‘Yes, I see it now. How did I miss that?’ He zoomed into the coordinates Maria had given him. ‘I can confirm it’s a meteor fragment.’
‘That’s what I’m seeing here.’
‘I have visual of more debris at coordinates 105.47, north of Venus,’ said Galen.
‘Similar meteor confirmation, but doesn’t appear to be an immediate threat in its current position.’
‘Nice work, you two,’ said Stuart. He put down his cup.
The next two hours passed in a similar way. While they confirmed a number of meteor sightings, no unauthorised ships had wandered unintentionally into the solar system. With their high-tech equipment, they could spot any ships before they approached the hidden side of Jupiter.
At the end of each hour, Galen used one of the workstations to log his hourly reports. As he sat in front of the monitor, he wondered whether he could remotely link into Stuart’s office; all he needed was the name of someone they were interested in. He dismissed the idea; red flags would be all over Stuart’s monitor the next time he checked it.
Stuart emerged from his office with a DPad in his hand. ‘Okay, you two. We’ve got a cargo craft landing in the next hour. I need your best concentration. I have a perfect safety record and I plan to keep it that way.’
‘Yes, sir,’ they both said.
Galen moved to the wall panels again, and this time concentrated on unseen problems; not flight paths and weather patterns that the computer could handle, but issues that the modern machines kicked up because of the way they moved. Vertical velocity could be a bitch at times. The HJA docking station had held a clean sheet for nearly twenty years; the last recorded death was the result of a piloting error.
For fifty-four minutes, Galen and Maria monitored essential weather and atmospheric patterns until there was little else to do except wait for the pilot to make contact. With one minute to go before descent, she came within range of the station and connected with the communication operative.
‘Captain Jenny Waterson. Craft 766-C seeking permission to land.’
The communication operative ran her voice through a recognition programme. ‘I have confirmed your identity. Please hold.’
Stuart turned to Galen, who was still running a series of last-minute checks. ‘What’s your status?’
‘Just a few more seconds,’ said Galen as he dashed from one sector to the next.
Ten seconds passed and the pilot’s voice rang out again. ‘Craft 766-C seeking permission to land. Can you confirm status?’
‘Galen, hurry up. What’s the word?’ Stuart’s voice crackled. Angry red blotches appeared on his neck, caused by a sudden rise in blood pressure.
‘Just one more second. I’m almost there.’
Stuart moved to stand directly behind Galen. ‘One more second. Always one more. Come on, lad. Hurry up. I need an answer from you now.’ He called Maria’s name to get her attention.
She shrugged. ‘He’s got a system. I trust it.’
‘You two have me on death’s door. For Christ’s sake, Galen, the captain hasn’t got all day.’
Galen ignored his overseer’s warnings and continued his scan of the hundred-mile area above the Earth’s surface. He held his nerve as Stuart’s attention became close to unbearable. Finally, he gave him the all clear.
Stuart let out a breath. ‘About bloody time. My heart isn’t able for this shit any more. Remind me to have a wee chat to you later about improving your response time.’
‘Craft 766-C, you are clear to land,’ communications advised the pilot. ‘Dock Twelve is available. Set down on the port side of the hold.’
‘Roger that.’
Communications disabled the outer perimeter shield, sitting one hundred and fifty miles above Earth and enveloping the planet like a security blanket. Once the descent began, it would take only minutes for the craft to reach the landing plate. They would need to shut off the inner perimeter shield that encompassed the docking station and landing plates in a protective bubble.
Galen paced back and forth, staring at the problem he’d been too distracted to find: an idle wind pattern at vertical eighty miles, picking up speed ahead of the craft’s arrival.
7
Captain Jenny Waterson radioed in from the space above the Earth’s outer-perimeter force field, seeking permission to land. It felt like too long before she received the okay to go ahead.
‘Craft 766-C you are clear to land. Dock Twelve is available. Set down on the port side of the hold.’
