Ephialtes (Ephialtes Trilogy Book 1)

by Parker, Gavin E

  Audrey waited for more but there was none. “Talk to me Rawls. How could we do it?”

  Rawls pushed the tips of his fingers together, with his elbows rested on the arms of his chair, and looked at them in concentration as he spoke.

  “The carriers have ion drives for manoeuvrability. Their main engines are standard chemical rocket engines. They’re for pushing them quickly around the world. There’s not enough power in those for interplanetary flight, and there’s not enough space for the necessary fuel.”

  Andrews pursed her lips.

  “But. If we could replace the main chemical engines with nuclear fusion jet engines that would give us the necessary thrust, within the limited space available, to kick off into the void. So theoretically, yes, it could be done.”

  “How fast?”

  “You’re really talking seriously about doing this?”

  “How fast could you do it, how much would it cost?”

  Rawls thought. “I can’t give you a price, but not cheap. And fast will at least double the price, whatever it is. In all of our projects we try to keep to standardised specifications, and we keep everything as modular as possible to simplify maintenance. That would mean that ripping out the current engines would be relatively painless. We could do that in, say, a week or less. The difficulty would come with the NFJ engines.”

  “What difficulty?

  “They don’t exist.”

  “Goddammit, why didn’t you just say that!”

  “Hold on. They don’t exist yet, but one of my top engineers is working on NFJs right now. She has three prototypes, two full-sized, and is nearing the end of the testing phase as we speak.”

  “She has two? One for each carrier, that’s great,” Audrey was saying when Rawls cut back in.

  “They are two prototypes. The work is extremely promising, but putting two untried engines in what I believe to be the most expensive vessels ever commissioned by the USAN would come with a high degree of uncertainty and risk.”

  “I know that Rawls. But this is a national emergency.”

  “It is? I haven’t seen anything on the bulletins.”

  “Not yet. This is going to blow up in the next few days and we need to be ready for it.” As an afterthought she added, “You understand this all falls under your confidentiality agreement?”

  “Of course.”

  “These engines; if we sign off on the risk, you just fit them in and that’s that?”

  Rawls laughed. “Not quite that simple. As mentioned, we make all our stuff modular. Saves on costs, saves on headaches, keeps things simple. The prototype engines are the same form factor as the class of chemical engine that is currently in the carriers. Obviously, the NFJs don’t need the huge fuel capacity of the chemical engines, but it’s not a like-for-like swap. We’d have to look at that. And the control software would need to be overhauled, and we’d need to look at ramping up the power of the ion drives. Navigation and coms would need to be looked at, too. It could take months.”

  “We don’t have months. If you had to do it fast, how fast could you do it?”

  Rawls looked off to the side. “Audrey, bear this in mind. Everything takes at least four times as long as you think it will. That said, if everything goes without one single little hitch, and it won’t, then I would say, maybe, six months?”

  Audrey thought. “I need to take this to the president. I will strongly advise him that we should proceed with this course of action. We’ll need the nod from him, and he’ll have to find the money. Until then, can you proceed, with haste, to get this thing rolling?”

  “I can start. You’re confident the president will buy it?”

  “He has to. There’s no other course open to us.”

  “Okay. I’ll put things in motion.”

  “Who’s working on the engines?”

  “You know her. She was second lead designer on the Aloadae, for a couple of years, anyway.”

  “I know her?”

  “Sure, you must have seen her in design briefings and the like. Tall blonde woman, short hair.”

  Audrey thought, scanning through her internal archive but unable to locate an image of the tall, blonde engineer. “What’s her name?” she said.

  “Askel Lund.”

  Madeline Zelman patronised the arts. She could often be found floating through a private viewing, or holding court at the interval of a much anticipated première. She supported many prominent charities and occasionally travelled overseas to see first-hand the work that was being done with the monies she helped to raise. For a number of big-name NGOs she acted as a roving ambassador, hugging the poor here, opening a hydroelectric plant there. She smiled graciously for the cameras, gave good interview, looked good in pictures and was utterly unshakeable. A desperately ill (but still, give-or-take, photogenic) Haitian boy vomiting blood onto her virginal white designer dress couldn’t phase her. She looked genuinely concerned for the boy and later shrugged a self-deprecating smile at the cameras as aides fussed over the bloody clothing.

  She had had the colossal misfortune of having been born immensely rich. Her childhood had been happy and she had wanted for nothing. All of this had left her with a gnawing feeling that she should be doing something. What was she for? If she wasn’t for patronising the arts and raising money and awareness for charity, at least it kept her busy.

  As the majority owner of Helios Matériel Corporation she would often be met by protesters when she attended events. Chants, placards, eggs. But she was resolute. She knew that peace wasn’t the natural state between people. She knew that not all people were good. And she believed, wholeheartedly, that the advanced weaponry that Helios made and sold was making the world a safer place.

  She had met Gerard White through her fund-raising activities way back when he was just starting out in politics. She had contributed to his campaigns all the way through to when he was seeking the presidential candidacy. He hadn’t quite made it that time, but he managed to get on the ticket as VP candidate. He balanced out Cortes. Cortes was swarthy, he was a WASP. Cortes was a hawk, he was a dove. Cortes was a hot-head, he was level-headed, always taking the long view.

