THE CAMBRIDGE ANNEX: THE TRILOGY Read online

  More space was made for the opportunities presented by the new UN Space Authority. Countries with an existing space industry were the most excited; each suggesting the ship would provide a platform from which their own country could excel. The markets seemed to believe the rhetoric, resulting in heavy industry, electronics, technology and pharmaceuticals all doing well in the day’s trading.

  Editorials on the subject of HYPORT were more polarised, with some calling for such achievements to be put into the public domain so as to allow everyone to benefit, while the more studious editors reminded their readers of all the advances that had occurred in science, purely because protection to intellectual property existed. Scientists were no more altruistic than any other man, and if the rewards did not include a measure of wealth or power, then what was the point? Kudos rarely fed the family.

  Oliver smiled, pleased to see that Michael’s early comment about the ARC extending the earth rather than leaving it, had finally got into the mainstream-press vocabulary.

  It was the comments of the readers that so surprised Oliver, because, despite the tone of their national media outlets, they were beginning to voice support for the ARC. Governments were badly placed to pioneer new technology, they suggested. Hundreds of thousands of jobs were at risk through the new technology if it were allowed into mainstream industries. The United Nations would not stem nationalistic interests, but provide the vehicle by which those nations could satisfy their individualistic desires. Hadn’t it always been so?

  Oliver jumped in with fresh enthusiasm, more than willing to fan the early fires of discontent.

  +++++++++++++

  The city of Geneva sits like a cap upon the south west tip of Lake Geneva, cut north and south by the Rhone that exits the lake to meander between sharp peaks on its way to Lyons and, ultimately, the Mediterranean Sea. Here, in a micro-climate created by the high peaks of the Brandenberg Alps, the United Nations has its headquarters.

  Unfortunately, due to overcrowding in the original buildings, the newly created United Nations Space Authority was not situated on the Avenue De La Paix, amid the beautiful parkland that bordered the lake, but several kilometres away on the Avenue Des Morgines. As such, it didn’t share the marvellous view across the park to the lake, but a view of the Proctor & Gamble European headquarters building just across the road.

  Pierre Mouliner reflected on that as he stood in his newly furnished offices, facing the large window behind his desk to admire the building across the road. Had it been four stories shorter, he might have just been able to glimpse the lake. As it was, all he could learn from the view was that Proctor & Gamble favoured desk dividers of pink and mauve.

  His monitor chimed as another email arrived in his in-box. He assumed it was another congratulatory note. Overnight, or so it felt, he had become the United Nations Space Authority Assistant Secretary-General, about as close to the sharp end of the new authority as one could possibly get, and the single authority responsible only to the committee of member states themselves.

  He was forty; young for such a position, but he had been working for the United Nations since leaving Padua University with a degree in Economics. He was French by birth, although his mother had been Italian, and his father from Tunisia. Going to a university outside his birth country had made sense at the time, back when he felt it necessary to confirm his European identity.

  His monitor chimed again but he ignored it. His secretary would review his mail and bring anything urgent to his attention. In the meantime, he wanted to reflect on his new role and the problems he faced, one of which was the view from his window.

  He knew many of the main faces at the United Nations, having served on many of the committees, boards, councils and commissions. He had assisted is some of the UN programmes too, for short periods, as well as spending periods in some of the UN’s related organisations, most recently the World Trade Organisation. Such experience was bound to benefit him at some point or other. The fact that it had done so earlier rather than later came as some surprise to Pierre, which was not to say he was unhappy with his new position, organisationally anyway. Physically, his position looked abysmal.

  A completely new administrative structure; new rules and procedures, new communication channels, all of which would need setting up and integrating into the overall United Nation structure. And overshadowing everything, the need to move quickly, capitalise on the UN decision before issues arose to slow down progress. If he did well, he might even get an office on the spaceship. Let the rest of the United Nations think they had a nice view.

  He turned from the disappointing view and asked his secretary to enter, a seasoned assistant he had used before.

  “Anything I need to deal with straight away?” he asked.

  She sighed and opened a manila folder in which there were prints of all his arriving emails. “Every representative of the committee has sent you an email, some two, all requesting details of the office-space they are to be assigned on the ARC, and when they will be able to take up residence,” she told him.

  “The Russian representative asks for your assistance is preparing a social gathering on the ship. He understands they have a theatre that can be used as a large reception area,” she explained.

  “The USA request detailed plans of the ARC, so they can begin a review of space and judge for themselves where best to situate all their offices and reception areas.”

  “Ok, enough of that,” he told her, cutting her off. “Let’s concentrate on getting our offices up and running. We cannot administer the ARC’s activities without we can administer ourselves first, so let us get that prepared as quickly as possible,” he told her.

  She nodded and closed the manila folder to open another, this one with internal queries that needed his authority.

  October 17th.

