Rogue Command (The Kalahari Series) (10 page)

“Yes, I suppose. So it’s true what we read and hear on the news. The four Kalahari crystals are literally keeping the whole thing going?”

Rothschild nodded in a resigned way. “Indeed. The latest figure was ninety-two per cent . . . they’re providing ninety-two per cent of global electricity needs. God knows what we would have done without them. But as you well know, Richard, they are a finite resource. The three smaller crystals suffered degradation earlier this year and the primary crystal in the French reactor has been overloaded ever since.”

Richard nodded. “Yes, I read about that too. I keep a keen interest in what the International Energy Commission is doing with them. And how long? What is the up-to-date prediction? Or is that censored information?”

“Yes it is, but I feel I can tell you, considering the fact that we need your help again.” Rothschild put his hands together on the desk and forced an optimistic smile. “Our delegate in the Energy Commission says eight or nine months to complete exhaustion of the primary crystal, ten at the absolute most. The smaller crystals will breakdown first, maybe a month or so earlier. It is difficult to put a more accurate figure on it because the electricity demands of the world grid will be unpredictable as final reserves and undeclared stocks of carbon fuel are used and the potential of national grids reduces to zero. And that my dear chap is another reason for the top level meeting today. Rather intimidating, wouldn’t you say?”

At that moment there was a loud knock on the door behind Richard.

“Come in,” invited Rothschild.

The door opened and a familiar face peered around it as Richard turned in his chair. “Ah, Grenville,” Richard greeted him. “Good to see you, it’s been a while. So you stayed with the old man?”

Grenville coughed politely into his fist; it was his way of avoiding the embarrassment. “Yes, sir, quite, and good to have you back if I may say.” Grenville, a formal looking gentleman who was in his early sixties, looked at Rothschild. “Sorry to disturb you, sir,” he continued. “I’ve had a message from the Communication Centre. There is a telephone call for Commander Reece.” He looked back at Richard. “A Miss Pamela Merchant, an Auntie of yours I believe – apparently it is urgent.”

Richard’s immediate reaction was dismay. He thought of his mother and he thought the worst. He stood.

“The booth opposite, sir, if you please,” said Grenville, as he opened the door further and indicated behind him. Rothschild nodded. Richard quickly crossed the corridor, stepped into the small room and snatched the telephone receiver from the desk. Grenville quietly closed the door. There was an office-type chair in the room and little else. Richard sat down as he put the receiver to his ear. He prepared himself for bad news.

“Aunt Pamela? Richard here. What’s happened? Is Mother . . . ?”

“Your Mother is fine, Richard,” said an austere, elderly voice. “There is nothing to worry about on that count. And so incidentally am I.”

“Yes, sorry, good. That’s good. But a call here . . . I was thinking it must be serious . . .”

“It is. Your mother is frantic. I called Rachel; she gave me your number. Calling you at work is not something I would do without good reason.”

“I know that. So what has happened?”

“Your mother returned home this morning to find that the house had been burgled, ransacked in fact. Whoever did it made a complete mess. She called me. Of course I came over immediately. The police are still here . . .”

“Police! You’re at the cottage!” Richard thought about the crystal, the ninth crystal,
the one only he knew about
. The one he had smuggled out of Osiris Base in a mineral container packaged as a simple rock sample. It had been transported to Earth on a routine, six-monthly, shuttle flight over four years earlier. Perhaps foolhardily, he had had the package delivered by courier service to his mother’s house in Buckersmead, Somerset, where she, completely unaware of its contents and following his instructions, had hidden it in his father’s old workshop – in a deep vehicle servicing pit that was covered with heavy wooden sleepers. The crystal and its location was a secret that he had never shared, not even with Rachel. It was known that there was another missing crystal and an exhaustive search for it on Mars at the time had failed to discover its whereabouts. Richard had covered his tracks and the furore had gradually subsided. Now he was waiting for the right moment – when it could be utilised properly, efficiently. But as time passed it had become more difficult. The implications of withholding the crystal, harbouring its powers, were serious. Indeed, as the world prepared for an energy shortfall of catastrophic proportions, they had become momentous.
If it has been found or, worse, stolen,
Richard thought,
there would be hell to pay.
He was sure to be prosecuted, fined and jailed, and his career would be finished. And how would he explain it to Rachel! He held his forehead in the palm of his hand and dreaded the consequences.

