Chapter Thirty-One

Jet Propulsion Laboratory, Pasadena, California

Not only had Derek deciphered Kallandra’s message successfully, he was livid at the implications. He banged the table at the JPL hangar where he and a trusted engineer confirmed that number 3 aft should have contained straight-forward reserve stores, mostly for life-support in case the two humans needed to travel for at least three years.

He’d only the message relayed from Apoidea that indicated this wasn’t the case.

“The trouble, Derek,” said Tomas, scratching his untidy grey beard, “is that so many folk were involved in loading Apoidea.”

“Come off it, Tom, you can’t sneak a high-powered nuke on a spaceship in a few moments. It’d take planning, especially constructed rigs to house it securely, staff to do the actual loading, electrics, and all under our noses.”

Tomas shook his head and waved his tortoise-shell spectacles at Derek.

“It’s not that hard. The design and rig construction was probably done at one of many Defence Department workshops. It would’ve been cobbled together into a self-contained module that was flown in and placed in the Apoidea in minutes. The electrics are hundred percent wireless so no electricians needed. Meanwhile, some nerd in stores has fiddled the inventory data, put a non-access code lock on number 3 aft and routed the intended LSS gear elsewhere.”

“And sold it on e-bay. I know, but it’s worth a bit of covert checking on those stores, if you will, Tom.”

“Sure, but don’t forget that we’ve no proof.” Tom’s eyes lit up. “Hey, there was twenty-four-seven surveillance on Apoidea all through her build to launch. I’ll get onto it.”

“Cheers, Tom. But I’m sure they’d have known that. And the radiation monitoring would be confused with the small nuclear-power modules on board. Damn.

It might mean the only way to confirm our suspicions is for Kallandra to cut her way into number 3 aft from an EVA. Or is it?”

A big grin, revealing a bright white central incisor tooth among the natural ivory coloured. “You mean we kidnap Dizzy and make him talk.”

Derek grinned his more expensive dentistry. “I was more considering sending her my hack code.” He paused while an image of a trussed and gagged Disraeli played in his imagination. “Also a hack routine to force the robotic quartermaster to go into number 3 aft and check it out.”

“Well, that’s less fun, but why haven’t you already done that from down here?”

“Yes, I could do it remotely, but with the time delays and the possibility that the hatch is obstructed from the inside—possibly booby-trapped. I’ve a good mind to come straight out with my suspicions to Disraeli. Publicly, of course. I don’t want to be disappeared.”

Tom’s grey eyebrows raised in shock. “They wouldn’t dare! Anyhow, that only happens in films. Tell ‘em you’ve made a recording and it’ll be released to the media if anything happens to you—hey, and to me.”

“I suspect that kind of bluff only works in films too. Damn, I wish I could chat privately to Kal about this.”

“Not all the radio frequencies allocated for Apoidea comms are used,” Tom said.

“Why not encrypt one channel?”

“Because it would be detected—it’s not just NASA who tune in so, if radio transmissions are detected batting to and fro outside the declared times and channels, there’d be an investig—”

Tom tapped his nose and showed his odd tooth again. “Not if the frequency is tucked inside the radio data streams. They’re—”

“Of course, there’s a constant data stream to and from the Apoidea. I’d have to tap into the transmission uploads—excellent idea, Tom.”

“I have my uses,” he said, patting Derek’s back. “Now give them bastards hell.”

* * *

Derek simmered with increasing anger on the airplane from Pasadena to Houston. No more Mister Nice Guy, he thought, as his mind travelled through strong words to tell the inner circle at Mission Control, Disraeli and the flight controllers, who must know that powerful explosives occupied number 3 aft. Elaine, although she was the primary Capcom, seemed to be unaware of the secret, although he could only assume her innocence, knowing how she and Kallandra were good friends. It was best he made no assumptions like that. Also, it would be foolhardy for him to blast away with his one gun against their barrage.

He needed backup, but who could he trust who had clout? Rob Summers, himself, maybe Elaine, a handful of others. However, the strongest potential ally was the media—or was it? Some Governments seem to willingly persist in unpopular wars so why would the governments involved take any notice of him or the media, assuming they would take his side?

As he walked off the plane he realized he’d embarked as an angry agitator eager for a fight, and disembarked a livid man believing no fight is possible. Nevertheless, he was determined to use his supposed indispensable position as senior design engineer to lean on Disraeli.

The interior of the Houston Yellow Cab reeked of furniture polish, making it difficult to rehearse his indignation tirade.

The hot Texas sunshine burnt into his blond hair as he clambered out of the aircon-cooled cab. The cab driver stayed in the driver’s seat and released the trunk-lock so Derek could grab his black leather overnight bag. No tip for you, thought Derek, piling on the meanness attitude he needed to develop for Disraeli. Argh, the damned cab driver had dropped him off at Building 3, the restaurant, instead of 30S, the Mission Control complex.

