Rogue Command (The Kalahari Series) (32 page)

Tom nodded. “Yeah, I remember, and I don’t think the protocol has been used more than two or three times since its inception – not that I recall. It’s coming back to me, though – I mean the last time I heard about it.”

“Can you be specific, Commander?” asked the Science Officer. “It might prove important.”

Tom nodded slowly, recalling the event. “I was just about to assume command of the ISS
Enigma
– back in 2049. I was being briefed at Canaveral.” Tom suddenly bounced in his seat; he gripped the console desktop with both hands and then he looked off-screen, forwards, towards the cockpit of the PTSV. “Sorry, rough terrain,” he apologised. His brow furrowed and he rubbed his chin thoughtfully, looked back at his screen and then at the team in the Osiris communications centre. “Yeah, I remember . . . the culprit was here on Mars. It was during the tenure of my predecessor – Commander Miko – a hugely competent and experienced officer. Back then, the protocol could be initiated if just
one
officer in a senior position deemed it necessary. That’s why the amendment date is a year later – they realised the loophole. The guy was British, held the rank of Major – a man by the name of Gregory Searle . . . the second time his name has sprung to mind in the last twenty-four hours, as a matter-of-fact. He was the Osiris Base security officer at the time and he didn’t like what was going on with regards to the Kalahari crystals that had been recently discovered, so he tried to undermine the authority of his CO. Subsequently, he tried to kill me – he nearly did too.”

“What happened to him after that, Commander?” questioned Major Fernandes.

“I was taking him back to Earth to face trial. It turned out that he was on the payroll of a major industrial corporation who were after the crystals. There were problems on-board the
Enigma
, however. You should see the report, Richie, it makes for interesting reading. In a nutshell, the
Enigma
’s self-aware central computer, codenamed EMILY, released him from detention without my knowledge. Later there was a struggle and I left him with a deep knife wound to the leg – I left him for dead, or so I’ve always thought. I managed to sabotage the
Enigma
’s high-energy laser initiator, laying the ship open to attack from the ISSF. EMILY decided that it was not in her best interests to hang around and instigated acceleration to light-related speed – I got off the ship in a Delta class fighter just in time and with the only other surviving crew member. It was close, alright.” Tom shook his head. “The rest is history, as they say. The ship has not been seen or heard of since. But I’ll say this, and I’ve not mentioned it before because it’s just a hunch, you know, a gut feeling, and I know it sounds ridiculous, but I’m convinced that EMILY holds one hell of a grudge against me, and bitterness, even hostility, towards the entire human race. You see, she was Level Ten on the Rockwell Illinois Plateau System, an incredibly powerful computer, and she had acquired human characteristics through unintentional programming malfunctions.” Tom drew another deep breath and shook his head. An anxious expression crept over his face. “The ‘Rogue Command’ message is too much of a coincidence; Gregory Searle is alive; there can be no other explanation. He’s either trying to warn us of something . . . or he’s playing with us. But one thing’s for sure – it’s all adding up. That incoming body can only be one thing . . . the
Enigma
!”

There was a stunned silence. Everyone just stared at each other.

“But our calculations suggest that the body has come from a star system several light years away, Commander. Is the
Enigma
capable of that? Is that possible?” Larissa Pavlikova’s eyebrows were raised in amazement.

Tom considered the implications of his theory for several seconds; he recalled EMILY’s potential and her inclination to break the rules, and not just those of physics. “Larissa,” he said bluntly, “you have said that the body’s passage through space has remained linear and therefore predictable, right?”

“That’s correct, Commander.”

“Just how accurate is your triangulation programme?”

“Very. We found the parsec to be unequivocal.”

“Right – so you’re confident you could plot an accurate back course?”

“Um, yes, I suppose so. We are certainly in a better position to do that than scientists on Earth. But aren’t we more interested in where the body is going, exactly, not where it has come from?”

“From what you have said, Larissa, we know that already. I think you’re right, a collision now seems very unlikely, and therefore, with its present trajectory, an orbital intention is probable. Listen, I want to know where it’s been, as accurately as you possibly can – understand?”

“
Da, Kommandant
– I will get on to it immediately.”

