by Peter Damon
“Yes. A prelude to wanting to know what we plan to do with it, no doubt,” Oliver said.
Samuel nodded. So the USA wanted to do business. Otherwise the message would have been full of threats. Was the USA already regretting their position on the Outer-Space Treaty, or was NASA over-reaching itself? Perhaps the USA was sending a guarded message, one they could claim was ill-spoken from one of their organisations, and not the corporate line.
The auditorium filled with the sound of cheers and whistles as, on the main screen, they saw the first pipe on the drill begin to rotate, the bit at its tip biting soundlessly into the rock of the asteroid.
“What do we plan to do with it?” Oliver asked, applauding along with the others.
“Sell it, I guess,” Samuel shrugged.
“So, do you know who gets the income?” Oliver asked.
“I don’t. Do you?” Samuel asked, and turned his full attention towards the other man as he nodded and grinned.
“This is being done outside of the Rolle College, and therefore the income goes directly to the owners of the ship,” Oliver pointed out with a knowing grin.
“And that is?” Samuel prompted.
“The Howard twins own 52%, Michael 24%, and Frankie the other 24%,” Oliver told him, flushed with his success.
+++++++++++++
Samuel felt his tablet vibrate and took it out long enough to see that Allan wanted him in the control-room.
He rushed there, guessing what it may be about, and found the room alert, Leanne at the satellite table while Allan monitored the Russian’s movements on the large monitor.
“What’s happened?” he asked, slightly breathless.
“They’re after one of our satellites, I suspect just for the HYPORT. There’s nothing else in there that’s worth the trouble,” Allan told him.
“Allan noticed their change in path soon enough for us to do something about it,” Leanne pointed out, grinning as she moved the satellite so as to keep one kilometre between the two craft.
“They were trying to keep their change as low-key as possible, but with limited fuel, they can’t wait too long. That works in our favour,” Allan explained.
“Do you think the Chinese are after doing the same?” Samuel asked.
“We’ll know as soon as they come into outer-space. The Chinese space-lab is between 340 and 450 kilometres high. We’ve not got any satellites within 100 kilometres of that orbit, so we should see discrepancies in the flight plan quite early on.”
+++++++++++++
Samuel was about to retire for the day when he heard the main monitor in his suite warn of an incoming call. It was Pierre Moulier from the United Nations. Samuel could have not taken the call, but his Dharma dictated that he would, and he sat down to look at the monitor camera, composing himself before opening the call.
“Mr Jenkins,” the Frenchman nodded, his accent adding a French taste to an American name.
“Mr Moulier,” Samuel responded in kind.
“I am still trying to reach Mr Bennett. Can you tell me where he can be found?” Moulin asked of him.
“I’m unclear as to where he is at this moment,” Samuel admitted. Michael may have risen to go to the gym. He could be anywhere on the ARC in fact. “Is it something I can help you with?”
“I have been advised that the ARC has captured an asteroid and is in the process of bringing it to earth orbit. Such action is not permitted under the terms of the treaty signed by the European Union only last week. It is violation of section 2, clause 5, and I am required by the United Nations Space Authority to request you formally respond to the committee, and lay out your case for such action.”
“By all means, Mr Moulier. We will review the agreement just as soon as we receive it from our management, and take the appropriate action,” Samuel agreed.
“This is extremely serious, Mr Jenkins. I hope you convey this to Mr Bennett. This is the type of activity all of the signatories were trying to avoid.”
“Were they? We noted a Russian spacecraft enter orbit earlier today. Perhaps you would care to share with me the details of their flight, because as far as we can see, its aim was solely to attempt to steal one of our satellites,” Samuel told him.
Moulier shook his head. “I can assure you that this was not their intent. Their lodged UNSA report is available to all member states for perusal.”
“So you have concluded that we are, in fact, not part of any member state?” Samuel pressed.
“In your own case, the treaty calls for formal responses to be made within one working day of the occurrence,” he explained. “Of course, you may not take any further action other than required for safety upon this asteroid.”
“I see,” Samuel nodded. “Well, be assured, all our activity is to ensure the safety of earth, as well as ourselves,” he said, closing the link.
+++++++++++++
As soon as Samuel Jenkins had closed the video link, Pierre opened their database to find details of the ARC’s status, certain he would find substantiating documents that would prove that the Cambridge University were indeed the owners of the ARC. However, as he drilled down to arrive at the legal documents, he found nothing.
Pierre swore, now certain he had been sold a pup. “Frances,” he called, and waited for his secretary to appear before he continued. “Use our UN links in whatever countries you need, but I need to see the full legal status of the ARC; who owns it, what names it trades under, what bank accounts it holds. I need it as of yesterday,” he told her grimly, kicking himself for not having confirmed those details earlier.
If the ARC was privately owned, he calculated, staring at the ceiling of his office, then the UN Outer-Space Treaty had no jurisdiction over it. Whereas Russia, USA, EU and the other signatories were member states, and had shackled themselves to the treaty.