“Richard? Richard? Are you there?”

“Yes, sorry Aunt, yes I’m here.” Richard leant forward and put an elbow on the table and rubbed his brow. “What about the workshop? Is anything missing? It’s very important that you check Father’s workshop!”

“Your mother seemed particularly worried about the workshop too. Rather odd . . . Anyway, we checked there first . . . even before we checked the bedroom where the safe is, and again when the police arrived. The building is completely empty, well, apart from a few odds and ends and some of your father’s old tools. There was nothing of value to steal in any case, according to your mother. What a fuss! The house is what we should be worrying about – it’s an absolute mess. Look, here she is. The last police officer must have left – and about time.”

Richard took a deep breath. “So whoever it was hadn’t gone into the workshop? Is that right?”

“Oh dear, you do persist – just like when you were a boy! The workshop appeared undisturbed, Richard. No one has been in there for years – it’s quite obvious. Your mother seemed happy with that at least. She wanted you to know immediately. We are going to have a cup of tea now. Thank goodness. We both need one. She will come and stay with me again. You can rest assured about that.”

“Okay, that’s good. Thanks Aunt, thanks for being there. Can I have a quick word with her, please?”

There was a pause. “Richard would like to speak to you,” he heard his Aunt say, and then there was the sound of some brief chat in the background.

“Hello darling. I really didn’t want to call you because I’m pretty sure that all is well. But you know Pamela – she insisted.”

“That’s okay Mother. I prefer to know. Listen, the workshop, it definitely appears undisturbed?”

“Yes, everything is as it should be.”

Her guarded comments calmed Richard down. “Do the police have any idea who it was that broke in?” he asked.

“The Police Inspector was very impressed with the security system; even he wasn’t au fait with the programming. No common thief is his verdict, especially as I can’t find anything missing.”

“Where were you when they came calling?”

“I’d stayed over in town. I went to see a show with a friend.”

Richard heaved a sigh of relief. “And you’re happy to stay with Pamela while the mess is cleared up?”

“Yes, of course. I’ve been staying with her from time to time anyway – to save electricity. The Police Inspector’s report will come through in due course and there is the question of insurance.”

“Mum, I’m really sorry to have put you through this, but it is so important. What’s there is crucial to us all. Please believe me.”

“I know you well enough Richard. Obviously I can’t get anyone to check for you, but I’m pretty sure that all is well.”

“Thanks Mum. I’ll get home as soon as I can. Love you, bye.”

Richard switched off the receiver and placed it down carefully on the desk. He slowly leant back in the chair and scratched his head.
Should he be suspicious?
he wondered.
Was this a random, opportunistic burglary – despite the technical expertise required to disarm the security system? They hadn’t taken anything. Were they looking for something specific? Surely they were – all that mess and nothing taken.
Richard recalled the events on Mars – the apparent loss of the ninth crystal; the palaver it had caused at the time; and all those weeks of searching just for disappointment. He recalled his almost celebrity status here on Earth – for a while at least – and then the court-martial proceedings that had brought the whole pack of cards tumbling down. The tabloids had had a field day.
Could somebody have probed further? Found his mother’s house in Somerset? Who had information to link the house – and why now? The trail had gone cold, so what had brought them out of the woodwork after more than four years? Is the crystal safe there?
he agonised. And he couldn’t put his mother in jeopardy.
It needs to be moved, and quickly,
he concluded. Richard was thoughtful as he left the room.