Tom nodded. “Andrew, please forward the transmission from
Spartacus
to Canaveral as soon as you can. Also annotate our conclusions, but remind them they are speculative. We will get back to them ASAP with confirming data. My recommendation is that they cancel the
Icarus Imminent
event immediately, and downgrade from
Icarus Critical
to
Icarus Potential
. Tell them that in my view the collision risk has passed. But tell them we may have another, as yet unspecified, threat.”

“I’m on it, sir.”

“And one other thing – turning our attention to the Elysium Pyramids. I’m going to formulate an e-diction and send it to you. Please forward it by the accelercom network to a Commander Richard James Reece. He’s the officer commanding Andromeda Wing; you’ll find his address in the ISSF colony directory. I need to ask his advice on an ancient motif, more a carving in a rock face actually. I believe it to be some sort of key. He may know something about it.” Tom checked his chronometer. “It’s almost eight o’clock Lunar Time on New Year’s Day. I imagine that he will have had his dinner by now and be settling down to watch a good movie, so be sure to copy-in his home address. I need to know his response immediately, okay?”

Andrew Baillie nodded.

“Now, we rendezvous with the medical team in around eleven hours and thereafter we go back to Elysium. I’m going to get some rest; be sure to contact me the moment that something comes in.”

CHAPTER 21

Twice Over

Richard and Banou sat together in a small study that was no more than three-metres square. The walls were built of discoloured buff sandstone blocks, regularly sized, being approximately thirty centimetres by twenty. They appeared to be hewn by hand because of the slight variations in dimensions, the uneven corners and the haphazard tool marks on the slightly contoured faces. The stone itself was discoloured by time, moisture and black mould that Banou said was swept clean each March. The floor was of grey granite flagstones and there was a continuous wide depression in the hard rock that ran from outside the room through the doorway, and, towards the far left-hand corner, where there was a heavy wooden desk – perhaps of ebony or mahogany. The depression was more like a groove in the area of the doorway where tiny pieces of polished black mica and quartz glinted in the subdued light. Richard speculated that the desk had been in the same place for centuries, and before Banou many other Chief Curators had walked the same path and had attended to the same documents and administered the museum – in what the tourist literature formally referred to as the ‘scriptorium’ – a practice that had been done in the same way and with the same discreet efficiency for a millennium or more.

There were many things in the room that made it feel lived-in: carved wooden and stone artefacts from various periods – some free-standing, others on shelves; a few African tribal masks – a large, and especially frightening example, hung on the wall opposite the door. A dark, multi-patterned Arabian carpet was strung overhead to reduce the ceiling height. Richard noticed a floor-standing plastic globe on a stand that had browned with age. The room matched the mysterious old shaman and conjured feelings from the spiritual world.

Banou was almost the same as Richard remembered him – an aged and bird-like man. His right hand had felt bony and fragile when he shook it, although the sinewy grip had been firm and welcoming. His hair was still a wispy grey, if now longer. He was seemingly wearing the same dark brown woollen djellaba he had when they first met, with the hood flattened across his shoulders and a belt of grubby white rope simply knotted at each end. His skin had a lighter appearance, though, and was even pallid, quite unlike the weathered and tanned complexion of almost five years previous.
Clearly,
thought Richard,
even the eternal Banou could not escape the changes that time inflicted.

“It’s been good to talk, Banou, and see your latest exhibits – although with things as they are, I’m not surprised at the lack of visitors,” said Richard in a kindly way. He took a sip of tea and ate the last piece of dried banana cake.

Banou smiled.

“But look, time’s getting on, it’s nearly midnight here and my pickup is at two; I need to talk to you about something specific.”

“I knew that one day you would return, my young friend, and with more on your mind than the ancient parchments we preserve here for posterity. You need an answer, I can tell.” Banou glanced at Richard quizzically.

Richard leaned forward and took Banou’s right hand in his and then he turned it over gently to reveal the faded blue motif tattooed on his palm. “You once told me that this was a mark of an ancient religious order, one long forgotten and one long irrelevant to this world . . .”

Banou nodded. “That is still the truth,” he replied.

