onboard a giant bomb.
“Main airlock secure. Opening inner hatch.”
“Copy that,” Panchen says “Reactor at eighty-three percent.”
A vestibule and beyond that the Afrika’s main corridor. Toor finds the moment to be somewhat surreal, hardly able to believe where she is. She pulls herself forward.
“Heading to the garage.”
The airlock is nearer the flight deck than the garage, but she needs to get to the garage first—and
no time to sight-see.
It’s hard work pulling herself along in a spacesuit—even a cutting-edge body-form one like hers, designed for flexible movement. Her breathing becomes increasingly labored.
“Pace yourself,” Bebbington calls out over the radio. “Is your visor closed?”
“Oh, yeah.” She pauses to open her helmet’s face plate, adjusting to the Afrika’s atmosphere. She’s just outside Lucy’s room, the entrance to the garage a short distance away.
The Mombasa is clearly visible through the bay observation widows, sunk down in its partial release position. Toor can see Robert and Lucy—and they can see her. But this is not the time for sentimentality. She needs to locate the manual release. Should be in a recess right about—
“Okay. Have found the release mechanism.”
A long bar with a grip at one end, resting in a groove cut into the garage deck forward of the launch bay.
“Pull it through one hundred eighty degrees.”
A good grip and a yank get the lever out of the groove and through eighty degrees, only to stick fast. Toor straddles it so as to dig her boot heel into the recess. Another forty degrees or so, but no amount of tugging and shoving gets it any further.
“Who the hell designed this?”
“He’s sitting ten yards away.”
Toor grunts out one more shove—she just can’t get the grip she needs in the zero gee.
“Aaargh!” and a really good kick to underscore her frustration.
All Robert has for her is a pair of shrugged shoulders.
Catching her breath she releases her helmet, tossing it to one side.
It bounces off the deck.
An idea.
Using the lever to steady herself, she pushes off the deck to float to the ceiling above. The garage overhead rail system provides good anchorage, allowing her to position herself directly over the lever. Elbows bent, really good push.
Her boots slam down on the side of the inclined lever. It’s enough to put it down into the recess with a satisfying clunk from the release mechanism, but sends her flying at the same time.
The Veil Page 15