Collision

  She shook her hips, and the tail flicked from one side to the other; at least, he might see the funny side. She walked back down the corridor in her costume confident no one other than Sir Jason would be around to see her.

  As she entered her laboratory, she heard raised voices in the next laboratory and could see three people through the glass panel door. Sir Jason was talking to two people, and all three of them seemed to be in an agitated state. The last thing she wanted was to be seen by strangers. At least at the Ball it would be dark.

  She sat down at her desk to wait for Sir Jason and looked at her watch. She was on time and started to relax. Then the sound of a loud crack made her jump. She turned to look at where the noise had come from. In that split second, she saw Sir Jason lying on the floor and his killer standing over him with a gun. Next to him stood Professor Rider shouting at him. Her eyes met those of the killer; she knew she had to get out of there. She ran out of the door and down the corridor as fast as she could go. She heard the killer coming after her. Another crack and a glass panel shattered near her. She could hear his pounding steps behind her; she had to do something fast.

  An idea came into her head; there was one place the killer could not follow her. She ducked into the main laboratory and locked the door behind her. It might give her a few extra seconds, she thought. She headed towards the second experimental craft at the back of the laboratory. She heard two more cracks; the glass door to the laboratory shattered, and the killer came into the laboratory. She ran up the platform of the craft and hit the ‘close door’ button. The platform withdrew, and the door slammed shut just as the killer reached the door. She heard him bashing his fists against door panel of the craft.

  She was in a state of panic: her head was telling her that he could not get into the craft with the door closed from the inside, but her adrenalin was telling her to take flight. She jumped into the central command seat of the craft, and the consul immediately came to life. Without thinking, she hit the initiate button. A bluish tachyon bubble began to form around the craft. The killer had no time to take in the blue shimmer surrounding him: a gateway between one point in the space-time continuum and another where normal matter could not exist. The pounding stopped. For a split second, she saw his body vaporise and then the laboratory was gone.

  She felt sick. What had she done? The killer was dead — vaporised in an instant — and the craft was adrift falling through a wormhole in the fabric of space-time. She looked at the settings on the temporal navigator. It read, ’00-00-000000’. Of course, the temporal algorithm had not been entered into the databanks. She had no idea where she was going and no way of controlling the direction of the craft. For weeks, she had tried to unravel the equations that would give her the answer to calibrate the controls. Now she wasn’t even sure whether the craft would return to normal space-time. She might be lost in this wormhole forever.

  Got to do something. “What do I do?” she called out.

  “Reverse polarity,” answered a female voice. It was the computer’s artificial intelligence, CAI. “Forty-three per cent chance of success.”

  It might work; I don’t have any alternatives left anyway.

  Elle moved the polarity control and suddenly the blue Tachyon aura that glared at her from every monitor screen changed to the star-speckled blackness of space. She was back to normal space-time; but where, when?

  Just when she thought it was safe to relax, the craft collided with something large. The force of the impact threw her sideways and onto the floor.

  Moments before she lost consciousness, she heard the words of the computer. “Danger. CAI taking control.”

  The next thing she remembered was leaving the craft, still dazed. It had all happened so quickly.

  Time: current day

  Elle opened her eyes again. It was difficult to believe that she was in 2011, nine years before she was even born. She had to get back to her world somehow.

  She looked around her. The service station had less than half a dozen customers, and the only shop still open was the coffee bar. She was desperate for a coffee, but she had no money. She pulled out her computer out of the rucksack and turned it on.

  She looked at the article on the screen, written by B. Turner, PhD and Professor S. Campbell, ‘The Paradox of the Tachyon’. Her research showed that it was written in 2020; nine years from now. It was a brilliant article, but never received the critical acclaim it deserved. It was not for another 26 years that anyone took any real notice of it. And the only one that did was Elle. She recognised the importance of the paper and had read the paper so many times before. Every equation and every proof in the paper were burnt into her memory.

  “So Doctor Turner. Do you think you can help me?” she whispered to herself as she stared at the screen.

  “He’s your best bet,” said the female voice of her computer in her ear. She remembered she had left the ear pod in her ear.

  “My only bet, CAI. If he can’t help me, I’m stuck in this mad world for good.”

  She closed the computer.

  If I’m going to survive here, I’ll need some money. Electronic money from 2046 was of no use to her here. Elle rolled her diamond and platinum earring in her ear with her finger. At least, these must be worth something.

  She looked around the service station for a friendly face. She needed a lift into the city.

  Well, if you don’t ask, you don’t get. She got up and walked over to a young driver that she thought might be suitable.

  “Can you give me a lift into the city?” said Elle, giving him a big smile.

  The young man smiled back. “For you darling, of course. Just let me finish my coffee.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The following morning, the Major stood on the beach ten feet from the water’s edge. Around him was a hive of activity. The large military marquee behind him looked out of place on the beach, as did the six trucks and the forty-foot trailer vehicle with a satellite dish on the top. He was tired. He had been busy all night since he got a late-night call from his boss. His mission was simple, locate and secure the craft that had landed or crashed at the beach location and hand it over to a national defence team of scientists, while providing a credible cover story to allay any public anxiety.