CHAPTER 5

Ominous Direction

Richard dropped into the chair. He was clearly preoccupied. Rothschild, who was typing an abrive on the projected desktop keyboard, looked up. He knew Richard well enough to know that something now troubled him. The sound of a foghorn, loud and distinct, permeated the silence. Rothschild kicked himself back to the window and glanced outside. The River Thames at high water was full and rushing; a brownish slurry choppy with eddies and turbulence. Blowing mists of drizzle that occasionally swept across the surface allowed the dense grey sky and leaded cloud base to reach down and blend with the murky water like a gloomy wash on a painter’s canvas. As a brief wintry shower of rain peppered the glass outside with noisy pellets, Rothschild, with a keen eye, watched a long steel barge make slow progress towards the sea. Heavy with its commodity, there were no lubber lines or depth markings on the rusty hull to show how it faired but waves occasionally washed over its deck. White letters painted on the stern, where a finish of black paint still resisted the elements, declared ‘Rotterdam’ as its home port and then another long echoing belch from its foghorn proclaimed an unstoppable passage. After a few moments Rothschild turned back to look at Richard still deep in thought and then scooted himself back to his desk on the chair’s castors. “Nothing serious, I trust,” he offered.

Richard looked down at his chronometer. “I know you already have an itinerary for me, Peter,” he said, “but I will need to go to Paris before Egypt. Sorry, but it’s necessary.”

“Paris? Why so?”

Their eyes met. “Personal,” said Richard, brooking no argument.

Rothschild sighed and shook his head. “I don’t think so, Richard. Time is against us. You will find out why soon enough. The brief is due to commence in twenty minutes.”

Richard’s expression hardened. “I
will
go to Paris, with or without your permission, so you might as well allow me this concession. After that I’m with you, one hundred per cent. It’s a thirty-minute flight – if that. We could land at Le Bourget. There’s nothing happening there these days. I know that because we use it as a diversion when on approach to Strasbourg Spaceport. I’ll be gone a couple of hours at the most. A car would be helpful.” Richard raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“Are you going to see Miss Vallogia?”

Richard remained silent for a moment and considered the implications of telling Rothschild, and then he nodded. “I need to talk to her – catch up on a few things.”

“I see. Interesting, this sudden concern . . .” Rothschild thought for a moment. “Actually, a visit could work in everyone’s favour,” he said, in a conciliatory way. His expression lightened. He had no intention of causing a conflict of interest and knew from Richard’s tone that he would not concede this point – now was not the time to enforce military discipline with a direct order. “I kept note, of course, of where we sent the Ark – you remember our conversation,” Rothschild continued. “You would have expected that anyway, wouldn’t you? My French counterpart contacted Miss Vallogia upon her arrival at the monastery and we opened a discrete communication channel. After all, it is an important relic. Miss Vallogia has given me an annual report as to its condition.”

Richard nodded; he accepted Rothschild’s methods. “Has she ever spoken of me?” he asked.

Rothschild shook his head. “Not since you married. Anyway, under her supervision, and sponsored by this department, we commissioned the finest craftspeople in the field to restore the Ark to its former glory, so to speak. Thanks to you, we now know the meaning of most of what is inscribed on it, although the significance of a few hieroglyphs still evades our understanding. However, I would like you to have a good look at it as well – now that all the inscriptions inside the Ark are legible. Update yourself – perhaps you might find something relevant to what Mubarakar has to say.”

Richard nodded again in agreement;
this is a satisfactory compromise
, he thought.
I will check out the Ark and the monastery . . . there is nowhere else that springs to mind where the crystal will be as safe and surely Naomi will be pleased to help. The logistics of getting the crystal to France, however, I will consider in due course.
He stared at Rothschild for a moment and changed the subject. “I read in
The
Andromeda Times
the other day that approximately seventeen per cent of the world’s population now lives underground full-time and that a further eleven per cent live subsurface but commute to the surface for employment. And that the trend is increasing rapidly. To my mind, the UK government has clearly condoned this migration by moving to the new parliament facility built beneath the Chilterns. So what’s the story – I mean are these numbers sustainable? What about food?”

