THE CAMBRIDGE ANNEX: THE TRILOGY

by Peter Damon

  “It’s like you said, Frankie. I mean; we make a joke of how people, others, treat us, but it’s hard on the kids. If I can give my son better, then I want to do that.”

  “That’s right Jerry. That’s right,” Frankie agreed.

  +++++++++++++

  Knowing where the ice load was, helped automate the route to its dark home. Seated on the ground just 20 metres from the wall of ice, Jerry and the other two fetched the large wheeled containers they were to fill with ice, while Matt and Frankie removed the jack hammers from the tool box.

  They started slowly, but with use their confidence grew, and they were soon loading the containers in two to three minutes and taking the filled ones to the back of the truck where the converted system levered the contents into the back for the large metal scoop to draw it into the hold, compressing it as much as possible, but also protecting it from melting and boiling away once they left their dark corner of the moon.

  Filling the truck took the better part of three hours, and they stopped for a twenty minute break in the cab, eating marmite sandwiches Matt had prepared and sipping from tea before returning to finish the job.

  “How long will this lot last us?” Frankie asked of Matt as he finished setting the truck to return to the ARC.

  “Well, the truck holds about 12 tonnes of ice, which is 11 tonnes of water, or 11,000 litres, and we’re averaging at about 80 litres of water per person per day.”

  “Not very long then” Frankie supposed.

  “Remember we recycle close on 95% of our water, so we only need to add 4 litres per person per day to make good our losses. I make that about nine days, once we have everyone on board,” Matt calculated. “20 days at the moment.”

  “I best get some more trucks then,” Frankie suggested.

  “Bigger too,” Matt added with a nod of agreement.

  +++++++++++++

  Cheryl came bursting through the door with a grin wide enough to split her head in two, while Gary came through behind her, just a little more in control of his own broad grin.

  “So, what’s got you two so happy?” Michael asked, putting aside his tablet to smile up at the happy couple. Heather, seated to one side with her foot up on a chair and continuing to work on the problem of their saboteur, looked up too in curiosity.

  “The USA has just asked for our help!” Cheryl cried, jumping up and down with excitement.

  “Really, what with?” Heather asked, distrust sounding in her voice.

  “Always the cynic,” Michael quipped, nodding his head towards his lover.

  “They want an old satellite recovered and returned to them,” Gary explained.

  “Really,” Michael said, stretching out the word to convey his unspoken queries. “It wouldn’t be a spy satellite, by any chance?” he asked.

  “Huh! And he calls me the cynic!”

  Cheryl shook her head while Gary replied. “It’s actually the Vanguard 1, and the oldest surviving satellite.”

  “It was launched into a Mid Earth Orbit back in 1958, would you believe!” she explained.

  “It’s not very large and long since dead. But the Americans are very proud of it and would prefer to put it in a museum than have it burn up in the atmosphere as its orbit deteriorates,” Gary told them.

  “Sounds like they’re coming round to accepting us,” Heather observed.

  Michael shook his head. “America is too big for the administration to know of everything that’s happening. I bet you 10 Euros the request has come from NASA,” he asserted. “Make sure you charge them a bloody fortune!” he told Gary and Cheryl.

  August 12th.

  Sir James Walker, the British Permanent Secretary to the United Nations, sat at his desk in his offices in New York and waited for the video connection to resolve and show him the youthful face of the British Prime Minister, Brian Overton.

  “Good afternoon Prime Minister,” Sir James acknowledged.

  “Good morning to you, Sir James. I understand we have more ARC problems?” the Prime minister asked.

  “Yes Sir. The Russians have lodged a formal complaint to the United Nations,” he explained. “’Disregard for international resources’, is the gist of the complain, following the ARC’s acquisition of water from the moon’s south polar region. The formal complaint runs to about fifty pages,” Sir James lifted the document into camera view to make the point.

  The Prime Minister snorted. “And what did they and the US do with all that moon soil that they brought back?” he asked pointedly.