“I don’t know much about your order, Banou, or your brotherhood or whatever it really is – or was – and I don’t suppose I ever will. Although, like a jigsaw puzzle, I confess that I’ve been trying to piece together various snippets of information I’ve gathered – to form a picture, so to speak. I know, for example, that some form of telepathy is possible between ‘brothers’. The thing is this . . . to get straight to the point. I know someone, a good friend, who has a similar mark, and he’s gone missing – disappeared without trace. I think he’s been abducted by people who want to get at his Charge. He could be anywhere, really, it’s an impossible task. With him, I believe I will also find the lady in question – he has a lifetime responsibility for her. I also believe I will find the Ark of the Light, the artefact I was searching for when I came before – that too has gone missing.” Richard paused and looked into the old man’s watery eyes. “Banou,” he said softly. “I want you to try to contact him . . . you understand, in that way.”

Banou nodded slowly. “You know something of the old people, their ways and their language – this itself is exceptional. But to know of more than one descendant of the sacred order is like the great sea parting again. Only a few of us remain; we are scattered like seeds and our powers are now obsolete. I do not know all who remain; communication is seldom now and I am the last of my generation.” Banou paused thoughtfully. “I will help if I can. Who is it you seek, my friend?”

Richard crouched forwards in his chair. “His name is Asharf Saeed Makkoum,” he said secretively, “and his Charge is Madame Naomi Vallogia. You know as well as I do that she is High Priestess of Atlantis and the Temple to Osiris.”

Banou took a sharp intake of breath. “You know more than any other!” he said, with widening eyes.

“Yes. But I was asked by Madame to say nothing of her position, her duties, or this brotherhood – under any circumstances – and that’s how it is.”

“So their lives are in danger?”

“I think so. And I intend to find them.”

“Asharf Makkoum is Niramyer to us in the Order,” said Banou, nodding his understanding of Richard’s sentiment. And then he raised a bony finger and pointed it at the closed wooden door. “Please . . . leave me for a short while, I am not practised, I will need to . . . chant a little and then try.”

Richard stood to leave.

“Brother Abijah will attend to your needs; he will bring more food.” With that Banou rang a small bell on his desk and moments later the door opened.

An African man with short, curly, white hair, dressed in the habit of a monk, turned and led Richard into another room. Richard sat down in a comfortable chair where there was a fire burning and agreed to another cup of black tea. He smiled at the man when the drink arrived.

The short, ageing man, who for no apparent reason had pulled his hood up, subsequently spent several minutes looking out through a leaded glass window. At one point he stood on a wooden dining chair and used an old ship’s telescope, which was on the window sill, to focus more closely on various points of interest that seemed beyond his gaze. Presently, he turned and spoke to Richard; he seemed concerned. “There is an unusual commotion outside,” he said in deep tones of perfect English. “The militia who invade our land seem agitated; there are lights,” he warned. “Are you with anyone?”

Richard nodded.

“The problem is not here but by the harbour – do you have . . . arrangements by the harbour?”

Richard nodded again. “My accomplice is down there. We are to meet a boat later. He’s . . . well he’s not very experienced at this sort of thing.”

The man shrugged. “They are always suspicious of us here in the scriptorium if someone new or unidentified is seen in the old town – there is no reason for an ‘outsider’ to be here. You must understand that these soldiers have little tolerance and their officers are offensive. They think that we are responsible for the unwanted tourists, the prying eyes, or perhaps foreign spies! In truth, no one ever comes here. I am sorry, but there may be trouble when you leave.”

Richard clasped his forehead in his hand and began rubbing his temples. “That’s all I need,” he said.

Just then the door to the room opened and Banou stepped in. He looked pale and drawn. He sat down in the high-backed chair opposite Richard’s and drew a deep breath. He let the heat from the fire warm him a little before speaking. “It is done – I have word,” he said calmly, but in the firelight he looked exhausted.

Richard instinctively glanced up at the other man.

Banou reached out and put a hand on Richard’s knee in a reassuring way. “We are all friends here,” he said.

“Where, then . . . ? Where is he . . . ? Banou!” Richard became agitated.

