Chapter Twenty-Eight

Screwing up, but not throwing away a sheet of paper, Derek paced the bright office he shared with other designers at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory. He glanced at the crumpled printout, frowned, then stared out of the triple-glazed window at the Pasadena urban landscape. Flat-topped homes, boxes in which people scurried about attempting normality. Many of them worked at JPL, seeking solutions to Apoidea issues and the increasing time decoherences. Some worked up there on Mount Wilson. He looked northeast to the grey jagged outline. Smoke drifted up at random places kilometres apart. Maybe they were from truck-farms clearing debris, or illegal garden bonfires, but one or more could be that bit of planet Earth slipping as a result of the timequakes; striking anywhere anytime. It was like living in a war zone.

He couldn’t see the observatory up near the summit, but he knew colleagues working up there. They supplemented the Hubble telescope data in tracking the A poidea’s and spheres’ journey, but once out of sight the telescopes looked for evidence of timequakes on other planets.

The mountain shimmered in the afternoon heat, or was it a timequake? He shivered as he recalled the drive last week when Rob Summers took him to Santa Barbara in his Porsche Cabriolet with the top down.

* * *

“So, Rob, why am I coming with you away from my Apoidea simulator? Have you re-created the Australian Outback in your apartment and you need someone not to laugh at it?”

Rob tapped the overlarge steering wheel to the beat of a Green Day song while cruising Highway 101.

“Your boss thought you needed a break from overworking, Derek. Chill, and all that. Relax for a couple of hours. I’ve some genuine German beer warming up and there’s a real British chippy round the corner.”

Derek found his hand tapping to Boulevard of Broken Dreams, an involuntary action until he remembered last listening to it with Kallandra. He stopped, then restarted tapping as if she was there too.

“Are they better than Oasis, Derek?”

“Remarkably similar, but does it matter?”

“Heck, don’t go philosophical on me just because your girl is millions of kilometres away.”

“And getting further away,” Derek grumbled and, thinking of distances, he wondered when this highway winding around a steep slope was going to end.

“What the—”

With tyres squealing, a Pepsi truck careered around the bend and headed straight for them on their side of the road.

As Rob pumped the brake and steered for the left side of the highway, Derek gripped his seatbelt. He wanted to shout but his voice dried up. He felt helpless as the oncoming truck seemed to shudder. Earthquake or timequake, Derek thought with the only non-panicking brain cell still working. Bugger, he’d wet himself. Then, with a sickening screech, the truck slid off to their right and into a ditch. A cloud of dust obscured the vehicle and the smell of burnt rubber made him pinch his nose. He heard a rumbling noise drowning out the honks from vehicles behind them. Although stationary, Rob’s cabriolet trembled. Derek couldn’t tell how much was physical vibration of the road, vehicle, or just his nerves. He felt the uncertainties in his life could easily amplify his inner tremors to a full-scale earthquake. From rectum to Richter—a glimmer of a smile played his lips.

Looking over his shoulder, he saw a UPS van had successfully stopped, but the rolling thunder-like noise increased. Clouds of grit seemed to be getting thicker.

Rubbing his aching neck he twisted back to look at the road in front. Through the dust he could see the surface bubbling like black porridge. The steep earth slope on the left bulged and seemed to creep onto the road.

“Earthquake, or…?” yelled Rob, “And should we U-turn?”

During a quieter moment Derek was about to urge their return when a discordant fanfare of motor horns made him look back again. A gaily-painted VW Beetle was overtaking the line of vehicles.

“The idiot!” Derek shouted, but the young driver and three passengers, all laughing, shot past. Moments later the collapsing cliff of earth and stones engulfed them, accompanied by a noise like an Apollo rocket taking off.

* * *

Derek shivered with the memory. His left hand rose towards his ear, but then stopped. It was as if Kallandra had put a spell on his hand. He couldn’t take advantage of her heroic absence, and so examined his hand instead.

