The Departure

‘They crashed it on the Moon?’ gasped Carol. ‘I don’t know,’ said Var, vexed that she hadn’t checked the same feeds again this morning. But how important were they? Her co-workers had just seen enough that was of relevance to them, because it showed the truth of their own situation. Of course, she understood the concern of those here who still had family back on Earth. Her own brother might still be alive somewhere back there. There was just a chance that he hadn’t ended up in an adjustment cell for, if anyone truly fitted the description her political officer had once applied to herself – too dangerous to live, too valuable to kill – it was her brilliant sibling, Alan Saul.

‘But, in light of all this,’ she said acidly, ‘it seems likely that the rebuilding of Mars Travellers has been postponed way beyond the prediction of fifteen to twenty years. There might not be further missions heading out this way for centuries, millennia . . . or ever.’ She paused for a moment, realizing that none of them knew about Chairman Messina’s private project, none of them knew about the Alexander – that massive spacecraft under construction out beyond the orbit of the Moon. It had been kept very secret, and the construction station it sat within was EM-shielded and invisible from Earth. Whatever, with the events occurring on Earth the project had almost certainly been shelved, if not destroyed.

‘How can you be sure?’ asked Gunther.

‘Last night I ran a rough analysis on those same images,’ she replied, ‘and what you are seeing is not random. Someone is dropping those laser satellites directly onto Inspectorate HQs all around Earth. When I last looked, all seven thousand satellites were on the move. I’m guessing it’s finished now. Someone just annihilated most of the Committee power base on Earth.’

‘I can confirm that,’ said Rhone, of Mars Science, a man so pale that, without the Martian rouge ground into his skin, he would have had an albino complexion. ‘We’ve also been picking up some Govnet chatter, though most of Govnet now seems to be down. It goes beyond what we’re actually seeing. Some kind of computer attack has turned readerguns and military robots against the Inspectorate all across Earth, and even dropped government scramjets and aeros out of the sky. Prior to this, it’s also worth noting, the satellite lasers fired on Minsk and then on each other. There was also a big launch of space planes from a hidden spaceport in central Australia towards the Argus Station. A lot of them didn’t make it, as they got fried by the Traveller VI engine.’

Var stared at him. Here was someone who had been accessing data she hadn’t even noticed. Best to keep a close eye on him. Then she felt a sudden irritation with herself. That was unfair; that was Inspectorate thinking.

‘Any speculations?’ she asked.

‘We’ve picked up nothing on Alessandro Messina or the Committee delegates – probably now hiding in a bunker somewhere.’ He paused, looking thoughtful. ‘I don’t know who or what did this, but it seems likely to me that it’s based aboard the Argus Station.’

It was Martinez who got down to the practicalities. ‘But where does that leave us now?’ he asked.

Rhone was about to add something else, but he desisted, just dipping his head. She watched him for a moment, then turned her attention to Martinez.

‘It leaves us completely and utterly on our own.’ Var scanned the faces all around her. ‘We now have to make this place work, all of us.’

‘And how’s that going to be?’ Martinez asked, studying her intently.

‘We repair the damage,’ she said. ‘We locate resources, finish building the Arboretum, graft damned hard and very cleverly to make sure we can continue surviving here. We have to make this place self-sufficient or it’s our tomb.’

Rhone raised his head. ‘I don’t think that’s the question Martinez was asking. I think he wants to know who’s in charge now.’

‘I suggest I retain my present position,’ said Var. ‘The command structure the Committee established here had its faults, but most of those are now lying on a flatbed trailer outside. Remember, I was chosen for the position of technical director here. You all know my qualifications in all branches of science, and that I am the best synthesist you have.’ She paused for a moment, focusing her attention on Rhone. ‘Does anyone else have suggestions?’

‘I agree,’ said Rhone. ‘You are the best one for the position, and have ably demonstrated the ruthlessness the position may require.’

‘I agree, too,’ said Martinez.

‘I certainly don’t want the job,’ said Da Vinci.

They all agreed in turn, without reservation, some of them evidently anxious to avoid what they assumed might be a poisoned chalice.

‘Perhaps we should agree to reassess the situation in a year’s time,’ Var suggested, knowing that by then it would be clear enough whether they might survive longer than the predicted five years.

‘An interesting choice of timespan,’ said Rhone, obviously hiding something.

‘So that’s it,’ said Martinez. ‘Now we get to work.’

‘Not entirely,’ said Rhone. ‘Though we must now focus primarily on our survival here, there’s another rather worrying fact we’ll need to confront just after the one-year period you’ve mentioned.’

What was he getting at now? Did he intend to suggest some kind of inquiry at the end of her rule, some sort of investigation and maybe a trial?

‘Go on,’ she said, waiting for the knife in her back.

‘Those images you showed us are rather old, Var.’ Rhone pointed upwards. ‘A few hours ago, Argus Station did a low-fuel course change around the Moon, and unless its vector changes or it makes use of its engine again, it looks likely to be sitting right above us here in one year and three months’ time.’ He smiled at her. ‘Whoever or whatever just trashed Earth is now coming here.’

By Neal Asher

Cowl