Too late, the cab squealed away as Derek faced the walk through the Zero-G

Diner and Blast-off Bistro. He hated crowds and there were not only tourists to elbow him but Disneyland-type space creatures and comic astronauts in oversized costumes that would pat him on the head and try to force a Jupiter-lollipop into his mouth. At least the buildings were air-conditioned, unlike the alternative outside walk around to building 30S.

With his heavy overnight bag in his right hand and his briefcase in the left, Derek hunched his shoulders and marched towards the smoked-glass entrance doors. Before he’d completed two strides he felt a whack to the back of his head. He dropped his bag and promptly tripped over it. The hexagonal sandstone paving rushed towards him and, although he rolled, his head smacked the stones. Dazed and shocked he lay on his back for a few seconds. His first thoughts were not wondering if his assailant might finish him off, but how he was going to maintain credibility in his arguments with the top staff at NASA when he had the looks of a barroom bruiser. As sensibility returned he looked up at the silhouette of his female attacker eclipsing the sun.

“You bastard, you killed him!” She kicked his legs and swung her shoulder bag at his bleeding head. Derek thought that he recognised that southern accent. Then, why hadn’t the door security rushed to his rescue?

He called up: “Is that you, Tabitha? It’s me, Derek Stone. Remember—”

“I sure remember you all right.” Her bag swung at his head but caught his protecting arm. He snatched at the strap and held onto it.

He heard running footsteps. At last the security guards must have stopped laughing. One grey-uniformed guard grabbed Tabitha while the other helped Derek to his feet. Tabitha persisted in aiming a kick at the puzzled Derek.

“Madam,” said the guard holding her. “Did this man assault you?”

“Hey,” Derek shouted. “It’s the other way around.”

“He killed…he killed my—”

Now it was Derek’s turn to be grabbed by a security guard, while Derek’s battered head whirred through half-remembered information.

“Tabitha, I’m sorry about what happened to your father. Really I am, but I can’t be held responsible for the timequakes, or for the spheres.”

Instead of calming down, her agitation increased with added incoherent yelling.

Meanwhile the guard holding Derek looked at him carefully and saw his pendant identity card.

“Say, you’re that Mr. Stone, the Mars Mission ship designer? Sorry, Sir.” He released Derek and pointed at the angry Tabitha. “What d’ya want us to do with her?”

“I’m not a HER!” And she emphasised her denial with flailing arms, but the guards were well-trained and the only outcome was her bag hurling to the paving, scattering the contents, keys skidding into the grass verge.

Instinctively, although wounded, Derek stooped to gather her belongings. Dark red drops dripped from his forehead onto her iPaq. He wiped his blood off with his thumb. She didn’t display any remorse, her mouth set rigid. He found a paper handkerchief in his trouser pocket and dabbed his head.

“Tabitha, come inside and we’ll have a talk over some breakfast. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something important anyway.”

“Get this goon offa me.” Her shaking shoulders subsided as tears replaced vehemence. Derek waved at the security men to leave her alone. He noticed her keys still in the verge and picked them up. The fob sported fancy gilt lettering: A.B.

* * *

In the café, they avoided the space-orientated foods and opted for double espressos and donuts. Derek shooed away a grey Junction Jack rabbit-costumed tourist annoyer, and tried to pacify Tabitha while priming for his own attack on Disraeli.

Before he could open with any no-need-to-apologise niceties, as becomes a British gentleman having been attacked by a lady, she pre-empted the discussion:

“It wasn’t the death of my pa I was on about.”

“Come on then, Tabitha, who’s death are you referring to?”

She played with the wooden sugar stirrer, making whirlpools in her coffee. “You should know.”

“Thousands are dying daily from quakes, mudslides, floods, avalanches and accidents caused by the time decoherences.” He had a struggle keeping his patience.

She didn’t seem to want to look into his eyes. He’d not been this close to her for longer than a few minutes. He found himself staring at her red highlights in auburn hair.

Was that unusual in black women? He was so out of touch with fashion, the more so with what was expected of upwardly mobile journalists.

She had beautiful deep brown eyes, though tired looking and red in the white sclera from crying. She seemed to be aiming them at the space pictures on the wall rather than have eye contact with him.

“Somebody, other than your father, who was very close to you…not your boy?”

Her eyes flared as if someone had just electrocuted her. “Leave my family out of this!”

“Good grief, Tabitha, I’m not telepathic. Who?”

“S-someone you wanted dead.”

Derek didn’t know whether to laugh in derision or be shocked. “I’ve never wished death on anyone.” He waited for her to respond; to give him the name of the person he allegedly wanted dead and who was close to Tabitha, but nothing came from her after seconds…a minute.

She’d turned from gazing at the pictures and used the kids’ crayons on the tables to doodle on a paper napkin. He used his napkin to mop up more of his blood. His temple throbbed.

“You sent those hate e-mails and hey, how did you manage to be in Pasadena to take my photo and be here waiting for me. Were you on my plane and guessed I was coming straight here? No one else knew—well Rob did, but he wouldn’t…” Perhaps he would for a laugh if he thought it was a harmless prank. He’d probably arranged for the lap-dancer, at Tabitha’s request, and he was too embarrassed to confess there and then, not thinking it would go to the media.