His right hand squeezed the crumpled paper. The feel of the sharp corners in his palm reminded him of its contents, and a stirring of anger rose within him. He crossed to a desk and smoothed out the e-mail printout. It was received by his secure e-mail and so didn’t get thrown into the void as were most of the spam e-missives he was bombarded with daily. They were mostly quasi-religious curses blaming him as part of the scientific establishment for driving the spheres away.

“To: d.stone77@nnass.gov

From: icu_revenge@yahoo.com

Subject: Tick oops tock

Worried, Stone? You should be.

You are not going to die imminently but you’re sure gonna suffer first, boy.

You’re responsible for that bitch. You encouraged her to kowtow to the spheres of evil.

And now she’s killed him.

Don’t go to sleep tonight, Derek, or any night…

A.B.

Derek pondered on the identity of the sender but also of the ‘him’ in ‘And now she’s killed him.’? Should he assume it was a reference to Claude who’d just died? He peered at the date the e-mail was sent. Yes, Claude had died but only just and it still wasn’t broadcast in the media until the mission’s PR people decided how to break the news. They were afraid that the increasing public disturbance at the timequakes would reach panic levels if they thought the Apoidea, representing hope, was in trouble. In his opinion, it was a futile and a potential disaster to keep such news quiet. NASA staff already knew, and the diffusion of that knowledge to friends and family would reach the media via dollars or misguidance sooner than later.

The AB signature must surely be a bluff. The first two alphabet letters, or was that too obvious? He couldn’t recall any woman or man with those initials in his small circle of associates, but that circle had become global with the Apoidea publicity.

He could have the computer experts here backtrack the message via the computers that handled it—like tracing a phone call. He wasn’t sure he wanted too many people knowing about it. Rob was better at hacking than he was, so Derek sat at a spare console and pulled up the e-mail, then forwarded it to Rob with a request to perform a confidential backtrack.

Damn, he should have asked how he was. Rob’s superb apartment, overlooking Santa Barbara and the ocean, was swept away by the mudslide. That was the official explanation. Rob pointed out that there was no mud. Sure enough, the region was prone to mudslides, and one occurred on that highway a few years ago, but after persistent rain that doubled the weight of soil. They’d had a drought this spring and Derek could hardly fail to notice the dryness of the moving earth: he’d choked enough and still had sore eyes. Earth tremors also proliferated in the region, but it seemed to Derek that a timequake was the likely cause of anything disruptive.

His ruminations lasted as long as it took a carton of tea to be fetched from the machine and apparently for Rob to finish his analysis. Derek’s cellphone jingled.

“Hi Derek. Naples—the one in Florida, not Italy. But it was sent from an Internet café and with an e-mail account created in Yahoo that morning at the same computer.”

“Thanks, Rob. I suppose that means we’ve no way of finding who actually sent it?”

“That’s why I’ve called. Some Internet cafés have CCTV. I could call them to send us the relevant clip, but I needed to know how confidential you needed this inquiry.”

Derek thought while risking burning his lips with the hot tea. “What do you think, Rob? A crackpot, obviously. Shall I just ignore it like the similar spam I get through on my public e-mail?”

“Mate, it is a cranky message, but they know your secure e-mail address, and are making threats.”

“So you think I should let you grab that footage? All right go ahead.”

“How about recruiting more help, Derek? I know a cop, and how about our friendly media whiz-woman?”

Derek felt a hot flush and it wasn’t his tea. “No, thanks. You mean Tabitha Wish? Well, maybe, but not yet, and perhaps not ever. Goodness, it’s only the one crank message from a drunk.” He wished he hadn’t asked Rob for help. He should’ve remembered the schoolboy project mentality he had. He’d gnaw at the mystery, like a red-neck with a T-bone until there was nothing left.

“Right you are, Derek, but think about what else he or she might be doing— yeah? And forward me any more as soon as they arrive. See ya.”

Derek folded his cellphone but felt nothing like closure on this problem. Rob said to think about what else he or she might be doing? What did he mean?