  Gail knocked on Paul’s office door and stepped through to nod at the seated doctor, working on his monitor as he finished analysing the biometrics fed to them from the various spacemen’s RFID chip. It was a task each of them undertook at various times of the day to ensure all were fit and able to continue their work. At the first signs of an elevated temperature they were called in for a more detailed examination, while urine and blood samples would reveal any deeper or long-term affliction.

  “What’s up?” he asked, closing the screen to give her his full attention.

  “I was wondering if you could intervene and get Michael to see a psychiatrist,” she told him, fully expecting him to nod, if not even stand to begin the task straight away. Instead, Paul frowned and shook his head.

  “Why does he need psychiatry?” he asked instead.

  “Why?” Gail asked, shocked that Paul should even need to ask the question. “Paul, he’s lying in that room and clearly suffering from some form of mental aberration. We can’t begin to treat it until we have a diagnosis, and the best we’ve got so far is Samuel Jenkins talking to him.”

  “Which might be the best thing for him, that and a calm environment, but continued visits from friends and colleagues,” Paul agreed.

  “I don’t agree,” she told him. “All that is going to do is suppress the underlying cause. It will make it harder to treat, and may mask the problem, leaving him free to go out and have a relapse, a relapse that will be far stronger and quite possibly far more damaging than this episode,” she said.

  Paul nodded. “I agree. There have been several clinical tests to substantiate what you’re saying. However, there have also been field studies that show that, in most cases, the reverse is true. There is also a large and growing body who believe the psychiatric world has become far too focused on pigeon-holing metal aberrations. The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders is now two weighty volumes, and the Classification of Mental and Behavioural Disorders, Clinical Descriptions and Diagnostic Guidelines becomes increasingly more complex year in and year out.

  “Truth is, as many if not more patients receive positive treatment by being provided placeb
os, as do from being given antidepressants. There’s little evidence to substantiate that comment, because it’s not in the interest of the pharmaceutical companies to do such tests, nor to publish the findings from the small independent laboratories that do such experiments.”

  “All I’m saying is we need a diagnosis,” Gail pleaded.

  “All DSM-8 and ICD-15 is going to give you is a fancy title for symptoms that are not normal. Medically, there is nothing wrong with him. His body is as sound as a bell, hence, medically, we should release him. This idea that we can treat metal issues with drugs has not, nor ever been independently confirmed; I’m totally against it.

  “Leave him where he is and make sure he’s kept mentally stimulated when he’s not naturally sleeping. He doesn’t need drugs, and he certainly doesn’t need a stranger coming in to begin prying into his past.”

  “What if I disagree?” she asked.

  Paul shrugged. “Why don’t you monitor this as part of your thesis?” he asked. “This is a rare opportunity because we’re in such a small and controlled community. Let’s give the current prognosis two weeks in which to see results. At the end, if he’s not making progress, we’ll change his treatment, beginning with a more detailed prognosis on which to establish a course of medication,” he suggested.

  ++++++++++++

  Allan supervised from the control-room of the ARC, taking the opportunity to check his software as it managed the comings and goings of multiple vehicles, the computer now using a voice synthesiser to help guide each vehicle in and away from Freedom One as they hastily finished preparing it for a trip that could take anything up to a month away from home.

  Meanwhile, Leanne was busy installing the laser communications equipment. The Mars trip had provided her with the perfect test facility and the software that managed the encryption and retrieval of lost ‘packets’ had been altered as a result, providing for even higher transmission speeds. Under her agreement with Cambridge University, she would hold the patent on her design, and the university would have sole rights to use or market. She had just become a very wealthy young lady, even though the sole user of her device was about to close its operation down.

  “You plan on doing anything with the money?” Allan asked her as she lay under the table fixing the last fibre connections in place.

  She grunted, pressing home one of the thin yellow fibre-optic cables. “No,” she told him. “What about you?” she asked him, pulling her head out to watch him.

  Allan shook his head. The plans he’d had since his teenage years had dissolved as he’d become more and more involved in the ARC, its overwhelming needs taking precedent. Not that he was unhappy with where it had put him. He had his doctorate, and a good salary from the university which went untouched into the bank each month. He had fame now too, one that filled his inbox with job offers, their six figure sums meant to appeal to him. Unfortunately, providing easy to read displays for financial market traders just didn’t hold the same degree of excitement as developing the code for life support systems on board a huge spaceship.

  “Have you thought of what you want to do, after the ARC has gone?” he asked.

  Leanne stood and ran a check on the installation, nodding as she saw the wealth of information that as now passing effortlessly between Freedom One, the ARC, and their communications satellite sitting over the Arctic.

  “No. I’ve had offers, but let’s face it, anything outside of the space industry is going to be boring, and anything inside the industry is going to be distrusted because they may only want me for what I know of the ARC, not my skills,” she admitted.

  Allan nodded.

  “Do you think there’s any way out of it?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “I don’t think we’re meant to go chasing asteroids, but we’re about to,” he reminded her.

  “One, two, three, four, testing, testing, testing,” Matt called from the control-room of Freedom One.