He tried again. “Who is the AB on your key fob?”

She waved her hands as if it was utterly unimportant. She said, “Do you have a key fob, or have you had one with a name? If so…”

“Your name doesn’t begin with A. Is it the initials of this other person?”

He glanced at her doodles and noticed she’d written her first name and crossed out the T. Her fingernails were polished with a silky fuchsia, immaculately manicured.

Glancing up at her concentrated face he saw Tabitha for the first time as a desirable woman. He’d never made love to a black woman and wondered if her skin was as sensuously smooth as it looked. Stop it, Derek. Good grief, concentrate on the problems he already had.

She looked at him at last, but without a smile.

“I need a pseudonym sometimes for my journalism.” She circled the AB. “OK, now what did you want my help for, Mr Stone.”

So, she wasn’t going to tell him who had died—later, perhaps. At least, if he could read her face accurately, he seems to have been found not guilty of actual murder and only of complicity in some way.

He leant towards her and in a low voice said, “I’m not sure how to handle this suspicion bordering on certainty that some of us have about what has been secretly stored on the Apoidea.” He noticed she wasn’t writing anything down—good—at this stage. “The extra stores to help Kallandra and Claude survive for several years had been replaced, we think, with a powerful explosive device to use on the spheres.” He’d noticed her eyes flicker at Kallandra’s name, or was it at Claude’s?

“And the problem is?”

Derek sighed. She wasn’t going to help if she thought the destruction of the spheres was going to solve the planet’s problems, or that hurting them would be a just revenge.

“Don’t you see, Tabitha, the spheres may be on their way back to help us sort out these time problems.”

“You might be a better man than I took you for, Derek Stone, but a naïve fool if you believe the spheres love us all. They’re probably coming back to finish us off because some ferucking idiot calculated a way to send two good people after them.

One of those is dead.” Her eyes filled again, and overflowed.

Claude was then the ‘him’ he killed. He was about to tell her how much a friend Claude was to himself when his phone jangled. He opened it. “Oh, it’s only from my nephew, Blake. I’ll read it later.”

Tabitha frowned and put her hand on his. “No. It’s important. I can feel these things. Look at it now.”

She was psychic? Her eyes instructed him to open it, so he did.

“It’s not a message, just a picture—a blurred image. He probably took and sent it by mistake.”

“He didn’t. Let’s see.”

He shuffled his chair closer so they could both see it.

“You’re right, it’s too small to tell what or where it is, but I feel strong vibes here.”

“Hang on, my laptop’s in my briefcase I’ll transfer the image and enhance it.”

“I’ll go get more coffee while you set up.” She gave him a resigned look as if she’d a premonition and was never wrong.

After some tweaks with graphics software, he recognised a distorted Severn Bridge and the dark wall that could be the opposite bank or water; either were too high.

He looked up at Tabitha’s sad face. “This is a spot near Bristol in England where Blake lives. Something’s destroying the bridge and…well, I can’t tell.”

Tabitha’s cellphone played Amazing Grace. Derek threw her a quizzical raised eyebrow.

“My daughter put it in,” she said. “Anyway, it’s an alert from Earthquake Watch…”

“Why are you registered with them? Ah, you’re a journalist and—”

“I have to file copy with the press agencies as soon as a big one comes that might be related to the timequakes.”

Derek looked across at her cellphone data. “But, Tabitha, any quake might be related to the time decoherences.”

“I leave the quakes related to the historically active zones, such as the San Andreas fault, to journalists covering normal natural disasters.”

Derek shook his head, and then wished he hadn’t when the throbbing increased.

“No, Tabitha, the point is that timequakes might always have been happening to an extent, and the spheres leaving hasn’t started disasters, just increased them.”

“Do you want to know…? Well you need to know that a Richter scale of eight point six hit the British Isles in the last few minutes, epicentre in the Bristol Channel.”

“You can’t mean eight point six, that’s enormous; it would mean devastation across most of Britain and great loss of life.”

“Sorry Derek, I’d better verify and write it up. Excuse me.” She stood and re-packed her bag.

He put his hand on her arm. “Tabitha, this means Blake is likely to have died just after he sent that photograph to me.”

Her face effused pity but with a small smile. “I’ve a feeling he hasn’t actually died, Derek, but most there probably have. I’ll verify the data, use my contacts to find out as much as I can, and get back to you. Derek, are they likely to get worse than this?”

Derek was too choked to answer immediately. Blake was an oddball, too much into emo-cults and bordering on gothic, but he was family and their relationship had grown considerably since he’d taken that time-travel trip. Damn, he’d miss him.

“Y-yes, Tabitha, unless the spheres help us, it seems the planet will rip itself to pieces. I could try and explain…”

“I’ve got reams of quantum mechanics stuff, thanks Derek. All I needed to know was that time is related to space and that when it slips some lumps of the planet move faster than the rest.”

“Or slower, or shifts where it was a few seconds before. Whatever, if it continues or gets worse then the planet could disintegrate and we’d become another asteroid belt.”

“OK, Derek, so how can the media help you?”