Wilkins nosed forward and throttled up to push the clumsy spacecraft towards the office tower’s courtyard. The lander’s flood lights illuminated glass windows ahead, including a large section that had been destroyed by the first L-2S shuttle pilot when he’d blasted his way into the bank. Wilkins drifted towards the building, choosing his landing spot carefully, then a strong gust caught the elongated dome shaped lander and hurled it towards the tower. He pulled back, but the gust pushed the lander against the building’s third floor windows. Three floodlights on the exterior of the hull shattered against the office tower’s windows, exploding glass into a long abandoned office. One of the attitude thrusters was crushed and began venting propellant, triggering a fuel alarm, warning Wilkins that a rapid drop in propellant tank pressure had been detected.
He thrusted away from the tower for two seconds, then throttled down before the winds could drive the lander against the building again. The dome-shaped vehicle dropped towards the ground as its three lander legs extended. The three legs touched down, automatically compensating for the uneven landing surface, then Wilkins powered down the engines. Out of habit, he glanced at the fuel indicators. He had eighteen percent left, not even enough to get back into orbit. When they’d simulated the landing on the station, they thought he’d get down with thirty percent to spare, but they’d greatly underestimated the strength of the winds.
Captain Wilkins unbuckled from his seat and quickly climbed down through four levels of crew habitat and laboratory space to the equipment deck. The lander, part spacecraft, part research base, had been designed to place a six man team on the surface of Pluto for a hundred days and return them safely to the Solar Explorer III for the voyage home. He’d always expected to be landing with his team, to be celebrating their achievement moments after landing. Now he felt a twinge of regret that he was alone, even though he’d refused to allow any of the crew to accompany him. There was no need for them all to die, on what was a one man job.
He climbed into his bulky metal suit, an articulated anthropomorphic vehicle that would have been equally at home exploring the bottom of the ocean, as the surface of a distant planet. It’s size was to ensure he didn’t freeze on the desolate surface of Pluto, but now the dense shielding would have to serve a different purpose – buy him a few precious minutes in Earth’s irradiated atmosphere.
He performed a full suit system check, ensured the data link between his suit and the lander was functioning, then cycled through the cylindrical airlock. Even after all these years since training, he almost said, “Commencing EVA,” but he bit the words off. This might have been an Extra Vehicular Activity, but it wasn’t the one he’d trained for, and he didn’t want to grace it with that description. When the cylindrical chamber finished turning, the outer door slid open revealing a gray, blizzard-wracked world lit only by the lander’s surviving floodlights. The office tower was barely visible, rising before him into darkness, while great black shadows in the distance hinted at the presence of other once gleaming buildings, now little more than towering tombstones to their creators. Without hesitation, he stepped out onto the landing platform and signaled for the small elevator to lower him to the ground.
“I’m outside,” he reported as he switched on his two shoulder mounted flood lights.
When the elevator stopped, he lumbered forward, through knee deep snow, towards the bank. The relentless wind had piled dirty snow drifts against the bank’s glass front wall and driven snow through the ragged hole the first L-2S shuttle pilot had blown in the bullet proof window. Wilkins squeezed the big suit through the opening, then ambled across the bank’s spacious reception area. Beautifully finished marble walls and floors spoke of meaningless opulence, and inactive security cameras, infra red sensors and motion detectors covered the cavernous area, guarding wealth no longer owned by anyone.
At the far side of the great marble palace, a two meter high metal column crowned by a glowing blue ring had been erected by the first L-2S shuttle pilot. It was a signal repeater, designed to beam a signal out to the waiting shuttle, for retransmission up to the L-2 station. The signal repeater stood at the top of a set of marble stairs that led down to the vault, below ground level. Wilkins knew at a glance that the repeater was fully functional, but in standby mode, as no data stream was being received.
“Tom, what’s your radiation level?” Mariena’s voice sounded through crackling static.
He realized he’d been avoiding looking at his radiation sensor. One glance told him the suit was being drowned in radiation well above its tolerance level. “It’s hot enough to fry an egg in here. You wouldn’t know where I could find an egg down here, would you?”
As if the suit had been listening, a pleasant English woman’s voice sounded in his ears. “Warning! Lethal radiation level detected. Return to lander immediately.”
“Not today,” Wilkins said. “Command: Disable audible radiation warnings.”
He took a deep breath and tried to walk down the stairs, knowing he had little chance of succeeding. The suit’s metal feet were too wide and cumbersome for the polished marble stairs. At his first step, he tripped and fell forward. The suit’s thrusters fired automatically, trying to break his fall, but they were not engineered for Earth’s gravity. If it had been Pluto, he could have floated over the stairs, but on Earth, the suit weighed several tons, far more than the thrusters could lift. He fell face first onto the stairs, shattering the fragile marble steps and sliding to the bottom. The status indicators inside his helmet told him the suit had suffered no damage, so he rolled sideways and sat up.
