Rogue Command (The Kalahari Series) (17 page)

“No. You’re on your own. Dan’s still in the dispatch section. Take a close-up of the power box and come back, Martine.”

Veronica looked up from her control console, made eye contact with Paul and shrugged. Her expression of bewilderment was tinged with apprehension.

“Wait! There! Something is out here, like a shadow, a figure.”

“Martine, come in now please. Forget the image.”

“I’ve seen something! It’s moving quickly. It’s coming this way! There’s a lot of sand in the air . . . Oh God, I’m . . .”

“Martine, this is Paul. You come back now. That’s an order!”

“I’m coming back! Oh no, it’s chasing me! Open up! I’m coming . . . must get away . . . !”

The sound of peppering sand and heavy erratic breathing came through the speakers. Veronica put a hand to her mouth. Paul dashed over to the control console. There was an eerie whine; it unnerved everyone.

“Sitrep, please . . . What’s happening?” Andy Baillie demanded over the radio.

“Where are you now, Martine? Answer me,” said Paul, bending towards the microphone.

There was silence.

“Martine . . . Martine! Can you hear me?” shouted Veronica.

“Help me . . . help me . . . help . . .” Martine Ebury’s words trailed away until they were no longer audible.

“Dan! Get my suit ready – I’m going out! Veronica, keep calling her!” Paul ordered.

At that moment the support vehicle began to shake violently. There was a banging and a clanking from outside. “What the hell was that?”

“Paul! Something is on top of us!” yelled Lesley from the front, her expression one of controlled terror.

Muffled shouts emanated from the rear compartment followed by more clanking and tearing noises from above.

“Secure the airlock!” Paul shouted. He turned towards the cockpit. “Lesley, get us out of here . . . now!”

“We can’t leave her!” was the reply.

“I said,
now
!”

Electric motors began to whine. The vehicle shuddered. And then gas began to vent – loud and whistling. Lesley glanced into the large, external, rear-view mirror on her left-hand side only to see pieces of pipe and other metallic objects showering the ground. A microwave dish flew past her window. Lesley floored the accelerator pedal as billowing clouds of white condensing gas began to circulate, completely obscuring the view behind. And then red lights began to illuminate on her control panel and an oxygen alarm began to sound. We are being attacked!” she shouted. “Something is on the roof and pulling us apart!”

“Put your foot down . . . manoeuvre!”

“It’s no good! I’m trying!”

“What the hell is going on out there?” yelled Andy Baillie over the radio.

Paul rushed into the cockpit. Lesley was at top speed and swerving from side to side. Still the attack persisted. At 50 mph over that terrain the PTSV bounced and vibrated violently. Desperately hanging onto a roof member with one hand and unscrewing a porthole cover with the other, Paul tried to get a glimpse outside. There was nothing to see, but the sound of malicious damage continued in a frenzy above him. Further down the tube there was another porthole in the roof. Hand over hand he made his way back and unscrewed the securing clip. “Sit down and strap in,” he told the two crew members. Vertically upwards, through the small glass window, he caught sight of something. He didn’t believe it at first and had to look again. Then immediately he turned and loped forward again, into the cockpit. Several oxygen gauges showed in the red sector; alarms rang in his ears. There was a switch on the control panel that was covered by a plastic red and yellow striped cover and marked
DANGER
. Without hesitation he lifted the safety device. Fighting with the steering levers, Lesley glanced at him momentarily as if to say, “What are you doing?” and then he pressed the button. Instantly the red numbers in the adjacent digital readout began to increase and there was a loud buzzing that permeated the vehicle. When the readout showed 20,000 Volts, Paul pressed the button again and repositioned the safety cover.

Immediately, the assault on the vehicle appeared to stop. Paul looked at the ceiling with trepidation and then ran his eye line down the tube. Outside everything was quiet. With a hand movement he indicated to Lesley to reduce speed and then he scribed a circle with his finger, requesting that she turnaround. Then he walked the length of the tube listening intently. The two crew members stared at him, terrified; he reassured them with a nod and a smile. “Back to your stations – we are going home.”