He knew for certain that he wasn’t going to tell Kallandra. On her own in that big tin can, his ship. Oh shut up, Derek, how could he harbour such arrogance? Although he was the senior engineering designer, it would have remained on the ground if it weren’t for those other thousands of workers. Nevertheless, he felt as if Apoidea was his child. Even here at JPL, his hands felt vibrations in the simulator and duplicate sections. He imagined being transported to the real Apoidea, and so he would vicariously share experiences with Kallandra.

Derek composed another love-you note, attached it to a technical document, and sent it to Elaine to upload to Kallandra. Then he returned to the huge hangar-laboratory where the ground-based version of Apoidea was housed. Its technical name was A-tp-IIc but some wag had stuck the word Nectar on the nose section. No doubt in the hope that the bee would return for nourishment. He liked it.

* * *

After three hours of triple checking that the fractured pipe repair by the robot wouldn’t lead to further problems, Derek noted rain slanting in through the open hangar doorway and wetting the lacquered floor. He picked a JPL umbrella from a collection near the entrance and stepped out into the evening. The adrenalin of work had kept weariness away but now Derek felt beat. He lowered the umbrella and let the cool rain wash his face.

A screech of brakes made him re-open his eyes. Rob’s Porsche, this time with its roof in place.

“Get in, Derek, before you grow fins.”

He lowered himself in and apologised for wetting the suede seat.

“Don’t fret, mate. This downpour is unseasonable, but never mind. Let’s go to a club downtown.”

Derek was not a clubber, at least not without Kallandra and then he was, at best, hiding in her penumbra. Her exuberance carried them both, as it did in most things. He felt so drained, from work, concern over the Earth’s future, his own with regard to the poison e-mail, and most of all from his acute anxiety for Kallandra’s safety. His request to go on the flight, apart from the engineering arguments, was selfish. He’d admit that, to himself. Keeping his sanity together while she was so far out of reach would be too much for him to bear. The fact that he’d not had a breakdown was a remarkable achievement, a feat in part, engineered by Rob, and apparently, at the request of Kallandra. Argh, he’d argued himself into a corner: if he’d obeyed his instincts and went to his apartment, he’d be going against his fiancée’s wishes. Damn.

“Does this club have a quiet snug?”

“A snug? Crikey, Derek, it isn’t a London backstreet pub.” He laughed, too raucously for Derek’s liking.

* * *

As soon as they’d had their car parked for them, Derek knew he’d made a mistake. He appreciated that most entertainment venues were adorned with garish neon signs, but should he, as an engaged Englishman, enter a club that had an advertisement featuring the outline of a giant naked woman? No.

Twenty minutes and two beers later, Derek started to relax. Not by much, but the corner he insisted they occupy was far enough from the pole-dancers for him not to feel too unfaithful. Besides the beers, he could swear there were so many alcoholic liquids and other substances in the club that the air he breathed reeked with mind-altering microscopic droplets.

When a topless dancer meandered over to him with a suggestive finger half in her mouth, Derek assumed that Rob was her target. He looked to his left. To his astonishment, his chaperone wasn’t there. Perhaps he’d slipped away to the men’s room when Derek had his eyes closed in an effort to deny the erotic visions.

“It’s cosy and private in this corner, isn’t it, sir?” She didn’t speak so much as allowed words to escape from luscious fuchsia lips, float across and caress his ears.

Close up he admonished the trowelled makeup, and speculated on whether her luxuriant red hair and enticing emerald eyes were fake. He struggled to avoid glancing at her despicably beautiful raspberry nipples. Averting his eyes from those annoyingly amazing breasts hovering too close to his face, he shifted in his seat, unsure whether to cross his legs to hide a growing prominence. Unfortunately, the young woman mistook his manoeuvrings as an invitation to sit on his lap, her fishnetted legs astride his.

“I thought contact wasn’t allowed?” How did his voice raise an octave?

She stroked his hair. “In this club, anything goes, honey.”

He didn’t know what to do with his hands. She seemed to be slipping and the gentlemanly thing would surely have been to support her, so he held her wanton supple waist with both perspiring hands. My God, her skin felt so smooth. Her aroma—citrus, possibly with bergamot—added to his intoxication.