“There is not much for us on the surface anymore, not these days, Richard, particularly in the Northern Hemisphere.” Rothschild looked saddened. “Some parts of north Africa, central Australia and the Atacama Desert in South America have been relatively dry for several months now, but no sunshine . . . never any sunshine.” Rothschild sighed. “Sunshine is off the menu, I’m afraid, and of course the winters appear to be much longer. There has been an enormous effort over the last few years to resolve the climatic problem – unprecedented international cooperation in fact that culminated in a secret Head of State conference in Arizona three weeks ago. Some of the best scientific brains in the world presented their work on the subject, and it wasn’t good news. Cloud currently covers ninety-seven per cent of the planet’s surface; from a few hundred feet above ground level right up to the tropopause – and beyond in some areas. That’s a layer of water vapour six to eight miles thick, and the global weather system is stable, which means that it’s the new—” Rothschild raised his fingers to articulate a pair of inverted commas. “‘Normal’.”

“So no progress, no answers – that’s what you’re saying?”

“The fundamental error our climatologists made, it transpires, was in understanding the global water cycle – more a misunderstanding, as it happened. We know the ice cap at the North Pole disappeared in the thirties, and Antarctica, as an ice-covered land mass, a decade later – that’s history. Everybody assumed that the vast quantities of fresh water released would merely raise the global sea level by a metre or so, and that did happen, it was well documented, but what they did not realise was that the increased surface area of the oceans enabled a higher evaporation rate and that increased the atmospheric water content significantly. The pollution levels that had been building up in the 2040s when people began burning wood and coal again became the catalyst. It reached the critical density for spontaneous coalescence in August forty-nine when you were still on Mars. That’s when the thickest cloud began to form. Subsequently, temperatures dropped, forcing more condensation. And the rest we know, don’t we?”

“What about a fix?”

“There isn’t one at the moment, although the international effort continues. The situation was unforeseen. Nobody’s fault. A case of concentrating on other things. A mistake. In retrospect, governments should have listened a bit better – been less complacent.”

Richard gestured in a dejected fashion. “That’s what you truly believe is it, Peter? Nobody’s fault?”

Rothschild shrugged. “Let’s not talk politics, Richard, neither of us is qualified.”

“So what are the ongoing repercussions then? What is the real situation here?”

“Food production is rapidly becoming the overriding concern for national governments – those with a functioning infrastructure that is. The lack of production is more to the point . . . except under cover, and that’s hopelessly inadequate for a global population. For traditional cultivation it’s too wet and there is no sun. Adapted crops are still available, rice for example, but yields are a fraction of those a few years ago. Meat production too is falling well short of targets. Fish on the whole has made up the shortfall since forty-nine, but consequently stocks have been devastated. Unrealistic quotas, illegal net sizes, deep-sea trawling – you name it. In short, there’s nothing left in the oceans . . . literally. It’s all gone – finished!”

“So what’s the government planning?”

“Heard of bioluminescence?”

“Well yes,” Richard frowned. “The production and emission of light from living things, you know, light from organisms. Um, the glow-worm, the firefly – that sort of creature.”

“Exactly! A team of geneticists at Cambridge University had been carrying out research for a number of years – a few important discoveries opened up the field. Then a little over a year ago a Japanese scientist made the fundamental breakthrough, more a discovery, actually. It was explained to me to be more like the discovery of penicillin last century – that kind of magnitude. There was a flurry of research and now the results are exceeding all expectations. The scientist, a Mr Suzukito, is up for the Nobel Prize.”

“Yes I heard about him,” said Richard, nodding again, “a symbiotic cross between two plant species or something. It was on the news.”

“After the Head of State Conference I stayed on for a few days and attended a forum on the world food shortage. It was enlightening to say the least. What Mr Suzukito did was to take a species of lichen that is common in subterranean caverns in Japan. The species doesn’t need sunlight to grow; there is no chlorophyll present in its makeup and so no photosynthesis. It is not a ‘green’ plant. By genetic manipulation he introduced the gene that is responsible for the naturally occurring form of chemiluminescence – the gene that controls the chemical reaction that produces the natural glow in creatures. In fact, he extracted the gene from a species of glow-worm. This particular glow, or ‘cold light’ as it is termed, is in the useful yellow light spectrum. In short, of course, he produced a glowing plant adapted to life underground.”

“So?”