‘Roger that.’ Jenny ordered the on-board computer to establish outgoing radio silence. She kept the incoming audio link with HJA active in case they ordered her to divert. The computer beeped once.
‘Damn it, they cut that fine,’ she said, once the outgoing link had been severed. She ran a hand through her tightly cut platinum-blonde hair. Her blue eyes shifted as she readied for the next step of the descent.
She engaged the autopilot and tried to loosen up her rigid posture. Her pulse was wild as it always was before a descent. Two things could go wrong: she could mess up the timing to get the beginning of the descent right, and she could miss her slot which would screw up her schedule. Calypso Couriers—a subsidiary company of the World Government—wouldn’t easily forgive her lateness. She’d already had a couple of warnings about it. Any further infringements could mean the early termination of her employment contract.
At seventy-five, Jenny was one of the more experienced pilots on their books. Her perfect flight record made her costly to keep and her employers had been looking for any excuse to get rid of her. With younger, less expensive pilots itching to spread their wings, it was only a matter of time. But she wasn’t about to be erased from anyone’s books and was determined to give them no reason to fire her.
Jenny knew the hold-up was because of Galen Thompson. She bristled with annoyance that Stuart had put his most inexperienced employee on the roster during her shift. But she had known Stuart a long time. She had to trust him. He encouraged controllers to develop their instincts naturally, but that method of training brought with it a measure of unpredictability. She just didn’t need the uncertainty during her descent, a process that had already begun.
A male voice spoke through the communications system. ‘Strong winds at vertical eighty miles. Be on alert. Looks like a hurricane is building.’
She reactivated the outgoing link and confirmed receipt before resuming radio silence once more; she would need every ounce of her concentration until she arrived safely at the magnetic landing plate at the docking station. Tweaking the craft’s movements during descent was risky because of the heat build-up caused by a fast drop into the atmosphere. She dried her palms on her military-green uniform, the anxiety triggered by the fear of the unknown that accompanied each free fall.
She remained in orbit over the landing coordinates at the docking station, just above the Earth’s atmosphere. The thrusters engaged sporadically, realigning the craft as it tried to pull in a different direction. It began its descent, dropping into the non-existent atmosphere and through the deactivated force field. The thrusters blasted again to maintain the correct position. She monitored the increase in atmospheric density through her screen as the computer relayed progress through the audio channel.
‘Density at ninety per cent, ninety-five, ninety-eight...’
She braced herself for the imminent drop.
‘One hundred per cent density achieved.’
There was a sudden jolt and a push downwards as the thrusters forced the craft into a computer-guided free fall. Thrusters disengaged and acceleration increased as the craft dropped towards the surface. After one minute, the craft had reached one hundred and eighty miles above the docking station: the edge of the storm.
Winds twisted violently around the craft, trying to knock it off course. The computer realigned its position but there was no let-up in the conditions. Jenny’s eyes never left the screen as the craft lurched left, then right. She poised her slen
der hands over the controls. She only had to touch them to transfer the power back to manual. But it was safer out of her hands.
The craft continued to rock from side to side, creaking and moaning as the computer adjusted for the motion.
Then it hit the inner circle of the storm. A mass of blackened clouds swirled one way, then another, taking repeated shots at the craft.
She fought the temptation to grab the controls and pilot the craft herself. Sweat soaked her back. The craft’s tilt variance remained on the edge of the danger zone for three whole minutes.
‘Come on Jenny, keep it together.’ She fought against her inner panic. ‘You’ve done this a hundred times.’ No matter what she did, she couldn’t stop thinking about all the things that could go wrong. Ever since Calypso Couriers had told her a month ago that her job was on the line, she’d spent sleepless nights worrying about it. Now she second-guessed every action she made, actions that under normal circumstances would have been instinctive.
