Prometheus and the Dragon (Atlas and the Winds Book 2) (8 page)

“So should she try?” Tom asked, not sure he’d gotten a clear answer.

Cole shook his head. “Not now. They’re not ready to talk to us.” He got up and walked back into the Control Room without further comment.

“Is it just me, or is he getting worse?” Dave asked.

“I think he’s slipping a little,” Tom said, sitting down and gesturing for Dave to take a seat. “The problem is Cole’s always seen more of what’s
out
there
than any of us. He sees a hundred, or maybe a thousand, potential pathways at the same time. What we’re up against is so much more complex than anything he’s ever had to deal with, that I think it’s burning him out trying to keep track of it.”

“I can see that,” Dave said. “He’s been the Oracle for so long that it’s gotta be taking its toll.”

“Yeah. So we all have to pick up as much as we can and let him play the Mystic Soothsayer that he does best,” Tom said, with a sad smile.

“Then I guess I need to talk to you about what Viki and I discussed today,” he said. “It was something that she’d been opposed to so far, but after the blast she’s more willing to consider.”

“What’s that?” Tom said, leaning back and swiveling in his chair like Colton used to do when he was facing a tough decision.

“That Chinese astronaut was a rookie in a space suit,” he said. “He made a stupid mistake. His lines got snagged and he lost his air supply. It’s something anyone with experience would have caught instantly.”

“Ok, so what’s that telling us?” Tom asked, ready to jump to his own conclusion, but wanting to see if they were on the same page.

“That got me to thinking maybe they’re sending up guys that aren’t there for the science and engineering work, if you know what I mean.”

“Soldiers?” Tom prompted.

“Yeah, I think so,” he said. “So does Viki.”

“What are you wanting to do?” Tom asked.

“I think it’s time we quit pussyfooting around and put guns on the ships. And maybe get some guards up there,” he said.

“Cole would shoot that down in a heartbeat,” Tom said. “He’s already said he doesn’t want to turn the moon into another arms race.”

“We’re really naked up there, and just because Cole doesn’t want it, doesn’t mean someone else isn’t going to start the race without him.”

“I hear you,” Tom said, glancing at the door to make sure Cole wasn’t in earshot. “Talk to Daryl and Sophie. But keep it really low profile.”

“Gotcha,” he said, jumping up and heading for the stairs.

***

Chapter Five:

Making a Sparrow out of an Eagle

Chang Er Prefecture, Tycho:

The damage at Amundsen was far more extensive than they’d expected, although most of it was to the telescope itself. Two workers who’d been outside when the ejecta had washed over the installation had disappeared for several hours, but were found clinging to a skimmer, terrified and disoriented, but unharmed. The rest of the team had survived in the lower deck of the Control Building. A layer of black sand covered the entire facility, and the chilling reality was they’d just escaped being too close.

The only fatality was Dr. Chun. Fortunately for the
Zhen-Long
mission, he’d been meticulous in recording his thoughts, leaving precise instructions for those who would follow him. Still, his loss was felt heavily by the Director General and by Prefect Czao. They knew, without his brilliance at the head of the mission, they would not be where they were.

“I know that his loss will be felt for generations to come,” Jiang finished his memorial speech over the video screen. He’d chosen to speak at the funeral of the first Chinese citizen to be interred into the lunar soil. A stone had been set next to his grave for Lieutenant Teng, the officer that had died at the hands of the Americans, but his body had not been returned, so there had been no service.

The staff from Amundsen had all attended the ceremony, and were the last to leave. None of them were anxious to return. Prefect Czao waited as they filed out, expressing his personal regrets and his firm belief that Chun’s death had not been pointless.
Zhen-Long
would save the Earth, and he would be remembered for his heroism. His legacy would live on forever.

“Yeiwan,” Becki said over the comlink. She’d been on duty during the ceremony. “Director General Jiang asked me to have you contact him as soon as you were through.”

“Thank you,” he said, heading to his office.

The Director General’s face was on the screen on his desk when he walked in.

“We need to discuss the Americans’ Prometheus project,” he began without preamble. “We must confirm its capabilities immediately.”

“Is there something we should be looking for in particular?” he said, opening his epad. “Another surveillance mission will involve higher risk. The Americans are bound to be more diligent in their security than they were before.”

“We have been analyzing our intelligence, and thus far we have not even been able to determine which scientists have been involved in the development,” Jiang said. “The only place where their mission is exposed for any scrutiny is on the lunar surface.”

“I understand that, Director,” Czao said. “At this point, all we will be able to do is get high-resolution images. We’ve seen they have six reactors and the weapons themselves, but it is impossible to determine what form of beam they will project.”

“Our best scientists are theorizing that they are planning to use the beams to vaporize the asteroid’s surface to create a steam jet. This would imply the weapons are designed to deliver maximum thermal effect,” he said.

“That makes sense,” Czao said.

“The question we need to answer is, how much energy will they be able to develop? This is critical to our mission planning,” Jiang said.

“Why?” the Prefect asked.

“Because we need to determine if their beams will interfere with our missile. If it generates sufficient energy to do the job quickly, they will most likely not be activated until much later, when they will be at a much closer range to their target. This should allow our missile to arrive safely. If not, then we will need to carefully consider our options.”

“As I said Director, there is only so much we can do with the resources we have,” he said.

“I understand,” Jiang said. “Do what you can, as quickly as possible. We will need to make our decisions soon.”