“Then he introduced a particular species of green algae, one that thrives in warm moist conditions, one on the other . . . a dusting of the algae onto the lichen. In botanical terms, a symbiotic relationship, and it worked. The algae use the light from the lichen to photosynthesise and grow, as would be the case in normal sunlight. And the lichen takes what it needs from the algae by utilising a network of microfilaments – drawing sugars in the form of sap from the algae. At a temperature of twenty degrees Celsius and above, and a humidity level over sixty per cent, growth rates are reportedly phenomenal. And with a geothermal gradient of approximately twenty-five to thirty degrees per kilometre depth in most parts of the world and, of course, lots of moisture, things are looking quite promising.” Rothschild smiled briefly, subconsciously showing his relief. “The harvested algae are full of nutrients, proteins, minerals, starch – it’s a perfect food. In fact the Chinese and the Japanese – because of their vast naturally occurring limestone caves – are already commercially farming the crop.”

“Sounds like manna,” Richard interjected. “How boring is that – eating algae! What do you do with it – mix it into a nice bland paste? Perhaps some delicious green pastry?”

“Apparently not!” Rothschild protested, as if the idea had been his. “Each crop is carefully sucked from the lichen fronds during a vacuuming process – by a giant vacuum cleaner if you like – leaving just enough to regenerate for the next rotation. The powder can then be processed into any constituency – that of meat, fish and vegetable types. Natural colours are added to help. Many synthetic extracts have been produced based on chemicals that give normal food its unique taste. And it’s very convincing I’m told – stimulates the palate adequately.” A smile jabbed his lips again. “Actually, I did try some of the raw algae myself, just lightly toasted; it was remarkably similar to that crispy seaweed you used to be able to get in Peking restaurants . . . back a while. Think about it, Richard. Free under-floor heating, subtle lighting, kitchen gardens, plenty of hot water, perhaps one’s own thermal spring . . . One just needs electricity for the essentials – for cooking, some additional lighting, perhaps a solarium. Along with the niceties of course – TV, computer, communications. Why wouldn’t you choose to live underground? Perhaps it’s the future.” Rothschild appeared convinced.

“I see, so the surface of the planet becomes what . . . a waste tip and a scrapyard?”

Rothschild focused on Richard and interlocked his fingers like a teacher explaining a new concept. “In many places it already is, Richard, as well you know,” he answered.

“You should be careful. Otherwise you might find yourself a victim of your own propaganda,” Richard countered, sceptically. He took time to savour a deep breath of conditioned air and then rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if making up his mind on something. “I’m going to tell you something, Peter. In strictest confidence, you understand.” Richard paused again. “You know I’ve another year to go as Commanding Officer of Andromeda’s Shuttle Wing?” Rothschild nodded. “Well, I’ve made an application for permanent residency. It will go before the Lunar Select Committee for Immigration next month.” Rothschild’s expression hardly changed. “Most of our friends are already registered,” Richard continued. “Many already have children who were born in the colony. These people have no intention of returning to Earth; indeed, their children will have no rights of residency here and no nationality either. Who the hell wants a passport anyway . . . to live underground? I’d rather have no atmosphere and see the stars.”

“Yes, I did hear something . . . There will be due process of course. And what would you do? Having been the Shuttle Wing’s commanding officer, you are unlikely to be welcome as a line pilot.”

Richard sat up and his expression tightened. “I have my surveying qualifications – barely twenty per cent of the lunar surface has been mapped from the ground and there is a lot of seismic work still to be done.”

“You! Settled as a colonist?” Rothschild scratched his brow. “I have to say I have my doubts about that.”

Richard nodded. “You could call all our friends ‘colonists’, I suppose, but when did the immigrants to America, for example, stop becoming colonists and become instead Americans? There was no clear cut time. Even after they lost the war and were expelled, the British and the French still referred to the ‘enemy’ as wayward colonists. From what you are describing, I’m thinking that it’s definitely time to consider the wider implications of starting a family.” Richard paused for a moment. “To be honest, Rachel and I . . . we have been trying, but . . . well . . . anyway. The fact of the matter is that despite my job and length of service, a Moon child will give us additional points and guarantee our application.”