  Zelman hadn’t contribute to their presidential campaign. She didn’t trust Cortes. She’d been around the world, to the non-aligned countries, and had seen leaders like him there - generalissimos and tin-pots. There was something of that about him and she didn’t like it.

  When White’s wife had died four years earlier he had drifted into a relationship with Zelman which, looking back, had always seemed inevitable. The relationship wasn’t secret, as such, but it wasn’t public either. They would meet for the occasional meal, or night, or weekend, and that suited them both. They were busy people.

  On this occasion Zelman had booked a suite at a swanky downtown hotel. It was one they had used before and had been pre-approved by the Secret Service. They had additionally booked the entire floor, and strategic rooms above and below, and were in a position to maintain security from a discreet and low-key distance.

  White arrived late. He closed the door behind him and crossed the large and minimally opulent living area to where Zelman was lounging on a sofa, reading a magazine. He lofted a bottle of champagne up in front of him and smiled. Zelman smiled back and nodded to the small table next the sofa. There was a bottle of the same champagne, their favourite Perrier-Jouët Belle Epoque, on ice in a bucket. White’s face fell to mock sadness. “I wanted to surprise you. Well, I’ve had a two bottle kind of day, I guess.” He took the chilled bottle and replaced it with his own. He poured two glasses, offering one to Zelman. He took a sip and sat at the other end of the sofa, Zelman lifting her legs to make space for him then laying them back on his lap. He stroked her calf and took another drink.

  “I’m just finishing this article,” said Zelman, distractedly.

  White looked around the room. He could feel himself relaxing. It felt good.

  “There!” Zelman exclaimed, half-dropping, half-throwing th
e magazine to the floor. “How are you, darling? A two bottle day, you say?”

  White perked up. “Oh, maybe not that bad, I guess. Things are hotting up at foreign and defence. We’re meeting with Cortes tomorrow.”

  Zelman was intrigued. “The Asian Bloc? Are they getting antsy again?”

  “No, no. That’s all going great. Bizarrely enough, there are storm clouds gathering over Mars.”

  “Mars?”

  “Yup,” White sighed. “With any luck it’ll just be a storm in tea cup but we have some intel - I shouldn’t be telling you this - that Charles Venkdt is going to poll the Martian population on independence.”

  Zelman was genuinely baffled. “What do you mean, independence?”

  “From Earth. Well, technically from the parent company but it amounts to the same thing.”

  “Ha!” Zelman couldn’t help herself. The very idea seemed so ridiculous. “Is he mad? It’s just some internal spat at Venkdt then, isn’t it?”

  “That’s what we’re all hoping. Because if anything crazy does go on up there there’s not a damn thing we can do about it.”

  “What about the garrison?”

  White snorted. “Two hundred guys gone soft. And what use would they be? Firepower is only useful if you have overwhelming superiority. The last seven years have taught us that. The greater your superiority the less likely your need to use it. Anyway, we can’t be seen to be turning the military on USAN citizens. That could get really messy.”

  “Well,” said Zelman, “let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  “I don’t think it will. But, you know, in our line we have to think the unthinkable.”

  Zelman smiled. “These things always seem important at the time. In two weeks this will all be over and forgotten about. Let’s go to bed.”

  “You know, there could be a silver lining in this for you.”

  Zelman looked at him quizzically.

  “Andrews is talking about refitting the carriers. Sending them to Mars, like some old colonial warships, to give the natives something to think about. Your stocks will go through the roof.”

  Zelman laughed. “That sounds like a grand idea! I’ve tried to tell you before, peace through superior firepower. That’s the only foreign policy you need. They wouldn’t really go through with it though, would they? The Martians?”

  White rose from the sofa, reaching out for the champagne.

  “Who knows what the hell they might do.”

  Rawls got off the phone to Andrews and lay back in his white chair, kicking his feet up on the desk. He closed his eyes and thought. Was what he had just told Andrews feasible? Probably. Realistic? Maybe. He felt a little scared. It was an exciting - as well as lucrative - project, and it was the risk of failure that made it exciting. His mind was racing a little. Had he oversold what Helios was capable of delivering? Even with twenty-third century production methods, refitting the two giant carriers was going to be a massive task. Intellectually, he reasoned that it could be done. But the fear was still there. It was good. And anyway, now they were committed.

  He sat the chair back up and spoke to his terminal, “Get me Lund.”

  “Ms Lund is busy right now,” the terminal replied.

  “Can you let Ms Lund know it’s me and that it’s urgent,” said Rawls.

  He brought up some documents on his terminal and scanned through them. He looked at the plans for the carriers and at some of Askel’s recent work on the engines. He looked at budgets and the project management records for the carriers’ construction. He was sinking into the details of the engine fitting procedure when his terminal spoke again.

  “Askel Lund for you.”

  “Great, put her on the wall.”