  Unfortunately, there was another dimension to the mission. His boss had also had a late-night call from the Cabinet Office. The Prime Minister himself had a personal request from the President of the US to allow their scientists to participate in the investigation. As part of these arrangements, a US liaison member would join his team. Officially the terms of reference for the liaison member were ‘to assist and share intelligence’ on the operation. He knew he had to comply; but it was his mission, and he had no intention of letting this liaison member get in his way.

  Then there were the Russians to worry about. Only hours ago the Russians attempted three incursions into UK airspace. They obviously knew what happened and were sniffing around. That meant sooner or later Natasha would be involved. He knew her well — she was meant to be a member of the trade delegation at the Russian Consul, but he knew she was really part of the old KGB. Which part of the Kremlin she worked for these days was more difficult to determine.

  “Major, your coffee.” The soldier stood beside him holding out a mug. “Black no sugar just as you like it sir.” Next to the six-foot-three broad muscular frame of the Major, the soldier looked quite diminutive. What on earth is the Army recruiting these days? The soldier was little more than a boy.

  “Thank you, Johnson,” said the Major.

  The Major returned to his thoughts. Could it really be extra-terrestrial in origin? The scientists had told him that no one could track its flight path before it collided with the US plane, only after the collision. How was that possible?

  As expected, the Internet was awash with reports about the craft. There would be a need for a credible cover story to cover up the military involvement, and he had put one in place that morning. The press re
lease had said a new military cargo vessel had crashed in the location with a potentially hazardous cargo.

  The news media were already expressing their outrage that the military should be carrying such hazardous cargo near built-up communities and were demanding that questions be raised in parliament. The Minister of Defence would be making a public statement at noon that day. The story seemed to be working. At least, it would keep the public away from the beach long enough for them to complete their investigation.

  Now all he needed to do was find the craft — not an easy task considering it had disappeared before they reached the beach. Satellite pictures indicated that it landed or crashed on the beach. But then it disappeared: it simply blinked off the satellite screen.

  He turned to look towards the South East. There was a helicopter, in the distance, heading his way. This must be the US CIA liaison, he thought. It was a problem he could do without. He watched the helicopter as it headed towards him getting bigger in the sky. Soon it was landing. A female got out of the helicopter, hunching down to avoid the down draft from the blades as she walked towards him. She turned to wave at the pilot before continuing to walk towards him.

  She put out her hand to the Major, “John, nice to see you again,” she said. He took her hand, smiled and shook it firmly. Jean Daniels had not changed much since his last encounter with her some years ago. She still stirred the animal desire in him; but he knew that she could be as cold as ice. Someone you could never trust.

  “Nice to see you again Jean. So you’re the US liaison. The last time must have been Afghanistan.”

  “That’s right. But I’m mainly based in Europe now… Is this the landing site?”

  He waved his arm to show the area around them.

  “There’s evidence here that something heavy landed. As you can see, it’s no longer here.”

  “So what happened to it?”

  “The satellite reports are confusing. It simply blinked off the screen. My guess is that it landed here and tried to take off crashing somewhere out there.” The Major pointed out into the estuary.

  “That’s a possibility.”

  “It could be anywhere out there. We’ve got several vessels scanning with sonar, but nothing yet.”

  “If you need any help. I can call it in. We have a carrier, the Eisenhower, in the North Sea at the moment.”

  “That won’t be necessary. We don’t want to create a panic, and a US naval presence would not be consistent with our cover story. Anyway, the deal is you are here as an observer; and you alone. You’re part of my team now, Jean, and you will need to follow my lead.”

  “You haven’t changed that much. You always want to be on top of things,” she said as she moved closer to him. “So what do you want me to do?” She looked straight into his eyes.

  “We still don’t have a complete picture of what really happened here,” he said, avoiding her eye contact. “The satellite pictures aren’t that great. I want you to work with my assistant, Carla to follow up some leads.”

  “How?”

  “There were two witnesses on the beach last night: a university lecturer and a man walking his dog. Neither saw much, although the man with the dog claims there was someone else on the beach. He took a photo on his mobile phone of a woman, but we haven’t been able to trace her yet.”

  “Let me see?”

  He passed her the photograph.

  “You’ve got to be joking. This must be a hoax — a cat woman?”

  The Major laughed. “Yes, we’re either being invaded by cat-looking aliens, or it’s a woman in some kind of fancy dress outfit.”

  “You think that this is real?”

  “We picked up the witness on the beach shortly after the sighting, and the photograph is time and date stamped. I don’t think it is a fake. I want you to work with my assistant, Carla, to find this woman.”

  “Can I see the witnesses?”