He needed to find out the legal status of the ARC, and quickly.
October 20th.
Samuel sat with Heather and Gail, watching them and their constantly changing expressions while his calmness only served to irritate the two women still further.
“It’s too early. Far too early,” Gail told them while shaking her head with emphatic firmness. “Michael may look strong, but he’s not. Mental illness is not thrown off in just a day or two,” she emphasised. “Put him back under pressure and he’ll break again, possibly more deeply than before.”
“I’m not suggesting a complete return to normal working. I’m talking about involving him in particular elements of our situation. He can remain in the clinic and under your observation. You can monitor him for stress, but I need him to make decisions for us,” Samuel urged.
“Making decisions caused all this,” Gail explained with unintended sharpness, and she took a steadying breath. “Michael attributes much of the bad things that have happened on his decision-making. To have him make further decisions before he fully understands that he can’t be held responsible for other people’s decisions, is to place him in a very vulnerable position.”
“I can hold the opposite to be true; that not permitting Michael to assist us during this time of upheaval will forever scar him. He was not available to help his friends. He did nothing while all around him failed,” he explained, pulling no punches.
Gail sighed and let her body slump.
Heather looked between the two of them and licked her lips. “We can monitor Michael?”
“We can set up a program to alert us if his vital signs hit any sort of worrying profile,” Samuel told her, and Gail nodded when Heather glanced at her for confirmation.
“And he’s only to be involved in this one thing,” Heather looked for confirmation.
“Only this one thing,” Samuel agreed.
+++++++++++++
They gathered around Michael’s bed, the twins looking worried, Frankie looking out from one of the monitors as he joined them from where he sat on Freedom One, some 70 million kilometres away.
“You mean, we own the ship?” the tw
ins stated, each looking towards Michael with the same intense expression.
“You have the controlling share,” Michael explained with a confirming nod. “That was how Rolle set it up, no doubt with Professor Lovell’s help. Frankie and I share equally in the remaining shares,” he told them, watching them as understanding flooded them.
“If we own the ship, we can stay here,” they stated, hope flaring in their eyes.
“Well, this is where it gets interesting,” Oliver told them with a chuckle.
“All the countries who signed the new Outer-Space Treaty have effectively thrown in their lot with the United Nations. None of them will trade with us unless we submit to their requirements,” Michael pointed out. “And we know those requirements; submitting to their new authority and giving them access to the ARC.”
“So, what countries did not sign the treaty?” the Howards asked.
“Most of the African nations, some of the island states in the South Pacific, Cuba and a couple of the South American countries, those that don’t particularly like the USA or Russia,” Oliver told them.
“None of them in a very good position to help us, even if we wanted them to,” Michael suggested.
“But there are many countries who signed the agreement who’ll not think twice about breaking it, if it’s in their interest to do so,” Frankie added. “Isn’t that so?”
Michael and Oliver nodded. “They can, but the United Nations is making a fine case for the ARC having caused all the earth’s woes. There will come a time when even financial inducement will not be enough to get people to talk to us, let alone trade,” Michael pointed out.
The twins licked their lips, a strangely comical move coming from both of them at precisely the same time. “So, what do we do?” they asked.
Michael took a breath, its length drawing attention from all in the room. “We can’t take them head-on. Absolutely everyone we’ve trusted so far will have turned against us,” he warned, his eyes moving from one person to the next, his mind screaming for an empty room and a locked door, for a crossword puzzle and Heather at his side.
“But you have a plan?” they pressed.
Michael closed his eyes and sought the calm core he had willed to take shape inside of him. His nod would start a process that none of them could stop, no matter what was thrown at them. And that was the biggest unknown; just how far were the earth powers prepared to go in order to get their hands on HYPORT?
“I do,” he told them, the image of a guillotine beginning to fall towards his neck as he uttered the words.
+++++++++++++
Oliver softly whistled as he read the latest information from the first core sample taken from the asteroid, now travelling towards earth and closely monitored by every observatory and agency available to it.
Further core samples would provide more detail and revisions of the early numbers, but the numbers they had were already indicative of what they could expect.
20 million tons of ice water. Unquestionably, earth would be asking what the ARC intended to do with such a volume. Earth wouldn’t want it; most of the population were still fearfully afraid of alien microbes and any number of unknowns that could be hiding in the substance. But that wouldn’t stop them from taking the suggested 15 million tonnes of nickel the core sample implied was available, or the 700,000 tonnes of cobalt and the 3,000 tonnes of platinum. Oh, they would want all that, for certain.
The numbers were staggering. Even while writing them for publication, Oliver was shaking his head in wonder and amazement. He tried coming up with a net worth for the asteroid, and knew without a doubt that it would fetch over 30 billion US Dollars.
He pressed the Enter key to send his article off to the media, and began his second task.
The letter was addressed to the United Nations Space Authority and referred to the recent attempt by a UN signatory to obtain, without legal consent, the contents of a satellite owned by the ARC.