  “They refer to that as ‘soil resource held in storage for the benefit of the international research community’,” Sir James quoted.

  “So you can take, keep, or sell on, but you can’t use or consume it,” the Prime minister concluded.

  “That was well summarised, Prime Minister,” Sir James agreed.

  “Alright. We’ve got to start fighting this. We have to be allowed to mine,” Brian stressed.

  +++++++++++++

  Michael and Heather glanced worriedly towards one another as their tablets both bleeped at them at the same time. An electronic post-it had appeared on their screens from Allan, asking if they would visit him for a cup of tea and a chat.

  “As if that’s all it’s for,” Heather murmured, groaning slightly as she stood.

  “Are you all right?” Michael asked hurriedly, an arm stretched out towards her, his face suddenly creased with lines of worry.

  “I’m fine. For God’s sake Michael. I’m only bruised!” she complained.

  “And pregnant,” he reminded her.

  “Five weeks! I’m fine; Gail and Paul are all over me, I’m sure my RFID is giving them more than just my location, faceplate on or off!” she complained. “I hope you’re not going to be hovering over me protectively for the next eight months,” she warned.

  “It will be the first child in space,” he told her as they stepped out of the suite to begin the walk forward, towards Allan’s quarters.

  “Well, I’m glad you said that. I had visions of you trying to send me down to earth to have it,” she confided, walking along the broad passage with just a hint of tenderness to one foot.

  “That had crossed my mind,” he admitted with a shy smile. “But Paul reminded me that we’re not exactly weightless or eating from dehydrated food packages.”

  “No. I could be in a Nevada hotel at the moment and not know the difference,” she noted.

  “Mm. Do you think we should start up a Casino?” he suggested.

  “Don’t you dare! But what about some entertainment? You know, any of the top acts would give their eye-teeth for an opportunity to perform on the ARC.”

  “I’ll talk to Oliver,” Michael nodded. “Should we do that before, or after our wedding?” he asked.

  Heather stopped and stared at Michael, her mouth hanging open. “Pardon?” she asked, lost for words.

  “I asked, should we do that before, or after our wedding?” he asked once more.

  “Is that a proposal of marriage, Mr Bennett?” she asked.

  Michael brought a small red box from his pocket and, opening it, showed Heather the engagement ring that sat inside it. “I’ve had it for weeks, waiting for the right moment,” he explained. “Events overtook me, as they always do,” he admitted.

  “Oh, Michael,” Heather sighed, and reached for him.

  +++++++++++++

  They knocked on Allan’s door and were invited in. The Twins were already there, one of them serving cups of tea while the other waited patiently at the table.

  “OK?” one of the twins asked them while the other looked on with a similar expression.

  “Thank you, yes. And you?” Heather asked with a bright grin.

  “I’ve just proposed,” Michael told them when they glanced towards him.

  The room erupted in congratulations and it took a few minutes before Michael was able to ask Allan what his invitation had been for.

  “As Heather can tell you, I’ve been running some qu
eries to find out where people were during, or before, each of our incidents,” Allan began.

  “I thought we didn’t record people’s locations, only what doors or facilities they used,” Michael said.

  Allan nodded. “That’s true,” he admitted.

  “And with the amount of piggy-backing that occurs,” Michael went on.

  Allan nodded. “That’s also true, and I am to change that, so the next release of the program will monitor all who pass through the entrance, whether it was their RFID that caused the door to open or not. But what you might not appreciate is that a door opens in two directions; when you go in, and when you come out,” he smiled.

  “So, you’d need to piggy-back in both directions to be completely invisible,” Michael realised, excitement lighting up his rugged features.

  “Or otherwise hold the door ajar, an even bigger sin against our health and safety, but one I’m sure our saboteur doesn’t worry too much about. In addition to which, even if you were successful in doing that, we’d still see you coming out of your suite, and going back in again some minutes later without having ‘gone’ anywhere.”