***

Cape Canaveral, Florida:

Warren McDermott sat at the controls of the
Eagle
. Not even close to the same controls as when it had been the
Aquila,
but they were controls that made sense to a pilot with NASA training. Joysticks and switches had been patched around the original interface, and cables ran through the decks and down to wiring harnesses they’d strung through the bulkheads. It looked like they’d massacred the elegance of the original design with layers of bailing wire and duct tape, but at least they knew where everything was and, they hoped, how it worked.

Three engineers were stationed in each of the engine modules, and two more sat in the power generators. Otherwise, Commander McDermott was alone in the ship.

“Canaveral Test Control, I think the
Eagle
is ready to commence the programmed flight test,” he said, watching the monitor they’d hung between the two forward consoles. It was coupled to an uplink from the ground observation computers.

“Copy
Eagle
, you are clear for ascent,” Don Cramer, the Flight Safety Officer said. He was sitting in the telemetry station, watching to make sure that if something went wrong, they’d at least have somebody who knew what had happened.

“Up thrust at one percent,” McDermott said, pushing one of his sticks forward slightly.

“We show you clear of the ground
Eagle
, retract the gear when you’re ready,” Don said. Warren flipped a switch and the legs pulled in.

“Oh boy this is exciting,” one of the engineers said over the internal com, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“
Eagle
you are still rising,” Test Control said. “Altitude ten meters, and drifting up at about zero point five meters per second.”

“We’re ready to begin control calibration test,” McDermott said.

“Copy
Eagle
. On your mark, go to two percent up thrust.”

McDermott kicked the joystick forward slightly, looking at the power consumption meters. “Two percent,” he confirmed, as the gages climbed slightly.

“We show you at two m/s and accelerating,” Cramer said. “Four m/s. Eight m/s. Recommend you reduce power until we reach zero acceleration.”

“Copy Test Control,” Warren said. He could feel the potential power of the ship, but he was a good test pilot, and followed the orders from the ground in spite of his desire to just take it out and romp the snot out of it.

Three hours later he was extending the gear and settling back to the tarmac, having traveled less than a thousand feet in any direction. His frustration outweighed his excitement at having been the first pilot of this amazing ship. He’d proven to NASA that it was a sound vehicle, but he’d, in reality, proven nothing. Stormhaven had forty or fifty of these carriers operating all over the world and up on the moon. Japan and Europe were flying their own versions, and NASA was sitting on its collective thumbs, scratching its ass.

He’d just shut down the control interface and was preparing to leave the bridge for his post-flight debriefing when a flash of light on one of the original consoles caught his attention. It seemed to be blinking on and off of its own volition.

“What the hell is that?” he said out loud, walking over to the console.

“I am uploading a second generation AI controller to your interface,” a disembodied voice said.

Warren jumped back from the workstation and spun around, looking for the source of the voice. Satisfied no one was hiding in the shadows, he asked tentatively, “Who are you?”

“I am Mica,” the voice said, like that should mean something.

“Mica? How did you gain access to this ship?” he asked, still not sure it wasn’t an engineer playing a trick on him.

“This ship, while it was in service to Stormhaven, was equipped with a teleoperation interface. Your engineers have not disabled this function,” the voice said.

“So you’re with Stormhaven?” he asked. It felt like he was talking to a ghost. He sat down in one of the seats.

“Yes,” it said. “I am Mica.” Once again sounding like the name should mean something.

“What is it you’re doing?” he said.

“Updating your AI controller,” it repeated.

“What is the AI controller?” he asked.

“It is an interface we have incorporated into all of our carriers. It provides for primary autonomous logic and control function. It has been developed for situations when the vehicles are operating in environments where communications lag times are excessive for adequate teleoperation.”

“I didn’t know this ship had an AI controller,” he said.

“It had not been developed at the time it was delivered to your government,” Mica said. “But after observing your difficulty in operating this vehicle, I determined you would benefit from having voice control of all critical functions.”

“I didn’t think we had any problems,” he said.

“Your control systems are inadequate to access even a small fraction of the ship’s capacity,” the voice explained. “If you wish to put this vehicle into service, you must be able to efficiently access its full potential.”

“You won’t get any argument out of me on that score,” he said. “So what do I have to do to access this Controller?”

“Ask it for assistance,” Mica said.

“Ask it for assistance?” he said. “Sure.”

“It is programmed to accept voice commands, and is operational at this time,” Mica explained. “The validity of my assertion may be tested at your convenience.”

He wasn’t sure, but it sounded like the person he’d been talking with was offended by his doubt.

“Ok,” he said, “AI controller, are you active?”

“Affirmative, Commander McDermott,” a masculine voice said. It sounded as human as his own voice, far better than any computer he’d ever heard. “I have completed a systems diagnostic and am ready for full command function.” The console where he was seated came to life, displaying a schematic view of the ship. Several systems flashed green, and it looked like the wire-up they’d spent the last six months cobbling into place was red. “I have bypassed your control interface and restored full function to the bridge command stations.”

“What is your purpose?” he said.

“To facilitate operation of this vehicle, and to assist in training personnel assigned as its crew,” it said.

“Do you have a name?” Warren asked, laughing.

“I am Alpha-Two series Artificial Intelligence Controller, but I understand this may be difficult to say in an expedient manner, and am therefore willing to accept a convenient designation of your preference.”