Part of him wished she’d keep still: the gyration was agitating parts that he’d rather remain inconspicuous, but this woman was in imminent danger of being catapulted across the room!

Oh no, she must have read his thoughts and one of her hands attempted to gain entry into his trousers. He fidgeted, which only extracted low moaning noises from her.

“Madam, I believe we should stop.”

“Relax, sugar, it’s all paid for.” Her other hand unbuttoned his shirt and played with his chest hairs.

What? Paid for by whom? Alarm pierced through the fog in his brain. This was taking friendly support too far, damn you, Rob. He was about to insist she remove herself from his lap when her left nipple plugged his mouth like a baby’s dummy. He was wrong: strawberry not raspberry. It must have been a flavoured rouge she’d applied. He involuntarily sucked and felt her nipple harden. No! He pulled his head back but she leant into him.

He felt ridiculous and blamed Rob, and himself. Certainly he’d felt something of a cuckold when he discovered, along with the rest of mission control, that Kallandra had fallen into temptation, but he’d overcome that shock. There was no need for this charade, taking advantage of his vulnerability with alcohol and inexperience.

His struggles increased and then a light caught his eye. Not photographs.

Please, dear God, no publicity. How could Rob allow this compromising situation to develop and worsen?

“Please, madam, I insist you desist. I am going to stand. If you fall, it will be your wish.”

“OK, buster, d’you think I’m enjoying this?” She unsaddled and strode off, leaving Derek to readjust his clothing, mostly under the table. He threw furtive looks around but failed to spot a photographer. Perhaps he’d caught the stray flash from a random camera phone.

“Hey, Derek, want another drink?” Rob said, appearing from a flight of stairs to the left.

“Take me home, you bastard.”

Rob’s smile lingered. “I know this isn’t really your scene, but try to relax.”

Derek stood. “If you won’t take me home, I’ll call a cab. In fact I’ll do just—”

Both his and Rob’s cellphones called. A picture of the dancer sitting astride Derek with her breast in his face appeared on both phones. Derek slumped back onto his chair and stared in dismay at the image.

“Wow, mate. You hit gold there. Ah, knowing you, I bet you wished for a timequake to come to your rescue. That looks like Angelina you’ve hooked.”

“Hooker, is probably more appropriate. How much did you pay her?”

Rob sat beside him, put the phone on the table and with no hint now of mirth, looked Derek straight in the eye. “Derek, I didn’t arrange for this woman to come to you. I wouldn’t do that to you. I respect you and Kallandra too much.”

A flush of guilt heated Derek’s face as he realized Rob told the truth. He put out his hand to shake Rob’s, who took it in both of his.

Derek picked up his phone again. “Which means someone else did.”

Rob used his iPaq to connect to Internet news podcasts, and then frowned. “And who else have they sent this image to?”

* * *

Derek needn’t have lost sleep over the photograph. He’d discovered it was distributed to news agencies and they might have run with it if he was a presidential candidate. No one at NASA displayed interest the next day except himself and Rob, and their concern was more on the identity of the perpetrator.

“Maybe we could ask Kallandra who AB might be,” Rob suggested, in the JPL refectory, while dipping a hard breakfast biscuit in his tea.

“I don’t think we should bother her with it,” Derek said. “She has enough to concern herself with, and I don’t want her worrying over prank letters I’m getting.”

“Fair enough, but I think we should keep Elaine up to speed with the content of the e-mails. After all, she is the Capcom link for Kallandra and filters messages from anybody up to her.”

“Any luck with that CCTV in the Internet Café?”

“They didn’t have it switched on that day. Bugger them. Anyway, now the perpetrators tried and failed to create a problem for you at the nightclub, maybe they’ll drop it.”

Derek looked at his closed cellphone, not wanting to be reminded of the image within. “I doubt it. They must have been following me to know I was there. Damn. If I wasn’t so busy, I’d quiz that Angelina over who paid her.”

“It’d be a dead end. Try and forget the whole thing, Derek. Let’s concentrate on what really matters. Kallandra, out there pursuing the spheres.”