  “And that would hold true even if you were moving from one location to another, and went off on a side visit. The timing would be wrong,” Heather calculated.

  “Correct. Another thing you may not have considered is that, unless you’re one of the rare individuals who share a suite, then it’s impossible for you to piggy-back in or out of your own suite. So we ran a few more queries for each event,” Allan explained as he continued to nod.

  “I should have thought of that!” Heather berated herself.

  “You have someone, don’t you?” Michael asked excitedly.

  “There are a few possibilities for any single event,” the twins told him.

  “But when you put them together to find who falls into our matching hole for every event, we come up with only one name,” Allan told them.

  “Who?” Heather asked, her voice sounding a lot firmer than she had intended.

  “We’ve re-run the queries using slightly different parameters, because of course, some of the time frames are a bit vague,” the twins explained.

  “Who?” Michael and Heather asked in unison and unintentionally sounding like the Howard twins.

  Allan sighed. “The Reverend Martin Giles,” he murmured, watching Michael’s reaction.

  “Jesus!” Heather gasped.

  “Oh, shit!” Michael breathed, his head falling back so he could stare at the ceiling rather than have to look at anyone.

  The reverend had been the Rolle’s family priest, had married him and Wendy on a fine spring morning in May, and had been there when Michael didn’t know where to turn after the death of Professor Rolle.

  He took a deep breath and began tapping at his tablet while the others watched him.

  “Stan?” he said as he got through to Cambridge. “Would you run a deep search on the Reverend Martin Giles’s history please? We believe he’s our saboteur, but we don’t understand why. A motive would be good,” he explained.

  “Alright. I don’t suppose I have to tell you to step his security right down. If he asks what’s happening, suggest it’s just another glitch, like the others. I’ll get back to you as quickly as I can,” he confirmed.

  “Perhaps we can have him go on a trip to earth for something?” Allan asked.

  Michael shook his head. “The good Reverend has become our main administrator. He’s developed our Korean workers, he has the cleaning and maintenance of the ARC down pat. Frankly, it’s going to be a nightmare replacing him. And besides, he might just disappear if he got to earth,” he explained.

  Heather was already using her tablet to alter the reverend’s access privileges. They now matched those of the new students who would soon be coming on board.

  August 13th.

  Vasyl Pushnoy descended from the bus, scanning the high street to the east, then west, before he got his bearings to head west. Yulia Dubinin fell into stride to walk casually along the pavement beside him, her figure and the light silk flower-patterned dress she wore catching the attention of some of the men as they passed.

  Vasyl glanced at his watch, a fraudulent Rolex that was still his pride and joy. “We are early,” he remarked.

  “No matter. I’m thirsty,” she told him, tinted sunglasses hiding the attention she paid to the policeman on the other side of the high-street.

  “Relax,” Vasyl told her. “The ones you must be nervous of you will not recognise until it too late,” he chuckled.

  They entered the café they had selected as their meeting point to find Emily already there, her pale and pinched face turning to a bright smile as she waved towards them.

  “We’re not late, are we?” Yulia asked in perfect English as she chose to sit beside the older woman, smiling pleasantly at her while Vasyl leant across to kiss Emily lightly on the cheek, then wave towards a young waitress chewing gum beside the till.

  “Tea, coffee? Two cappuccino and one pot of tea,” he said to the waitress and sat down with a sigh and a smile. “Good to see you again Emily,” he told the English woman. “How are you? How is the family?”

  “Oh, can’t complain,” Emily told him, before proceeding to do just that; about her noisy neighbours who constantly pried into her business, the local authorities who refused to redecorate her council house, the police who harassed her nephew, and it wasn’t his fault he couldn’t get a job, and Frankie had refused to take him up onto the ARC with him, and wasn’t that unfair, when there were others on that ship with far worse than Aggravated Assault?

  “And your favourite cousin? Paddy, isn’t it? How is he faring” Yulia asked as the drinks arrived.