“He does not know where he is; only that he was forcibly taken and blindfolded. He left Cairo on an aeroplane – a small aeroplane; it was a narrow seat and he could not sit upright. The flight was about three hours. Madame Vallogia is with him – she came several days later – but not the Ark. He does not know where the Ark is. He thinks that almost a full cycle of the moon has passed since he was seized.”

“He has no knowledge of where he was taken – the town, the country . . . nothing? Damn!” Richard shook his head with disappointment. Then he contained himself; Banou had already wrought a miracle.

Banou shook his head. “He remains confused,” he added.

“What about Madame Vallogia? Is she hurt . . . ? Is she okay?”

“Madame Vallogia is well, but for how long he is uncertain. Niramyer says that their captives mean to experiment with her – her mind. They were visited by three men, perhaps two days ago; one was European and the other two are American. They asked questions and attached things to her head. They want information about her duties and things relating to the Ark, perhaps the old ways. Somehow they have knowledge of who she is.”

Richard’s face became grave. For some inexplicable reason he thought of Karl Rhinefeld, and their previous encounter. Rhinefeld was a trained interrogator as well as a murderer. Richard knew the man had no scruples. He hailed from Europe, East Germany, and was definitely back on the scene. Richard rubbed his brow in a troubled manner. Rhinefeld had previously worked for the Spheron Corporation. He hoped to God that he was wrong, but he feared for Naomi’s and Asharf’s safety. He looked hard at Banou. A burning log crackled in the fire. In his mind Richard searched for ideas about a rescue. He desperately needed more information about Asharf’s location. The room fell silent.

“Madame Vallogia has knowledge of some local landmarks,” Banou continued after a while. “This might help, might it not? She arrived at a large glass building in the daylight.”

“That’s it, Banou.” Richard stood. “Please, tell me everything Asharf said that she saw. Every detail.”

“It is not safe to leave by the front,” said Banou, slamming the heavy wooden door closed. “The militia are here. They are looking for you!”

“Nor is the back door safe!” shouted the white-haired curator running back into the hall. The building is surrounded.

“Upstairs then?” proposed Richard, pulling his balaclava back over his head.

Banou shook his head. “You will be trapped. The building is high and there is no way off the roof.”

Banou looked at Abijah. No words passed between them but an understanding did and immediately Abijah scurried away down a side hall only to disappear moments later into an anteroom.

“Follow me, there is one other way,” Banou said, and he moved quickly to the stairs that led down into the cellars.

Richard counted four landings and five flights and the deeper they went the more musty and overpowering grew the smell. At the bottom, in the bowels of the building, the wooden treads were near rotten. They waited in silence.

Abijah arrived carrying an object that was concealed in a green plastic bag. He was out of breath and as he negotiated the final flight of stairs – where they were damp and mouldy – he was careful to keep a steadying hand on the balustrade. When he was down, he seemed to cradle the object preciously in both hands. He nodded at Banou and smiled faintly. Banou turned towards Richard.

“Behind this door is an ancient tunnel,” Banou explained, in a solemn manner. “It leads directly to the sea. There is a narrow beach and nearby is the harbour. The tunnel forms part of the original foundations . . . when Adulis was the greatest port in Africa. It has not been used for, perhaps, two hundred years and at the other end is a stone wheel. It cannot be moved without a special key; without such a key it is impenetrable.” Banou gestured to the object being cradled by Abijah. “There is a mechanism built by the old people and long forgotten. Only two keys remain: the one Abijah carries and one other. They can be used only once, you will see. Abijah will close the great door behind you when you are safely outside. You will not be able to return by that way; you may not be able to return at all. Do you understand, my friend?”

Richard nodded. Banou pulled a ring of keys from beneath his djellaba. He used two smaller examples to unlock padlocks that secured metal straps across the thick wooden door and a third – a heavy patterned bronze key – to release the mortise lock. The enormous hinges were dry and corroded and the door took the effort of all three men to open it – even then it was levered only just enough for Richard and the smaller Abijah to slip through.

Tucked inside his leather belt, Abijah had the self-charging photoelectric torch that Richard had given to Banou on his previous visit. Abijah withdrew it and switched it on; the effect was to more than double the brightness given off by the single overhead bulb that hung down from the rafters, and it made the men squint momentarily before Abijah directed it down the tunnel.