Twisted Spaces: 1 / Destination Mars Page 5

  Xao had taken a few days off, then came back with a list of demands. First his superior couldn't believe this, the audacity to challenge such a call - until he had read the list. Two days later, in a secret ceremony, Xao was sworn in, and his former boss gratefully left into retirement.

  Remembering the advice of a medieval Italian named Machiavelli to Il Principe - to implement necessary cruelties at the beginning of ones reign, Xao had acted immediately after assuming office. In a painful two-year process he had restructured the agency and, much to his predecessor's joy, turned the old-fashioned, top-heavy and bureaucratically stressed secret service of the cold war era into a modern and highly efficient intelligence-gathering organisation.

  As no good deed ever goes unpunished, so this one had a severe consequence. His fast military career and the successful transformation of the mighty secret service had made him a natural candidate for the central committee and three years after taking office he was appointed to his country's most illustrious circle.

  Once a member, Xao showed no further ambitions towards the higher echelons of the committee and consequently kept out of the bickering, intriguing and banding games his comrades constantly played, thereby removing himself nicely out of their sights. He stayed isolated within the political thunderstorm of the central committee and focussed on his sole passion: stealing secrets from China's adversaries to give his people an advantage, technological or otherwise, and the early identification of threats against his nation. And, so everybody in the committee had to admit, he was very, very good at that.

  The General had held this post now for eleven years, unchallenged. And whatever the rumours were, he was no man's fool. Always aware of the Western forsaken ability to produce technological quantum leaps, he had personally deployed six of his best agents to keep a close watch on CERN. Now he was reading the second report on something that sounded straight out of a science fiction story - the distinguished institute had obviously developed a device that could manipulate gravity.

  Xao had no idea what the implications of such a technology could be, but registering the priority markings on the telegram, he knew it had to be important. He bent to his intercom and called his aide.

  ''Li, get me Science up here.''

  ''At once, General.''

  Xao ran a tight ship, and so it took only a few moments for Thien Zhao, Head of the service's Science Department, to enter the office.

  Instead of a greeting, Xao pointed at the report folder: ''You have read this?''

  ''Of course.'' his chief scientist replied. That was standard practice: all CERN reports went to Zhao's desk first.

  ''What does it mean?'' - Xao didn't have to add 'for our country'.

  The usually quite cold-blooded Zhao seemed unusually moved: ''The beginning of a new age, General.''

  That astonished Xao a bit. He leaned back.

  ''Explain.''

  Chapter 21

  Geneva/CERN

  Tuesday, 01.11.2016

  A superflash priority message from a field officer, contemporary designation for an undercover secret agent, is a very rare thing for every intelligence gathering service. They are rare because they are dangerous - for the sending operative. The urgency of the developing information makes it necessary to move it to the service's headquarters extremely fast without blowing the agent's cover, and speed always makes for haste, haste for mistakes. Intelligence officers hate and fear mistakes.

  But superflashes come occasionally and so every intelligence service in the world has its own method of transport - usually a multi-step process - but nearly every method includes transportation by courier and airplane. One doesn't fax stuff like that, even on so-called secure fax machines; institutional paranoia just forbids that. Instead, a staff member of the local embassy, fitted with diplomatic immunity, delivers the properly double-encoded message.

  The agent's retrieval marks were noticed by one of the embassy's secretaries going out for lunch. She didn't know what those two white markings on the traffic light pole really meant, just that she should forward the info about it ASAP. So when she recognized the marks, she pulled out her mobie and placed a call to 'her nephew' - the assistant of the embassy's military attaché. This started the retrieval process, and only one hour after the secretary's notification, an experienced field officer himself, a Micro-SD chip was removed from its dead-drop.

  Three hours after discovering the retrieval mark the chip was taken to Zurich by car to meet another diplomat waiting there for a connecting flight to the service's home city. No part of the transport chain knew what he or she was actually carrying.

  Unknown by the military attaché his courier wasn't the only one leaving Zurich that night, carrying a secret message. A total of eight were on their way - every major power had someone on-site at CERN ...