  “Of course. Both witnesses are back at our base. Private Johnson will take you there. I’ll catch up with you there later.”

  The Major signalled Private Johnson, and he came over and escorted her to a Jeep. The Major watched her as her Jeep drove away.

  “So that’s the Bitch,” said a woman’s voice from behind him.

  He recognised it as Carla’s voice. She was a young MI6 agent who had been assigned to him for the mission. He had worked with her before. She was a lean-bodied brunette in her early twenties with a ponytail and pebble glasses: not overly attractive, but a highly effective agent and communications officer.

  “Yes that’s her; cold as ice and lives and breathes the Agency.”

  “But you’re still going to work with her,” she said.

  “Have to — that’s my orders. And I want you to work with her to find this cat woman. Check the local CCTV. If the cat woman slipped past us, there must be some trace of her. Keep Daniels busy and out of my way. Remember, she’s dangerous; you’ll need to keep a close eye on her at all times.”

  “You didn’t share the evidence with her, did you? That thing you found on the beach.”

  “Don’t be silly.” He rolled a small object in his fingertips.

  “Here find out what it is and what the emblem on the badge means.”

  Carla looked at the object she had just caught. It felt plastic-like and had a symbol of an “8” on it.

  “Why do you think it’s a badge?”

  “Here…” He picked it out of her hand and pressed it against her breast pocket. It stuck firmly. “I don’t know how it does that. There’s no Velcro — it’s smooth yet it sticks to almost any surface.”

  “Oh,” she said blushing.

  He realised that his demonstration might be interpreted differently. He was not used to dealing with female officers. “I’m sorry; I should have —” he mumbled.

  She stiffened up. “No problem, sir. I’ll find out from the boffins what they think. Anything else you need, sir?” she said in a formal tone.

  “Yes, try to find some false leads for the Daniels; things that will keep her occupied and out of the way.”

  “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  The same day, General Walters was waiting to see Maximus Drake, the Chairman of Dynamic Technologies, on the fifty-third floor of the DT building in Washington. He was not relishing meeting the man responsible for the Aurora project and telling him his $20 billion prototype had been knocked out of the sky by a UFO; but by now he should have most of the facts. He looked around him. The only other person in the large outer waiting room was a secretary who looked like she had stepped off a catwalk. The intercom buzzed, and she answered the call.

  She smiled at the General. “You can go in now.”

  He followed the direction of her eyes to the double doors to the left side of her desk. He stood up and walked across the marble floor to the doors; paused for a second to compose himself, and then opened the door. Inside the door was the largest office he had ever seen. And sitting thirty feet away from him, behind a high-tech glass-like desk was Maximus Drake. Maximus was a fat and balding fifty-year old billionaire. The General knew him by his reputation. He had made his money by riding the crest of the technology wave and he was ruthless in achieving his goals.

  Maximus was staring at the images behind the General on the twenty-foot by twelve-foot screen that covered most of the wall behind him. The General turned to look; and recognised the images of Aurora that he had sent over earlier to him; a shot-by-shot image of the collision incident. He felt an uncomfortable sickness in his throat. There was not a lot more he could add to what he must already know.

  Maximus jumped up out of his chair and wandered across towards the General. He didn’t shake his hand, but walked past him towards the screen.

  “Amazing, absolutely amazing... You said this craft reached Mach 6 over the Atlantic? Awesome,” he said speaking at a rapid pace. It was as if his brain and vocal cords were operating in overdrive.

  “Yes sir,” the General replied as he watched the a
nimated Chairman of Dynamic Technologies drool over the performance of the UFO.

  “I have to have it, General. Can you get it for me?”

  “We’re pursuing investigations at the moment sir. We have the CIA and MI6 in London investigating; but it seems to have vanished. It probably has some kind of stealth ability; we’re not sure.”

  “Do you think it’s extra-terrestrial in origin?”

  “We’re not sure sir. It seemed to come out of nowhere while we were testing Aurora in US airspace. It’s definitely not the Russians or the Chinese, sir. We would know if it was.”

  “Could it have emanated from the US?”

  “It’s definitely not USAF.”

  “But what about a private corporation like Jason Brannan’s IFT?”

  “Infinity Flight Technology — what a private corporation?”

  “Why not? He’s got billions to play with; no external shareholders to worry about; and he hates the fact that my DT dominates the US military technology market. And he’s one of those do-gooder philanthropists who believe the US should share technology with the underdeveloped world. He would just love to rub my face in it that he has produced something faster than my ram jet technology. Come to think of it, he even has a research operation in Cambridge, England. Where did that UFO land?”

  “England, sir, but that’s not exactly objective evidence of IFT’s involvement.”

  “Maybe you’re right, but I can’t think of anyone else on this planet that could produce something like that. The only alternative is equally bizarre — an extra-terrestrial space craft. How real is that? We need to get to the bottom of this and quickly. Alien technology or not, I must have that technology; and I don’t care how you do it.”