“What about Martine? We can’t leave her,” said one of the women.

That was a command decision he was in the process of making. Was she dead already? Would he put the rest of his crew in danger by going back? Would another static charge from the magnetic desensitising system fend off a repeat attack?
Osiris Base was almost three days’ drive,
he thought. He removed an intercom microphone from a holder on a nearby bulkhead. Engineer Dan Winton was the sixth crew member; his station was in the rear compartment, the other side of two pressure doors. “Dan, how is it back there?” Paul asked.

“I’ve survived, if that’s what you mean. Structurally, we’ve taken quite a bit of damage. What was that all about, for God’s sake? Something from hell. It scared the shit out of me.”

“I’ll fill you in in a bit. Give me a system sitrep.”

“Oxygen is our main problem, lost almost eighty per cent. The emergency supply uses internal plumbing. I managed to salvage two hundred litres from the aft bottle port side; the rest were damaged and all the contents vented to atmosphere.”

“So how does it look? Be specific.”

“Two days, Paul . . . maybe fifty hours at the most – that’s very tight to get back to Osiris. The suits will give another four or five hours.”

“And with five of us?”

Veronica gasped. There was a fatalistic pause. Was that the reality of the situation?

“With five of us, Paul, there’s enough – if we leave now.” Dan’s voice was sombre. “Listen, one other thing . . . Whatever attacked us tried to stop the access door from closing. I thought it was coming in! The peripheral seals are damaged, but they are holding at the moment. If I cycle the door again I may not be able to seal it, and flushing the entrance portal will require additional oxygen . . . I’m sorry.”

Lesley called back from the cockpit. “Paul, Commander Race wants a situation report ASAP.”

Paul raised his hand in acknowledgement and then he turned to Anna who sat at the life support console. “What do you have on Martine?” he asked bluntly.

Anna, who was still visibly shaken, shrugged her shoulders. “Nothing . . . no indications,” she answered, almost in a whisper. Tears welled in her eyes.

“Is that because she is dead, or because her life functions system has malfunctioned?”

Anna shook her head and dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

Paul Carr drew a long breath and looked out through one of the circular side windows at the alien environment. Visibility had increased again and the distant sun illuminated the landscape with a rich orange glow. He could see a sand squall passing over the nearby ridge. They were moving at a walking pace back in an easterly direction.

Paul flipped a switch on the intercom panel and his microphone became live through the speaker system. “Listen up everyone,” he said solemnly. “I believe Martine to be dead. We have only enough oxygen to get back to base if we leave now. I have no intention of putting the mission in jeopardy by going back to that area – God knows what else is out there. I’m sorry – I really am. Lesley, plot a course for home – maximum speed consistent with the damage we have sustained. And patch this mic through to the operations room in Osiris.”

Lesley Oakley, in the cockpit, made a few selections and then she turned and held up a thumb. Paul nodded.

“Base Ops from Support One, how do you read?”

“Loud and clear . . . What’s going on?”

“We’ve had some problems, Andy. On our way back to you now – navigation system predicting sixty-three hours. I am reporting one crew member down – Martine Ebury. I believe her to be dead. Course of action necessitated by life support deficiency. Request you instigate Emergency Retrieval Protocol Code Zero Three. Is Commander Race still with you?”

“Yes he is!”

“Commander Race, Sir. We have a serious security situation in the Elysium Sector – unidentified intruders. You will have my report within the hour.”

CHAPTER 10

For the Love of Carbon

London – same day
15:02 Greenwich Mean Time

“Peter,” said Laura Bellingham standing in the doorway, “I have received a transcription of the message sent from Space Station
Spartacus
to the Science Federation Headquarters this morning. I’ve sent it to your computer. In response to your request for further information Mr Brian Grant will call you in fifteen minutes – you will recall that he is the Senior Scientific Analyst for the European Space and Science Agency.”