The craft rocked and rolled. Jenny kept her hands hooked in a claw-like poise over the controls. She steadied her erratic breathing. It worked, for about two seconds before the panic leached inside again. She prayed for the first time in the twenty years since she had started work as a pilot. She didn’t know if anyone was up there or even listening to her.
But then something changed; the weather became calmer. A smile flashed across her face. Her breathing slowed. When the craft finally dropped below the black mass and into the grey, lifeless atmosphere that hung over the cities, she thanked whatever invisible being had intervened. She relaxed her hands easily enough but struggled to loosen up her body. The descent continued and the craft dropped to within fifty miles of the docking station, where no wind existed except for that created by her own spacecraft.
When the tension broke in her body her stomach began to heave. She clutched at it, feeling the full effects of the rocking motion and the vertical drop. Her stomach twisted and lurched in protest. She hadn’t eaten anything for the last six hours; that had probably been a good thing. Other pilots had told her that wind topped the list of the worst things to meet. In the training room, Jenny had been shoved vertically, horizontally and exposed to the greatest G-force in cockpit simulations. She still wasn’t used to it.
When the craft’s motion finally settled, so too did her stomach. The descent continued smoothly while the speed intensified. A minute later and the craft was directly over the landing plate at Dock Twelve.
Once in range, magnetic levitation kicked in. The landing plate was magnetised with a positive field while the blocks on the underside of the craft took on a similar charge. A sharp ripple affected the entire craft as the magnets tried to repel one another. It pushed upwards and the force field surrounding the craft absorbed some of the sharpness.
With only twenty feet to go, polarisation switched to the lowest levels and the craft glided gently into place, levitating just metres above the landing plate. Jenny regained control and engaged the thrusters. She switched off the magnetic field and guided 766-C smoothly into the hangar bay, setting it down on the port side. She disengaged the thrusters and force field, then stood and took a moment to peel her sweat-soaked uniform away from her back and legs.
At the exit, she scanned her security chip on the touch pad.
‘Thank you for flying with Dresden Spacecrafts. We hope your journey was satisfactory,’ said the automated voice. The exit door was released.
‘Pleasure was all mine,’ she said as she stumbled over the threshold.
A thin docking station attendant in his early thirties emerged from his office, DPad in hand, and walked towards her. She checked the time and cursed.
She was late.
As the man approached, she groaned as she recognised him as the same docking attendant who had failed to find her name on the incoming flight charter the day before.
‘Hello there! Sorry to keep you waiting. I had important business to attend to.’ He offered his hand. ‘Welcome to the HJA docking station. Is this your first time?’
She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. Her eyes snapped open and she released it.
‘Bumpy trip. It always takes a while for me to come back down to earth, so to speak.’
What she needed was a stiff drink and a different attendant.
The pasty-faced attendant rolled his eyes and muttered something about pilots not having the stomach for it. He motioned her closer and ran his fingers through his hair. She wondered how much the World Government would care if useless people like him disappeared from the world.
‘Place your thumb here,’ he ordered as he flipped the DPad around to face her. The computer scanned her chip and the words “Captain Jennifer Waterson, Grade 4 Pilot” flashed up on the screen. Her photo appeared beside her name.
The attendant’s eyes lingered on it for a moment before looking at Jenny. ‘The photo doesn’t match,’ he said.
‘I believe we already had this discussion.’ She pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘I recently cut my hair and changed the colour.’ She pointed to her cropped, platinum-blonde hair. The photo on file showed her with a brown, shoulder-length style. Her face was younger than her age. Training kept her body lean and she was physically strong.
‘I see. Ms Waterson. I should warn you, you’ve missed your scheduled drop by ten minutes. Can you verify your cargo on board, please?’
‘That’s Captain Waterson if you don’t mind. I’m returning from Saturn with xenon compound.’