  They all brought world-moving news to their superiors. But as the world is divided by space and time, some of the addressees were awake, while others were sleeping.

  Chapter 22

  Geneva/CERN

  Tuesday, 01.11.2016

  The following meeting, for obvious reasons scheduled in the early afternoon, began in a more sober mood. The brick-like gravitation generator was lying on the conference table, radiating an unspoken challenge at the surrounding scientists.

  In addition to yesterday's participants two more people were present: Andrea McNamara, Kaiser's assistant, and a slim, elderly gentleman in a tailored suit, showing a rigid posture. He had short cropped hair and a sharp featured face dominated by a prominent nose: Colonel Paul Leclerc, French ex-military, Head of Security. Despite the institute's general no-smoking rules, he was smoking a Gitanes Brunes, producing a stinking smell and ignoring the disapproving, occasionally hostile looks cast at him.

  After a review of the past days' events for his benefit, the session began in earnest. The situation was explained easily enough: the unknown adversary had foreseen all of CERN's concerns and put a proposal on the table that comforted each and every one of them. Now it was time to evaluate the other risks involved in this affair, the more non-scientific ones which the email had mentioned. This was why Kaiser had asked his top security man to attend.

  ''So if I understand the situation correctly,'' Leclerc dryly summarized what he had heard, while stubbing out his cigarette, ''you want to produce ten kilograms of antimatter and hand it over to an unidentified bunch of science junkies. OK, anything else?''

  The statement caused some embarrassed looks.

  ''Nope,'' Whitewater replied, unmoved, blowing a white cloud towards the room's air vent and stripping off the ashes of his cigar. He, like Leclerc, enjoyed an exceptional clearance to CERN's health policies - meaning nobody in his or her right mind would dare to challenge them on it. ''That about covers it.''

  ''Weapons grade nuclear material. Four hundred megatons.'' The Colonel shook his head, paused shortly, considering. He went on, scratching his nose, ''I mean, I'm used to a lot of bullshit from you guys, but this one surely is a favourite for the all-time hit list.'' As nobody picked up on him, the security man continued: ''So what do you want from me?''

  Now it was Kaiser's turn: ''Can we pull it off? Without killing everyone, I mean.''

  ''Sure.'' Leclerc shrugged. ''The question is, how ...''

  ''That's why you are here.'' Whitewater stirred in his coffee. ''So?''

  ''A stunt of this size is impossible to keep secret. Too many confidants, too many know-it-alls,'' the Colonel stated. ''The media will hear of it. And jump on us like a cat on a mouse.''

  While the assembled scientists thought about Leclerc's words, Kaiser's assistant, Andrea, was happily typing away on her notebook. Nobody took notice.

  ''After the media hype, the zealots will climb out of their holes. And come after us - with their assorted toys.''

  Kaiser and Whitewater were still unmoved. They both had known Leclerc for a long time. Let him bitch a bit, paint the bleakest picture, in the end he would come around and point out a way. A wa
y that usually worked.

  ''Can we invite them here?'' the Colonel asked after a few moments of reflection.

  ''The whole group?'' Kaiser was surprised.

  ''Oui.''

  ''With all their equipment?''

  ''Oui.''

  ''No idea.''

  ''You could offer it ... we have enough room. And a nice fence to keep out the wolves.'' And troops to shoot those who got past it. Life had taught Leclerc to be a pragmatist: shoot first, ask questions later. Let the lawyers sort it out. The Swiss authorities would understand - they always did: CERN was their holy cow.

  ''Well, I could offer it,'' Kaiser gave in.

  Whitewater stomped that one: ''Won't work.''

  ''Why?'' Leclerc sounded interested.

  ''I bet they'll gladly give us all their know-how, but not the slightest chance to gain any control over them.''

  ''Again, why?'' This time it came from Palmer.

  ''Have you ever heard of them?'' was the professor's laconic reply.

  ''No,'' Palmer shook her head.

  ''That's why. They keep under deep cover. Away from the usual money pots. Stay to themselves. I bet that nobody has ever heard of them.''