The suit’s flood lights illuminated the body of the first L-2S shuttle pilot. He sat propped against the wall, head forward, eyes vacant, face blistered with radiation burns. The pilot wore his pressure suit, modified by the station’s maintenance team with radiation shielding which had bought him precious minutes. Wilkins knew the man well and felt an instinctive urge to do something for him, to commemorate his courage, but there was no time. Instead, he climbed to his feet, feeling dizzy for the first time. The radiation warning light inside his helmet was flashing at him, but there was no way to switch it off, so he ignored it, and moved forward with growing urgency.
Wilkins stomped along the corridor, past a floor-to-ceiling bank vault, then turned left towards the bank’s data center. The metal security door had been blown open by the second L-2S pilot, demolishing one side of the door frame. Standing in front of the wrecked door was a second signal repeater, glowing blue, waiting for a signal.
Wilkins squeezed through the shattered doorway into a dark room filled with supercomputers glowing with tiny lights, all still powered by the bank’s own uninterruptible power supply years after their makers had passed away. In front of the super computers was a long table, inset with five interactive virtual screens. Sitting on a chair in front of the central screen was the second L-2S shuttle pilot. He was slumped forward, transparent helmet on the table and one gloved hand resting on a virtual screen. Sitting beside the screen was the cylindrical computer Commander Zikky had prepared for the mission, designed to break the bank’s encryption system and send data to the first relay standing just beyond the wrecked doorway. For security reasons, the bank had isolated its computing center from any global links, making it impossible for the Lagrange-2 Station to remotely access the bank’s records.
Captain Wilkins walked towards the dead shuttle pilot, took him by the shoulder and pulled him out of the seat, letting his body drop to the floor. He suppressed his anguish at treating the dead man so coldly, but he knew his own time was running out. The dizziness was growing, his eyes were watering and his temperature was rising.
He blinked back tears and sweat to see clearly. The second pilot had placed a flat metal disk on the virtual display, allowing Zikky’s computer to talk to the bank’s supercomputing center. On top of Zikky’s computer, a small octagonal display showed a string of numbers, letters and symbols while the bank’s virtual screen contained an empty in
put box beneath a symbol selection display. Wilkins knew at a glance, Zikky’s machine had broken the bank’s security, but it had taken much longer than the second pilot could endure.
“Zikky,” Wilkins said, surprised at how feeble his voice sounded. “Your computer has cracked the bank encryption, but it’s not loading the key.”
Loud static drowned out Zikky’s reply.
“Say again,” Wilkins said, pushing the volume to maximum.
“It . . . manual ent– . . . to stop . . . hack. You will . . . enter it . . .”
“Manual entry?” Wilkins asked.
He touched the virtual screen gently, trying to input the access code, but the electrically sensitive glass would not respond to the suit’s non-conductive metal fingers.
Wilkins sighed, knowing what he must do. “Command: Service unlock, right hand, activate.”
The pleasant English voice responded, “Warning! Extreme environmental conditions detected. Maintenance aborted.”
“Command: Disable all safety overrides,” he said with growing irritation. “Command: Service unlock, right hand, activate.”
A click sounded in his ears, then a circle appeared around the suit’s right wrist. He used his left hand to twist the suit’s right hand twenty degrees, then let his right arm hang straight down by his side. The large metal hand, able to lift a boulder or a feather, fell off the suit, exposing his naked flesh.
Wilkins suppressed a groan as his skin began to burn. He carefully began tapping the virtual screen’s symbol selector, copying each character from Zikky’s computer. When he was halfway through entering the encryption key, has hand was screaming with pain, and began to shake involuntarily.
“Command: Medical emergency, inject pain killer, maximum dosage.”
A small needle penetrated the back of his neck and pumped nerve suppressant into his spinal cord. He sighed, instantly relieved as his hand steadied, allowing him to continue. When he finished, the entry screen vanished and thousands of rectangular pages of data – numbers and currencies – began flashing across the screen.
“We’re in,” Wilkins croaked feebly, knowing Zikky’s computer would do the rest.
The radiation sensor was flashing a continuous warning that the suit was now soaking in toxic levels of radiation. He turned and looked down at the suit’s metal hand lying on the floor. He knew it was already too late, but he bent down to pick it up anyway, getting a glimpse of his blistered hand. Before he could slide his hand into the metal glove, he lost his balance and fell forward onto the floor.
“L-2 Control, do you have access?” he wheezed as he rolled sideways to see the signal repeater in the corridor outside. Static hissed as Zikky tried to speak to him, but the radiation inside the suit was interfering with its systems.
“Say again,” he whispered.
He thought he heard Mariena screaming hysterically at him through a storm of static to get back to the lander where he’d be safe.
“No time,” he whispered as the blue standby light on the relay turned green and data began to flow. He tried to focus on the green blur, to force his degrading brain to confirm he’d succeeded, but he lost consciousness and rolled, face down, onto the floor.
Two minutes later, the Captain of the Solar Explorer III was dead.
* * * *
Present Day
“Is she coming back?” Valentina asked.
Before Craig could answer, Mariena reappeared. Her eyes were red from crying, her hair uncombed and her uniform crumpled. Craig thought she looked tired, and for the first time, realized how much she’d aged since he’d first seen her. “Craig Balard? Are you there?”
Yes, Craig tweeted. What happened?
“I have your account number,” she said in an exhausted voice.