  The wall of his office sprang to life with the huge image of Askel’s head and shoulders projected two metres high, and in incredible detail. Her face was clean, honest and open, and her crystal blue eyes looked out vividly from the projection. “You wanted me?” she said.

  “Hi, Askel. Got some ideas I want to run past you.”

  Askel’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. She couldn’t say ‘Can’t you see I’m busy’ to the boss, but her expression hinted at it. “Go on,” she said.

  “You worked on the carriers. The NFJs you’re working on now, would they work in them?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? They’re the same form factor, aren’t they?”

  “They’re not ready.”

  “No, but if they were ready they could be made to work in the carriers, right?”

  Askel paused. “I guess. But there’d be no point. They’d be overkill for ships that just roam about the planet.”

  “I’m coming on to that. If you could get the NFJ engines into the carriers, there’s no reason we couldn’t get them to Mars, is there?”

  Askel paused. “Well . . .”

  “Could you do it?”

  “It could be done, when the engines are ready, which they aren’t, but it would take a lot of time and money and wouldn’t be as effective as building ships from the ground up for interplanetary flight. That’s where I’d start - with a new design.”

  “Askel, we don’t have time for that. If we started right now, how long would this take?”

  Askel shook her head gently in thought. “Six months, eight. If the engines were ready, which they aren’t.”

  “If I gave you everything you needed, if we went at this day and night, could we do it in six months?”

  Silence.

  “Maybe. But the engines -”

  Rawls cut her off. “I’m reading the test data right now. It all looks good to me. These engines are ready, aren’t they? Really?”

  “I’d like to do further tests. We’re doing very advanced stuff here and I’d like to proceed with an abundance of caution.”

  “Can you think of a better test than putting them in working spacecraft?”

  “Lewis, I . . .” Askel’s voice trailed off.

  “We can do this, can’t we? And you said six months? That’s great. I’ll let the secretary of defence know.”

  Askel was already reluctantly thinking of the problems ahead. “I’ll need more money. And I want it in writing that you’re proceeding over my objections.” Her mind was racing now. “And we’ll need more production drones and an orbital laser lathe.”

  “You’ve got it, Askel. It’s all billable. The client wants it and they want it fast.”

  “The client? The USAN? Why do they want to send the carriers to Mars?”

  “They have their reasons. It’s political, as far as I can tell. If you ask me it’s a huge fuss over nothing, but they’re asking for it and they’re going to pay for it, so I say let’s give it to them. Customer’s always right, eh?”

  “How much are we going to bill them for this?”

  “Shitloads.”

  “Do I get a bonus?”

  “Write your own cheque, Askel. Uncle Sam’s paying.”

  Askel Lund, twenty-eight, pulled her chair up to her desk and prepared to concentrate. She sat in front of her terminal and grim-facedly set to work. She pulled files on the carriers; designs, redesigns and construction records. She pulled the project management data, where she could compare the plans for the builds, including projected milestones, against actual milestones. She looked at all the delays, their reasons and impacts. She hunted for short cuts; safety inspections that could be sped up; systems that could be worked in parallel. She maximised man and drone power to the point beyond which they would get in each other’s way, which cut the time for some crucial tasks by as much as fifty percent.

  She looked at the engines. Rawls had been right; they had been tested to exhaustion and Lund, ever thorough, had been delaying the sign off to make further tweaks and tests. Rawls had been right, too, in that the ultimate test would be to set the engines in spacecraft and put them to work. The engines were currently housed in a test facility in Winfrith, Dorset. They would have to be prepared for transport - five da
ys - and then shipped by special lorries - need to organise that - to the spaceport at Foulness Island near Southend in Essex.

  Lund was making lists as she went. There was a whole load of things that would have to be organised to make this thing move fast. Rawls would need to organise an HLV or two to get the engines into orbit. There were various tools and drones that would have to be in position against specific dates. There were work schedules and a huge shopping list of necessary supplies. Lund hammered away at the task without stopping, like a machine. The more she worked the clearer the whole project became in her mind, and she could see it as a reality. Initially, it had seemed something of a pipe dream but as she worked the numbers came clearer into view, and it did indeed seem like a plausible thing. A few hours later and in Askel’s mind it was not only plausible, or possible, it was going to happen. Lund was gripped by the project. Every problem solved, every hour saved, every unnecessary system discarded was like a huge victory in service of the ultimate goal; to make this thing happen as soon - or even sooner - than she said she would. Rawls may baulk at some of the prices on her shopping list, but fast was never going to be cheap. And anyway, the bills would be passed on to the client with a twenty percent mark-up.

  It was two hours after midnight when Lund finished. She had generated or copied, modified and amended a vast amount of documents and schematics by then. She kicked her chair back as she spoke to the terminal. “Check all of the documents I’ve produced in the last twelve hours. Check them for spelling, grammar, logical consistency. Check them with the highest grade AI for logic, and produce a report for any inconsistencies. Also, generate a report suggesting any improvements. Priorities are speed and efficiency. Let me know when you’re done.”

  “Yes, Ms Lund,” the terminal replied.

  Askel rose from her desk and walked to the window. It was dark outside but looking up and to the west she could see what looked like a bright, slightly orange star.