  “He’s not happy with me. Seems I shouldn’t have tried selling that moon soil on eBay,” she confessed.

  “You should have waited,” Vasyl agreed. “Yulia would have bought it from you, wouldn’t you, Yulia?”

  “Certainly. And will do so again if you still have some,” Yulia agreed.

  “Not that you probably need any money any longer. I hear the ARC will be recovering unwanted space vehicles soon now. Paddy and the others will be rich men.”

  “Huh, I don’t know about that!” Emily scoffed. “Paddy was telling me that he has to give 50% to the ARC for his upkeep, and then another 25% to Frankie, so they can save towards getting their own ship,” she explained.

  “What?” both Russian cried, looking towards Emily with sympathy and shock. “That can’t be right, surely?”

  “It is. That’s what I said. 50%, I said. Downright highway robbery. Even the Toffs down here don’t have to pay the government that in tax, so why should he pay it up there?”

  “Doesn’t seem right. Paddy and his friends are taking all the risk, and still the ARC get 50%?”

  “That’s what it is,” Emily shrugged, and sipped her tea.

  “You know, we might be able to help you,” Yulia told her, clicking her fingers as if an idea had just formed. “What if Paddy didn’t deal with the ARC, but dealt with us directly?” she asked.

  “Well, I don’t see how he can,” Emily voiced her uncertainty.

  “Yes. It would not be difficult. He will pass some of his captured goods to the ARC, so they can see he is busy, but some he will deliver to us. We will pay his fee directly into an account. No tithes, no taxes.”

  Emily seemed to consider. “Can you pay in gold, or diamonds?” she asked.

  “But of course. That is a brilliant idea, Emily. Why didn’t I think of that?” Yulia asked of her partner.

  August 14th.

  Michael wandered into the lounge with a cup of tea in his hand and saw a small group of English travellers, now spacemen, seated around one of the wall mounted monitors. He walked towards them and noted that Frankie was among them, watching the monitor as the Vanguard 1 satellite and their oversized SUV grew closer to one another.

  “I thought you would have been out there,” Michael murmured, drawing one of the
comfortable seats forward to sit beside the thin and weasel-faced gypsy.

  Frankie shrugged. “Mickey needs the practice,” he murmured.

  Michael looked about him as the conversation tugged at his memory. “I’ve not seen Paddy about for a while,” he remarked carefully.

  Frankie shrugged and shared a smile with one or two of the others. “He spends a lot of time keeping up with his gym programme. Some of us wonder if he hasn’t upset Gail somehow,” he chuckled.

  Telemetry appeared on the monitor, a live feed from the converted SUV being gently manoeuvred by Mickey McKee, closer and closer to the small orb from which antenna bristled.

  “10 metres. Close enough,” Mickey murmured from the speakers as he brought the vehicle to a halt.

  Someone in the control-room changed the image to the inside of the SUV, and those in the lounge watched the young man and his partner put their facemasks on and wait for the checks to run before pressing the button to void the air in the cabin.

  “Who’s that, with him,” Michael asked.

  “Maddy. Madeline Jones,” Frankie murmured.

  “Your head tattoos working yet?” Michael asked, remembering Maddy explaining what they were for.

  Frankie winced, an answer all on its own.

  An external camera from the roof of the SUV showed Mickey getting out and sliding into his long coat, fastening it before drawing out the tow rope that would be used to draw the satellite towards them. Meanwhile, Maddy used her airgun to propel herself towards the satellite.

  She could have been doing it all her life, Michael thought, watching her float across the short distance without any sign of spin. “You haven’t given her the new suit yet?” Michael asked, referring to the spacesuit version that contained HYPORT in it, allowing the wearer to propel themselves easily through space.

  “Yes, she’s wearing it. She’s just showing off, is all,” Frankie explained, his attention fixed on the large monitor.

  Maddy reached the satellite and stopped herself with another shot of compressed nitrogen before fastening a strap around the globe.