OK, give it to me.
“I can’t.”
“What?” Craig said aloud. Why not?
“We discovered the computer you’re using is being key-logged by your own government,” Mariena said. “That’s how they got the money. As soon as you type in the password, they’ll have it.”
Well how am I going to do this?
“Find another computer.”
Craig glanced at the locked door, certain Dale Tagitt was waiting outside. “Not possible.”
“We have another computer,” Valentina said.
Craig stood up, looking around. “Where?”
“In your pocket,” she said. “My phone’s got global roaming. It should work here.”
Craig dug Valentina’s phone out of his pocket and called up the bank’s website. “Damn, you’re right!”
Dale Tagitt banged on the door. “Open up. Who’s in there with you?”
Craig looked up, wondering how he knew Mariena was there, then understanding flashed across his face. “That bastard’s got us bugged!” He turned to the computer and tweeted, Give me the number now, quickly. I’m not using their computer.
Mariena read the account number from a small rectangular device while Craig carefully typed it into the tiny phone’s screen, followed by the password that only he knew. In a moment, his account balance flashed up on the screen. “I’m in! Valentina, where do you want it?”
“Hurry,” Mariena said, “You don’t have long.”
I’m doing it now, he tweeted, then hesitated as he recognized the tone in her voice. He’d heard it before, each time she’d saved his life. How much time do I have?
“Twenty two minutes,” she replied.
Craig glanced at his watch. It was 9.05PM. What happens at 9.27?
“That is your time of death.”
A heavy blow sounded on the door, as a soldier tried to smash it in with the butt of his rifle.
But we’re safe!
“You’re not safe. Please do the transfer now, while you still can.”
Desperate to understand what she was talking about, he tweeted, How will I die?
“You will be shot, twice,” Mariena replied. “One bullet will penetrate your heart. It will be a very public death, seen by the entire world.”
Valentina ran to Craig’s side and handed him a piece of paper. “This is a Federation bank account. The Prime Minister will be able to access the money as soon as you transfer it.”
“Mr Balard,” Dale Tagitt called through the door, “Don’t make this more difficult than it need be.”
“Did it work?” Mariena asked in an old, tired voice, unaware Craig had not completed the transfer.
Craig copied the Federation bank account into the transfer screen, then entered the entire balance. “Oh well, I was the richest man in history, for a few days,” he said, then hit enter.
Mariena instantly disappeared as a temporal shockwave shattered the timeline, magnifying in intensity with each passing century. No mere reset, it was a fundamental remaking of the symmetry of time, which created an entirely new unfolding randomness that reached forward from the instant Craig had pressed enter.
It’s done, he tweeted. Now tell me, who’s going to shoot me? Where will it happen?
He waited expectantly, but Mariena did not reappear.
The door burst open and two Japanese soldiers ran into the room, guns leveled. Craig and Valentina raised their hands as Tagitt stormed into the office. He snatched the cell phone out Craig’s hands, saw the balance was zero, then glanced at the computer screen incredulously.
“Twitter?” Tagitt said. “You idiot! The world’s falling apart, and you’re on Twitter?”
Craig smiled. “Like it or hate it, it’s the future.”
“Where’s the money?”
“Gone. All gone.” He glanced at Valentina. “What will they do with it?”
“Exactly what the hardliners would have done: bribe, reward, buy loyalty. It’s how my country works.”
Craig felt a great weight lift off his shoulders. He’d never wanted the money, and now that it was in the hands of its rightful owners, he was glad to be rid of it.
“Come with me, Mr Balard” Tagitt said. “Y
ou have a lot of explaining to do.”
“You better hurry, I’ve only got twenty two minutes.”
Tagitt gave him a puzzled look, then scooped the Zamok Branka file up off the desk and flicked through the pages curiously.
“Hey! That’s mine!” Craig said.
“This is a classified document, and unless I’m mistaken, you have no security clearance.” He motioned for the guards to take them back to where the others were being held.
“I guess you’re not really the welcoming committee after all?” Craig asked wryly.
Tagitt pursed his lips. “No, Mr Balard, I’m not. Damage control is my specialty.”
They were escorted back to where the survivors were gathered. Craig and Valentina were allowed to rejoin General Sorokin and Colonel Balard. The two older men sensed their somber mood.
“Something we should know about?” his father asked.
“This isn’t what it appears,” Craig said.
All around them, an air of quiet organization had settled over the room. The names of the escaped pilots had been gathered while paperwork and medical checks were completed. A microphone on a stainless steel stand now stood in front of the food table beside a small public address system. There was a relaxed air of homecoming among the pilots, who laughed and joked quietly as they thought of seeing their families again.
Dale Tagitt stood in front of the microphone. He no longer held the Zamok Branka dossier, and there was no sign of it with any of the other civilians.
“Bastard!” Craig whispered as he realized he would never see that file again.
“Excuse me gentlemen,” Tagitt said, “could I have your attention please?”
Silence settled over the assembly as the pilots drifted towards several rows of plastic chairs set up in front of the microphone. When all were settled, except for Craig and his companions who chose to stand at the rear, Tagitt began slowly.
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