  ''What makes you think that?''

  ''As Paul said: something this size: it's impossible to keep secret,'' Whitewater replied. ''If you don't keep the tightest lid on it and reduce the number of 'people-in-the-know' to the absolute minimum.''

  Leclerc laughed: ''Wouldn't work either, Daniel. I say they hide in plain view, right in the open, in front of everybody's nose. Only way to pull it off.''

  Palmer again: ''So where does the financing come from?''

  ''Private investors,'' the Colonel offered flatly. ''Relatives, inheritances. Something like that. Maybe one of the geeks has won the lottery and wanted his money spent making a dream come true. Or they fleeced some banks. A thousand ways.'' He turned to his boss: ''How much would it take?''

  ''Us? I have no idea, Paul. We've spent a few billion Euros on that research sector, and are nowhere near anything like this.'' He pointed at the 'brick'.

  ''Second bet: they do it on a shoestring-budget.'' Whitewater threw in, following up on his earlier challenge.

  ''Again: what makes you think that?'' Maria Palmer grew impatient.

  Leclerc picked this one up, too, talking steady as if lecturing an especially slow-witted child: ''The circumstances. A renowned research institute would have contacted us openly, made its proposal. No need for this charade and certainly no need for a fucking super-bomb in our research wing. Also they would have used a different sender's address than Walt Disney, don't you think?''

  Before Palmer could reply, Kaiser changed the path of the discussion: ''So what do we do?''

  ''Talk to them,'' Leclerc was affirmative on that. ''What else? Maybe they have sorted it out already.''

  A period of silence silence followed.

  ''Got it!'' the voice of Kaiser's assistant Andrea startled everyone, breaking the collective trance. She turned to the director.

  ''It took a while to get through all the obstacles they have heaped up, but I could establish a video link. It's long-distance, heavily encoded and being routed through a Chinese high orbit communication satellite, so there is a noticeable delay, but a conversation should still be possible. Shall I switch it to the big screen?''

  Kaiser looked at her in surprise: ''Yes, sure, thank you.''

  Andrea pushed her computer to her boss: ''The camera is in the lid of my notebook - better sit in front of it.''

  Kaiser adjusted. A second later the face of a younger, blonde man in a white lab coat, sitting behind a normal office desk and backed by a white wall with an unfamiliar black-golden seal on it, looked down on them.

  ''Guten Tag,'' he said.

  The director spoke up: ''Guten Tag. Können wir bitte Englisch sprechen?''

  ''Of course,'' the man replied after the predicted delay. ''My name is Michael. Michael MacMillan. I'm the general manager of project Twisted Spaces and authorized to negotiate with you. I believe you have received our latest offer?''

  ''If you mean the email from yesterday, then yes, we have it.'' Kaiser replied.

  ''Wonderful. So, is our proposal acceptable to you?''

  ''Provided you can convince us that you are what you claim to be and your purpose really is the construction of a space drive, then, yes, your proposal is acceptable. There would be just some, uhm, minor details to clarify.''

  ''That was to be expected. Where shall we start?''

  ''How can we verify your offer?''

  ''Which one? If I recall the mail correctly, it contained three ...''

  ''I'm referring to the antimatter production method.''

  ''Oh, OK, that's easy. You are in your main administration building, yes?''

  This took Kaiser by surprise: ''Uhm, yes ...''

  ''In your personal meeting room?''

  ''Yes ...''

  ''Very good. Would you open a window on the south side, please?''

  While the group remained frozen and stared at the man on the screen, Leclerc rose swiftly, produced a Sig Sauer pistol from somewhere: the Colonel was retired, but not brain-dead. Keeping the weapon low he stepped to the blast resistant window front and opened one a bit, peeked outside, then, obviously baffled, opened it all the way. A brown/black quad-rotor model drone floated in, stopped quickly in front of him as if waiting for a short inspection - no visible charge was attached - before heading towards the conference table, where it landed right in front of the director's place.