  “Well, that seems to work,” Allan agreed, grinning at Matt’s approach.

  “I think we need to move out of your shadow and test it from a little further away,” Matt suggested.

  “Yes. We need to have it fully tested before we destroy it,” Allan agreed, quite capable of matching Matt’s tone.

  “A short flight, then,” Matt told them, and Freedom One moved sedately away from the ARC, one last SUV hurriedly leaving from one of its doors before it closed.

  “You’re green on my board,” Allan confirmed, watching the control board as the large vehicle at their side moved steadily away.

  ++++++++++++

  The control-room on Freedom One was little more than a third of the space of that on the ARC. However, the main control table was larger and more detailed. The additional tables, although principally the same as those on the larger ship, had received a semicircle of monitors around their further edge to face the operator so that multiple systems could be monitored in greater detail, touch commands available on each screen.

  The crew wore their spacesuits. Technically, the control-room of the craft was within the safe area designated as anywhere within three doors of outer space, and therefore sufficiently protected to not require wearing a spacesuit. However, given that this was the vehicle’s first assignment and the first opportunity to use its full capabilities, no one was taking any chances.

  Everyone knew their roles and responsibilities and the silence in the room was one of diligence rather than nervousness as each crew member worked through their boards to verify, once again, that all was ready.

  “I’m green,” Joyce confirmed, watching her program track the moving asteroid and change their proposed heading in order to remain in front of it. Radar and a range of telescopes watched for and monitored objects coming between them and their goal, constantly altering their trajectory to compensate and avoid collision.

  “We’re green,” Maddy confirmed, each piece of equipment in the loading bay monitored by RFID chips that now, in addition to confirming their location, also provided details as to their status too. Each vehicle’s full history was available to her; maintenance, repairs, hours of operation, even details as to its passengers.

  “Medically, we’re all green,” Paul agreed, making no secret of the fact that he could see their heart-rates, even without them wearing facemasks.

  “I’m green,” Ricky added, his eyes held by the images the ferry faced; outer-space.

  “Green,” Matt confirmed, watching his communications table.

  “Alright Ricky. Let’s do this,” Frankie told him.

  “Star-Trek fans; eat your heart out,” Ricky murmured, touching the app that seemed to pulse and swell, demanding to be activated from his main monitor.

  ++++++++++++

  The transfer of his voice didn’t indicate any of the changes in his position as, mid way through his sentence; Freedom One surged into motion and sped out of earth’s orbit at 10 million kilometres an hour. In the time it took to finish his words, Freedom One had travelled 2,000 kilometres.

  On the ARC, Leanne whooped as the radar systems bleeped the sudden and unexplained loss of their signal and Allan smiled, his mind already conjuring up the ARCs next upgrade in its command software in order for the ship’s systems to begin handling such phenomenal speeds.

  “Now all hell will break lose,” he predicted, his eyes sliding to an image of the earth, knowing they would have seen Freedom One’s sudden departure.

  ++++++++++++

  The earth based observatories charged with monitoring the ARCs activities responded one by one to their masters, each admitting to having failed to follow or find the small craft that, only moments before, had been nestled in beside the large bulk of the ARC. Not that they tried very hard. After all, astronomers were just as interested in seeing the development of space as those on board the two spaceships.

  In reporting though their lines of communication, General Pat Mears became aware of the loss, and took great pleasure in letting the White House know. The General
took anything and everything the spacemen did as a personal affront, to both him and the United States of America. Their games in the early days, as they tested their chemical, had caused hours of lost sleep to both him and his many teams of forces personnel. Their near silent launch of the satellites they used to fund their endeavours nearly caused a war, and their blatant disregard for the United Nations would cause another, he was sure of it.

  “They’re planning something,” he advised Glen Schroder emphatically over the phone, he in Huston, Texas, while the president’s technical advisor was in Washington, seated in his small office in the West Wing of the White House.

  “I’m sure they are,” Glen agreed, his mind elsewhere. “I’m sure your staff will keep monitoring the situation and advise us of any change.”

  He put the phone down and silently read through his letter one last time, before standing and taking it with him to the door.

  His office was one of a maze of small cubicles that filled the West Wing of the White House. He had a larger office a few blocks away in DC that he more commonly used when the president was not in residence, and, of course, a suite reserved for him on the ARC for whenever the need arose, or he just felt like spending a day in space.

  He shook his head and smiled, remembering one recent trip where, seated in the spacious lounge on the first floor of the ARC, he had listened to the students discuss ideas and concepts among themselves, their small groups taking an acorn of an idea and, in just a few short minutes, develop it into full maturity, with strong foundations and a solid trunk and branches stretching out into other fields. They held the future in a way Glen had always wanted to, but could never grasp the means to do so. Their ideas were already filtering into mainstream businesses and commerce on earth, but what would it be like in three years time when those students left university and actually entered into commerce full time?

  Of course, that was all academic now. Neither the ARC, nor Rolle College, would survive the United Nations Outer-Space Treaty.