Peter Rothschild looked up from his desk.
Laura,
he thought,
is beginning to look tired.
She had very dark bags under her eyes. “Thanks,” he said, and stared for a moment.

“Will that be all?”

“You are working too hard, Laura,” Rothschild said, in a concerned manner. “I want you to take some time off . . . okay? As soon as we get Abbey back from America, then you’re off for a few days. Is that clear?”

“It’s cold and damp at home, Peter. I’ve almost run out of heating oil and so have my neighbours – we’ve been pooling resources. They are saying that further deliveries are unlikely and I hear electricity rationing being mentioned again in certain quarters. So, if you don’t mind, I would prefer to be here, where it’s warm. Anyway, I’m expecting some news from Richard. He should have landed in Egypt by now. I need to coordinate his security.”

Rothschild nodded, acknowledging the reality of the situation. “Any of that Admiralty coffee left?” he asked, smiling.

“I’ll see what I can do.” Laura closed the door behind her.

Rothschild turned his attention to the transcription and read the accompanying report. The
Arius
probe, a large satellite-type vessel that brimmed with ultrasensitive equipment for deep space research, was now five days from Jupiter. Designed with a broad-spectrum sensing capability that also encompassed most terrestrial frequencies, she had intercepted a radio signal that seemed to emanate from the moon Io and had attempted to rebroadcast it to the ISSF facility in Canaveral the previous evening. However, due to the debilitating effect that Jupiter’s gravity has on radio waves, the relay was degraded and only intercepted as a weak, distorted signal by the Space Station
Spartacus
that was holding station between Mars and Jupiter in support of the original ISS
Hera
mission. There an alert operative, who had become suspicious by the nature of the signal, had rebroadcast it to Osiris Base. The red telephone on Rothschild’s desk rang.

“Rothschild here,” he answered.

“Peter, good afternoon, it’s Brian Grant from the Space and Science Agency. You have requested an update on the signal from Jupiter, I understand.”

“Yes, that’s right. I hear it’s causing some concern.”

“More than that my dear chap – put the cat among the pigeons, I’m afraid.”

“Go on.”

“
Spartacus
is holding station in the Omega Sector, about four million miles from Jupiter – just beyond the outer asteroid belt. We decided to keep her there until more precise information is available on the
Hera
’s disappearance. She intercepted a weak signal from the
Arius
probe at 23:14 GMT yesterday. It was a relay of a signal that appeared to emanate from Io. Normally the signal would have been processed as a low priority occurrence, but the operative noticed that the form was binary tonal – not one used generally for space communications. Listening to it would be like listening to the shrill from an old facsimile machine, for example. Unable to decode it, the operative relayed the signal to Osiris Base for onward transmission to Canaveral by their Accelercom facility, marking it Sceptre Code Two – that means of special interest.”

Rothschild was beginning to wonder where all this was leading when, in the background, he heard someone say, “Mr Grant, the signal is confirmed, auto-synthesis!”

Rothschild interrupted. “I overheard that Brian, what does that mean exactly –
auto-synthesis
?”

“There is a scientist on Mars, Peter, by the name of Ramir Pushtarbi; he works in the Robomotive Department. Been there for years apparently – their longest serving robologist. Someone in the communication centre on Osiris asked his opinion, knowing that he had a synthetic language background. It transpires that he is a former employee of Interface Cybersystems SL, a company within the Epsilon Rio group. In fact, he was on the original development team for the Humatron series. These were Level Seven, self-aware robots, built originally for piloting deep space probes and also operating long-term space amenities such as the atmospherics control centre on orbiting facilities like Spaceport – relieving humans of such menial tasks. As such they were built to last – a guaranteed longevity for the primary power cell of one thousand years, in fact. This morning, at 04:48 GMT, Mr Pushtarbi recognised the binary transmission as a communication between Humatron systems; indeed, he has specified the model HU40. This robotic system was banned several years ago by international law. There were numerous reasons, not least uncontrolled acts of violence towards humans – the result of programming deficiencies.”