  ''A Parrot Quadricopter!'' one of the younger scientists squealed, amazed. ''It's controlled from an iPhone by wireless LAN and has a camera eye up front!''

  The man who called himself MacMillan called them back to attention: ''If you look closely, you will see an SD card in the copter's cockpit. Please fetch it.''

  This time it was Andrea who acted first. She moved over to the drone, looked closely at the tiny cockpit. Finding a dent in the hood, she pried it open with a fingernail and extracted the memory card. Triumphantly she held it up so the notebook's camera could catch it.

  ''Very good,'' the man on the screen complimented. ''This chip contains the complete data for the antimatter production unit. Theory, construction plans, energy calculation, parts list, cost estimation, timetable. All yours, Dr Kaiser. Or rather: CERN's.''

  The group was left thunderstruck.

  Again it was Leclerc who reacted first: ''Why?''

  ''Well,'' the distant man answered, ''we can't use it anyway - too impractical, meaning too big for our spaceship. We only have room for the filled antimatter injectors. You can check the plans and validate our offer now. Finally, we don't want to keep you from producing antimatter, just the rest of the world. At least for some time.''

  ''So why not go without you?'' Colonel Leclerc followed up.

  That drew a smile: ''You will find that your antigrav generator plays a vital role. You will also find that the production process will need a gravity field of over one hundred thousand G's, requiring the input energy of about twenty Gigawatt.''

  Andrea, still standing in the camera's field of view and holding the chip, understood first and laughed out loud: ''And you reprogrammed it to max-out at five.''

  ''Yep. Who is the smart lady?''

  Kaiser caught himself: ''Miss McNamara, my assistant ...''

  ''Oh yes, the graduate astrophysicist from your office. Smart and - as I can verify now - very pretty, too. Enviable. Lucky you, Dr Kaiser.''

  That sentence caused some amazement among the listeners and a sharp furrow on Leclerc's brow.

  Michael turned his attention to the director again: ''Well, sir, our first chip's on the table. Your turn now.''

  Kaiser recovered: ''We'll check the supplied data, of course. How much time ...''

  ''One week tops. The material has been properly prepared, so you should have no problems digesting it. One week for the review and validation, then onward to building the production
unit. That should be possible in another week, earlier if you already obtain the needed parts during the evaluation phase. As you will see, there's not much to it. Just a bunch of machines.''

  This hit the listening scientists right between the eyes. An antimatter production unit that could produce the material not in micro-grams but in kilos ... and not much to it?

  ''So we will talk again ... in a week?'' Kaiser was hesitant.

  ''Yes. Would you mind if I recall the copter? We are a bit short on such toys.''

  ''No, please go ahead.''

  ''Auf Wiedersehen.'' The man bowed to his invisible listeners.

  ''Wait!'' Leclerc called out sharply, stepping into the camera's view field. ''One moment, please!''

  ''Sir?''

  ''I'm ...''

  ''Oh, yes, sorry. Paul Leclerc, I presume. Head of Security.'' Michael bowed slightly, demonstrating respectfulness. ''Colonel des légion étrangére, commandeur des paras, et héros de bataille de Kinshasa. Bonjour monsieur, mes haute estime.''

  Leclerc didn't show the slightest emotion - obviously the man had done his homework. ''Bonjour monsieur, et merci beaucoup. But let's speak English, please, and talk about security issues.''

  ''Of course, sir.''

  ''You are surely aware that soon you will have some very curious people on your back.''

  ''Absolutely, sir.''

  ''Are you aware of the magnitude of your troubles?''

  ''Sort of. My security chaps call it deep shit, sir.''

  That caused an outburst of laughter, but the Colonel remained stern: ''Please skip the 'Sir', my young friend. If one should 'Sir' the other, it would be me, saluting you.'' He nodded towards Michael. ''Now, I have an intelligence estimate from my people sitting on my desk that says your security chaps are correct - deep shit is a very good description for your situation. So how do you plan to deal with it?''

  ''Well, my chaps say that this is not an option. Dealing with the bad guys, I mean. Only chance we have is to be faster.''