“Some of them, yes.”
“You’d better introduce me, then.”
The manager of assembly bay F37 was William Terrell, who told them it was the Newton’s Apple which had boosted Kiley into orbit. Victor accessed the Institute’s ‘ware, and tracked the spaceplane down to Spaceplane Preparation Building Two where it was being readied for flight.
He and Rick took a personnel cart over to the big hangar-like structure. Flight bay twelve, where the Newton’s Apple was being prepped, was a large white-walled chamber with overhead hoists and five large empty cargo pod cradles in the centre.
Newton’s Apple was a Cla*e-class spaceplane, a swept-wing delta planform with a span of fifty metres, sixty metres long. The fuselage was a lo-friction pearl-white metalloceramic, gleaming brightly under the big biolum panels in the ceiling. Maintenance crews in blue overalls were checking round the undercarriage bogies. Red power cables as thick as Victor’s arm were plugged into hatches in the underbelly, charging up the giga-conductor cells. The rear clamshell doors were already shut, its cargo pods loaded.
The flight cabin was small, with room for five people. They found the captain, Irving Diwan, at the pilot’s console running through preflight checks.
People always gave Victor a fast distrustful glance when they were introduced to him. It was one of those things-royalty got bows, channel stars got asked for autographs, lovers got kissed, security men got nervous assessments. He had learnt to accept it, part of the routine.
It didn’t happen with Irving Diwan. The captain had purple-black skin, a shaved scalp wth a single dreadlock on top, worn in a flat spiral; when he stood up he was fifteen centimetres taller than Victor, putting his eyes level with Rick’s. He grinned with delight when Victor showed him his card.
“Head of security? What have we been caught doing, sympathizing with Welsh separatists?”
Meg Knowles, the payload officer, gave him a sharp accusatory stare. He shrugged back.
“I’m here to ask about the Kiley probe,” Victor said. “Do You remember it? I need to know if it was recovered by the Newton’s Apple.”
“Sure,” Meg Knowles said. She was sitting at the horseshoe-shaped payload monitoring console behind the pilot’s seat. “I remember the Kiley recovery, it was in early April. I had to snag it with the arm. I’d never seen space hardware in such a state before. Its particle-protection foam had taken a real pounding in Jupiter’s ring.”
“What about unloading it?” Victor asked. “Can you remember which flight bay you used?”
“There are only five equipped to handle space probes. I think we used number seventeen,” she said.
“Great.” Open Channel to Julia Evans. “How about after that? Do you know where the Kiley was taken?”
Meg Knowles paused, staring off into space.
NN Core One On Line. Sorry, Victor, my flesh and blood self is dealing with Michael Harcourt right now. I can interrupt if it’s important.
No, don’t bother. This is more relevant to you in any case. I’ve learned that Kiley was recovered this April by a Clarke-class spaceplane called Newton’s Apple, they unloaded it in flight bay seventeen.
Fine work, Victor, I’ll plug into the spaceplane and the flight bay’s ‘ware, see if there’s another of Royan’s personality packages waiting.
Right, and I’ll see if I can find out what happened to it after it was unloaded. Cancel Channel to Julia Evans.
“Hey,” Irving Diwan protested. The payload monitoring console had activated itself, data was flowing through its four cubes so fast it was an unreadable blur. “What the hell?”
“Leave it,” Victor ordered as Irving Diwan reached for the console’s keyboard.
“But the flight ‘ware doesn’t respond to my node orders. It’s malfunctioning.”
“No, it isn’t. Leave it.”
The pilot exchanged a glance with Meg Knowles who had steeled her expression into tight-lipped pique.
“Did you do that?” Rick asked; he sounded more amused than anything.
“Sort of.” Victor turned back to Meg Knowles. “The unloading?”
“Yeah, right. I have to stick around, you know. Not like these glam pilot jockeys. While a payload is on board, I’m responsible for it. That means I’m here for loading and unloading. I was interested in Kiley, the first sample from a gas giant. So I was surprised by the way it got played down, no channel news teams, no Institute planetologists. You’d think there’d be somebody. But there’s just Royan and the regular flight bay crew. I stuck with Kiley until it was in the payload facility room. They drained out the reaction mass and discharged the giga-conductor cells; then it was put into an ordinary commercial container and driven off.”
The data in the console’s cubes froze, Victor saw a dark green sphere suspended inside one of them, a honeycomb tracery of minute folds furrowing its surface. It winked out. The console shut down. Irving Diwan swore softly, and shook his head.
“Did Royan say where he was taking it?” Victor asked.
“No, but the container was from the North Sea Farm company, its logo was on the side. You know, that daft one with the seahorse. That’s why I remember it. I thought it was pretty odd, sending a space probe to a sea farm.”
“Yeah,” Victor said. A blank container would have been the obvious choice. So Royan had wanted it to be noticed. Laying a trail in bright flashing red neon. It was all a game, even something as momentous as alien microbes, a game, new and fascinating. He felt real anger then. Royan was risking everything Julia had built, and at the end, win or lose, he wouldn’t particularly care. He’d just move on to whatever proved bright and glittery enough to capture his attention next, leaving everyone else to shovel up the shit.
His cybofax shrilled loudly. Emergency code. Victor pulled the wafer out of his jacket pocket, and scanned the security division status display rushing down the little screen. The crash teams had launched to rescue Greg and Suzi.
“Come on!” he called to Rick, and took the metal stairs out of the cabin three at a time.
CHAPTER 22
Julia’s nodes closed the channel to Victor after he finished briefing her on the SETI office’s progress. Wilholm’s patio sprang back into her perception; a broad rectangle of yellow-grey York slabs laid outside the library’s French windows. There was a heavily tinted glass roof overhead, supported by thick stone pillars that were choked by the ropy branches of climbing fuchsias. Big orange and white puffball flowers shone like Chinese lanterns as they caught the bright afternoon sun.
Matthew was drinking his lemon juice from a tall frosted glass, looking at her in exasperation. “You were talking to someone,” he accused.
“Fraid so.” She took a sip of tea from her cup. It had seemed like a good idea, tea on the patio with the children. Hot afternoon, cold drinks, excited chatter, and chocolate cake.
Deep down she knew she was grabbing the opportunity for herself. Charlotte Fielder would be brought to Peterborough this evening; there would have to be a decision over who to align herself with in the bidding war for atomic structuring; and Victor would soon find the spaceplane that had recovered Kiley. There weren’t going to be many spare hours in the next few days. “Bit of a flap on right now, you see.” Although when isn’t there?
“Is that why Victor was here earlier?” Daniella asked.
“Yes.”
“I like Victor.”
“Me too,” Matthew said.
“That makes three of us, then.”
“Is it about Daddy?” Matthew asked.
“Matthew!” Daniella scolded. “You said you wouldn’t.”
He scowled rebelliously.
Julia patted her daughter’s hand. “It’s all right. Yes, it is about Daddy. I’ve got a lot of people looking for him.”
“Uncle Greg will find him,” Matthew declared stubbornly.