He reminded the United Nations that property rights had been extended to items in orbit by the UN themselves in an earlier treaty, and therefore, the owners expected the UN to censure their member, and provide an undertaking that such activities would be stopped. Because of the legal nature of the Outer-Space Treaty, the ARC would hold the United Nations legally responsible for any further attempts to obtain ARC equipment.
Of course they wouldn’t censure Russia. No one on the ARC expected the UN to do any more than their five largest members requested of them. However, Oliver made sure the letter was leaked to the media and sat back with a satisfied grin on his face, pleased to think he had caused someone in power some consternation.
+++++++++++++
Heather lay beside Michael, her hands over his where they lay, his arms wrapped around her, holding her loosely in his embrace.
“I’m worried,” she murmured. Like his, her eyes if not her attention were focused on the screen as it followed the human figures on the asteroid, busily extracting the core samples while the drilling continued.
“I’m glad I’m not the only one,” he murmured, his warm breath tickling her ear.
“There’s no alternative?” she asked.
He shook his head and knew she could sense him doing it, even without seeing him. “Cheryl and Gary have begun alerting the telecommunication brokers. We’re removing the satellites in a little over two weeks. Allan has informed all the universities; the experiments on the hull will cease to function once the ARC leaves orbit and begins its new journey, taking it towards the sun.”
“We’re really going to destroy the ship,” she murmured.
“Really,” he told her, his arms tightening around her.
+++++++++++++
The three professors walked out of the meeting room, leaving Thomas, David and Michael looking glum. They moved into the garage where their transport waited, each charged with depositing their passengers as close as possible to their homes.
Don Graves shook hands with Pavel Chaichenko, and then moved to do the same with Chas Brewer, the other American professor on the team. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” he told them, desolate now that the further analysis and testing of the HYPORT chemical had been brought to a premature end.
“Not your fault, Don,” Chas told him with real regret.
Three SUVs stood waiting for them, travellers wearing their skin-tight spacesuits beside the driver’s door patiently waiting. Now that Maddy and Frankie had proved the usefulness of tattooed lines across their scalps, all of them had shaved their heads and had the distinctive lines, chevrons and lightning bars inscribed across their heads, variations in design giving them an added degree of individualism, countering the bland black of the spacesuit with the uniform colour strip that identified the various seams, one across their chest, the others around their groin.
“This one, professor,” one of the drivers said as Don went towards the wrong vehicle. He looked across, saw his suitcase already on the backseat, and nodded as he altered direction.
Chas and Pavel watched for a few moments, then sadly shook hands before moving to their own vehicles.
October 21st.
Mickey switched on the Range Rover’s stealth facility, and sat back to admire the earth as the vehicle slid under the 100 kilometre mark and angled further in, towards his ultimate target, just visible on the horizon.
He was a little nervous. Not about the technology or vehicle that was bringing him down to earth again, but about the task ahead. The days when his knowledge of vehicles was enough to keep him earning were long gone, and it seemed to him that every day brought something new to learn, every task a challenge, with any failure a risk to his life, and those with him. On good days, he felt exhilarated by what he had achieved; alone and with others. On bad days, he longed for the oblivion that a full bottle of single malt whiskey would bring him.
He watched with calm detachment as the Range Rover dropped through the clouds to plummet towards the north-sea, its waters unseen in a darkness made all t
he darker by the thick layer of cloud above him, but nonetheless felt. He was far from calm as night-vision facilities showed him how low he was travelling, barely above the peak of the waves as the vehicle took him as fast as possible towards land.
He skimmed the waves, their occasional foam-tipped crescents appearing briefly in front of him before being left in his wake. He turned the radio on, thinking some music would calm his nerves, and turned it off after just seconds, preferring the charged silence to the wall of music that might have hidden even a second of warning.
He swept over the beach and into the lowlands of northern Germany, coming to an abrupt halt on a small coastal road, dark and empty at that time in the early morning.
Picking up the backpack, Mickey exited the Range Rover and, extracting his tablet from his overcoat, sent a signal to send the car back to the ARC, leaving him at the side of the road, birds beginning their early morning songs. Turning in the direction he was to travel, he straightened the wig he’d been given, and set off at an ambling walk.
It was a two kilometres to the small town of Cuxhaven, where he boarded a bus heading to Bremerhaven, using his backpack as a pillow and pretending to sleep to avoid having to talk to any of the few others on the bus, practically empty at that time of the morning.
+++++++++++++
Sir Richard Phillips, Vice-Chancellor of Cambridge University, had not long sat behind his desk when he heard a commotion from the outer offices, his secretary raising her voice before the door was flung open and the stooped figure of Stanley Charway stepped in, a hand raised to sweep his hair back into place across his balding pallet.
“Where is he?” he demanded.
“He?” Sir Richard asked, one eyebrow raised while a finger still hovered over his keyboard, delayed by the sudden appearance of the British Intelligence operative.
“You know who I mean,” Stan told him, marching forward to place his fists on the Vice Chancellor’s desk.
“I’m sorry. I have no idea who you’re talking about,” Sir Richard told him.