Earth’s atmosphere contained minute amounts of stable noble gases—helium, neon, argon, krypton and xenon—as well as traces of the radioactive noble gas radon. In 2087 the World Government discovered that xenon existed abundantly in compound form within Saturn’s recently uncovered supply of water. Xenon compound was primarily used as a propellant for spacecrafts but was also used in laser technology.
‘Ah, yes, I have you here now,’ he said, wirelessly scanning the on-board content through his DPad. ‘Well, I guess there’s just the time infraction to record.’ He hit the screen with his finger.
‘About that. There was a bad storm on the way down. I’d appreciate it if you could let it slide this time? Won’t happen again.’
The attendant looked up. ‘And why would I do that?’
‘Because you’re in charge and you look like a reasonable man.’
The attendant frowned. ‘I guess I can overlook it this one time.’ He flicked something on the screen.
The ground staff looked on as they waited for the instruction to unload the cargo. The attendant finally gave them the thumbs up to proceed. When his back was turned, a few gave him the finger. Jenny almost choked on a laugh.
The attendant frowned. ‘Something funny?’
She straightened her mouth. ‘Still a little giddy after the flight, I guess.’
He clucked his tongue like an intolerant old man. ‘How soon will you be flying again?’
‘In an hour. I’m delivering cargo to the ESC in Sydney.’
‘Right you are, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I guess you’ll be back with us again in no time at all. How about we try to make it here on time? I won’t ignore a second infraction.’ He turned and walked away.
Jenny hated being referred to as “ma’am”. It was an outdated term and represented women of a certain age; she was only seventy-five. ‘Moron,’ she said, once the attendant was out of earshot.
That was too close. Next time she might not be so lucky and avoid an infringement. She stomped out of the hangar, ready to give Stuart and that little protégé of his a piece of her mind.
8
It was 6am on Saturday when Bill Taggart willed his weary body out of bed after another sleepless night. His first attempt to open his eyes failed and he curled up deeper in the covers. Eventually, he flung his legs over the side of the bed. He gave his ITF-owned apartment the usual onceover before shuffling to the bathroom.
He splashed icy cold water on his face; the drastic temperatur
e change shocked his sluggish system back into life. He felt instantly more awake, even though he didn’t look it. He noticed how drawn and thin his face had become from a couple of years of sleep deprivation and a manic diet. He sported an impressive pair of black circles under his eyes. There were genetic treatments to correct the damage, including some that delayed the ageing process, like the Glamour package that sliced twenty years off a person’s appearance. All were widely available to the public. But Bill preferred to see his real face every morning, not a modified version of himself. It was what Isla had preferred, too. In his own way, he was honouring her memory by staying true to his original self.
‘There are far too many people walking around with the same face,’ she said to him when Bill told her he was considering using one of the manipulation clinics. ‘Wouldn’t you prefer to look unique?’ Isla was five years older than him, and a little wiser.
‘It wouldn’t be much,’ he said. ‘Just a little skin lift to rejuvenate my face.’
Isla made a face. ‘It always starts there and then people find they can’t stop fiddling with their genetics. A little skin lift turns into a telomere injection. Before you know it, you’ve turned back time so much you’re a teenager again.’
Geneticists had figured out how to isolate the gene that controlled the body’s natural ageing process. While the telomeres within the body’s chromosomes naturally shortened, they had found they could lengthen them by injecting a growth hormone into the telomere. This halted the ageing process and dramatically reversed the outward signs of those advancing years.
‘I would never go that far. Okay, maybe if I was fifty,’ said Bill, teasing. ‘Then I could snag a younger woman.’ In truth, he preferred older women.
‘Try to look past the exterior, Bill,’ said Isla. ‘So many people still judge others by how they look. Complexities exist beneath the surface.’ Her words brought to mind the World Government’s CEO, Charles Deighton, and he had to agree with her.
In the six months before her disappearance, Isla’s personality had changed drastically. After one of her trips to Exilon 5, she had become suspicious about everything and lost that carefree attitude. When Bill had tried to talk to her about it, she became defensive.