“I know of this system, Brian, our operatives have encountered them in the past, and you are quite right, they are extremely dangerous. A mind of their own, it seems. So, a conversation between robots, you say?”

“The ISSF’s security directorate acquired the entire Humatron language code when they closed down the Interface production facility in Brazil a few years ago. My people have just confirmed the transcription: Ramir Pushtarbi was correct – it appears that there is, or was, at least one HU40 system on the surface of Io and another in orbit!”

“Good God man! Could they have been responsible for the disappearance of
Hera
 . . . ? What are they doing there?”

“I am in receipt of the full transcription . . . in English – came through just a few minutes ago. Part of it appears to be a series of technical instructions; data for adjusting the centre of gravity and centre of pressure for, we presume, an ascent of a landing vehicle. An additional forty-eight kilograms was specifically mentioned. And other data includes settings for escape velocity and orbital concentricity calculations for a docking manoeuvre.”

Rothschild sat bolt upright in his chair. “Can it be that robots are doing what we sent the crew of
Hera
to do? Surely not . . . surely that’s not possible!”

Moon Base Andromeda – same day
Freight Terminal Communication Centre
15:32 Lunar Corrected Time

“
Colossus
Zero One, we have your arrival request. You are clear to station. Orbital Profile Four, Four, Seven. Arrival Sequence Zero, Zero, Zero, Four – Tranquillity Transition. Initial holding seventy-eight per cent elliopheric, reducing sixty-five per cent at Gate Sequence Alpha, Alpha, Charlie. Do you copy
Colossus
?” The controller had an American accent.

The reply was from a woman with an Asian accent and the words were clipped. “
Colossus
copy, thank you Andromeda. Automatic sequence in place – acknowledgement download code Tongsei One, Two, Two. You have code, correct?”

“Yes Mam, we have Tongsei One, Two, Two in the data sequence. You are clear to proceed. Welcome to the Moon.”

The recent refit of the interplanetary mineral barge
Colossus
had increased her payload from 125,000 metric tons to 160,000 tons, and resumption of the near 500,000 mile round trip had allowed much needed supplies to reach the Earth, particularly mineral-rich fruit and vegetables grown inside Andromeda’s extensive biodome network. Cold storage of foodstuffs was highly convenient, as after harvesting it was simply conveyed to the freight terminal in louvred Space Chillers – bulk storage containers that allowed the extreme cold outside to slowly permeate the food, and then, after the louvres were closed, maintain an internal temperature fractionally above freezing point. The food subsequently remained super-chilled in the vacuum of space until its arrival on Earth.

Constructed in space, Tongsei Space Ship
Colossus
was far too large and underpowered for re-entry manoeuvres and as such was attended by a fleet of service vehicles at either end of the two-week cycle, where a medium level geostationary orbit was normally required for three to four days.

There were mining operations on the Moon almost before permanent accommodation had been built. Following the global recession of 2008–2017, governments the world over had withdrawn from the costly research and development programmes required for lunar colonisation and had instead pooled resources under the auspices of the first space alliance – the International Space and Science Federation. But it was the wealthy and faceless industrial conglomerates that had paved the way for a return in 2016 by negotiating one-sided – and regarded by many as illegal – trade agreements that effectively gave them a monopoly over the Moon’s precious resources. The 1967 Outer Space Treaty between Russia and the United States of America, which defined the Moon and all outer space as the “province of all mankind” and also restricted the use of the Moon to peaceful purposes, explicitly banning military installations, and the 1979 Moon Agreement created to restrict the exploitation of the Moon’s resources by any single nation, simply fell by the wayside. By 2019 the giant China-based conglomerate Tongsei Heavy Industries and other similar unscrupulous multinational companies had stock in the Moon, and their initial investment would turn in hitherto unheard of revenues for the coming three decades. That continued until 2050, when their criminal aspirations for controlling world-energy supplies had been curtailed and subsequently their trading activities severely restricted. But now, with mineral and commodity revenues once again filling their coffers, other designs loomed – perhaps the independent colony itself?

Based on the layout of the world’s largest but long obsolete nuclear-powered submarine, the TS Shinan Po, but with hugely increased dimensions, the menacing black hull of the
Colossus
neared the pre-designated orbital entry point. Her broad, flat upper deck housed eighteen pairs of hydraulically operated cargo doors that gave access to twelve cavernous cargo holds designed specifically for the bulk transport of minerals. However, post-refit, Number 1 hold had now been divided and adapted to carry other equally lucrative commodities, such as food and gemstones. The single, rear-facing, but manoeuvrable primary rocket nozzle that was positioned centrally on the truncated aft section of the hull occasionally glowed a fiery brilliant white and this rearward thrust was augmented by brief lateral burns of the retro rockets that were applied to align the vessel with the final approach corridor.

“Andromeda Control, this
Colossus
, we request one additional high latitude orbit at seventy-eight per cent elliopheric before establish final station. You authorise, please.”

“Your parameters look good from this end,
Colossus
. State your reasons for a change in the profile.”

“Er, we need additional time to decelerate. Must comply increased mass momentum computation.”

There was a pause. “I say again, your profile looks a-okay? Continue as briefed, please.”

“Must insist . . . velly high priority, Andromeda. Momentum calculation show increased speed for alignment. This no good for orbital concentricity – please allow additional polar orbit to decelerate.”

In the Freight Control Centre the American officer held up a hand and attracted the attention of his line manager. “Sir, what do you think?” he asked, as the older man stood beside him and leaned over to study an electronically enhanced approach profile that was overlaid on the circular radar screen. “The Captain of the
Colossus
is requesting an additional orbit at seventy-eight per cent in order to decelerate, but her profile looks good to me – it’s unusual, I mean . . .”

“Maybe they haven’t quite nailed the computations after the refit; I know that the barge is much larger now. What orientation is he requesting?”

“It’s a she, sir, and they want the Polar quadrant.”

“Seems okay . . . there’s nothing there.”

“But sir, we’re not talking rocket science here. Surely her navigation computer will have been updated . . . to account for the additional mass, I mean. And anyway, the far side sensors are down for servicing – that was clearly detailed in this month’s
Notices to Spacemen
. She must know that we can’t track her on the other side and therefore will not be able to provide trajectory or safety information. It’s highly irregular, sir!”

The supervisor paused for a moment, weighing up the implications. A wiry Englishman, he stood tall and then arched his back and scratched his head. “Listen,” he said, in a condescending way, “we don’t want an interplanetary diplomatic incident do we? Not on my watch anyway. Go ahead and authorise the damned orbit.”

“But sir!”

“Let it go, Smith . . . okay? Any degrading of safety in the orbital phase is down to her – it’s her decision – just remind her of the maintenance period for the record.”

Unhappy with the order, but complying in any case, the American opened the communication channel again. “
Colossus
, this is Andromeda Control. Your orbit at seventy-eight per cent elliopheric is approved – make it Zero, Zero, Seven degrees, East Polar Offset. You are advised that essential sensor maintenance is currently underway; in future, please check your notices. I will call you when we have you on radar again.”

“Velly good. One orbit in polar sector approved. Cancelling Tranquillity Transition and changing course.
Colossus
Zero One, out.”

As the blip on the radar screen slowly changed direction and set course for the Moon’s North Pole, Space Controller Herbie Smith closely monitored the ship’s velocity. The profile looked innocuous enough, but there was something about it he just didn’t like. There were no other space movements in the vicinity and so he watched the trace almost aimlessly until it neared the periphery of his screen and then disappeared.