The Unearthing (16 page)

“I was planning on recruiting you for this project before the incident aboard Concord 3 Lieutenant-Colonel. You simply forced me to change methods and the timetable. However this project is too important to hand to someone who has a problem with their commanding officer. You and I both work for the same government for the same reasons: to defend this country and in our particular fields to improve upon this country’s defences. The benefits to you will outweigh the inconvenience of being recruited. And this project is not at cross-purposes of my intention of keeping you the fuck out of the way. I can deposit you elsewhere, Bloom. Probably somewhere you wouldn’t even work as hard as you will at the Facility. But I will not put you to work at the Facility unless I know you will respect my authority. The choice is yours.”

She’d heard the phrase “through the looking glass” used before. Now Bloom was beginning to understand the true context of it. And she also understood that she wanted this. She wanted the Bug more than anything else on earth.

“I’m in,” she said, meeting Harrod’s for the first time since entering his office, her eyes bright with want, with desire, “I’m in, General.” Harrod nodded and keyed a new sequence into his console. The images on the large screen changed. Bloom was now looking at a single Bug, though this one was far from damaged. It stood proud on very insect-like struts, glistening. Its upper and lower sections were bisected from stem to stern by a narrow band of brilliant blue energy.

“We built one?” Bloom asked.

“No,” Harrod replied, “This is the undamaged Bug. The first one was beyond salvage and so we’ve spent countless decades trying to reverse engineer it, occasionally going to the this Bug to see what we could understand. It’s been our control craft, left almost completely untouched except when absolutely necessary. However after the Ship unearthed itself, this second, more salvageable vessel began to…” he seemed about to say
heal
, “Repair itself. This image, taken today would appear to be the end result.”

“Holy shit…”

“Yes. Your job will be to learn as much as you can from the active Bug.”

“Does that include…no, never mind.” She said.

“Does it include what?” Harrod asked. She looked at him, hopeful, embarrassed and angry with herself for feeling like a kid being given a new bike for her birthday.

“Does that include…
flying
…the Bug, General?” Harrod sat back in his chair, a poorly suppressed smile on his lips. He knew he had her then. And she knew it, too. She hated herself because she knew she truly didn’t care.

“Possibly,” He said, “Once a proper risk-assessment has been made. I take it you want the assignment?”

“Hell yeah,” Bloom rasped.

“We leave for Nevada in thirty minutes.”

♦♦♦

The sun had long since set, the dark, enhanced by the cold storm overhead took reign in the skies over Ottawa. The Minister was watching INN and he’d moved his console over to the coffee table by the bay window in his office. It was cold and dark out now, the rain turning to sleet. Bitter October weather. It had been a long and difficult day, the escalating Montreal crisis keeping him at the office far longer than even he’d expected to stay. He was reclined on a couch on the wall adjacent to the window, watching the news system’s latest gridcast. His back was a screaming web of cold, dull aching and on his console screen a news anchor was explaining that the leader of the United Trinity Observants had set up an open church in the Village around the Ship. A reporter relaying the information back to the studio was discussing the alarmingly large crowds that kept coming to the services.

“These services are held every three hours and nearly always presided over by Gabriel Ashe, himself,” The reporter said, “And he uses each sermon to attack the Ship, calling it everything from the tool of the Devil to the Temple of Death.”

The Minister tapped the screen to select a viewing of one of Ashe’s sermons. Onscreen Gabriel Ashe appeared behind his pulpit, staring blandly out at the audience; his manner and expression calm, serene, almost apathetic. His eyes were manic, shifting constantly, the pupils dilated, the whites bloodshot.

“And yea did an Angel of the Lord speak unto Me,” Ashe said in his dispassionate monotone, “And this Angel did say that the signs of the end are all around us, plainly visible to all who wish to see. Are we not here now gathered in a place where the night has been made into day? Are people not already fighting over who shall posses this golden idol? The earth has opened up to reveal the gates of the Ancient Prison.” Ashe delivered his sermon in a flat lifeless voice. And yet the audience was held in sway. The Minister was disturbed by the image.

Ashe continued: “The Ship is the forbear of grievous evil My children. And it has offered itself up to us as a new God, an idolatrous obscenity, a graven image to be worshipped in God’s stead. This Ship is an affront to My Father and His Father. Whatsoever displeases Me displeases My Father. Whatsoever displeases Me displeases the Lord. The Ship is an obscenity. The Angel of the Lord showed Me. I was taken to the Valley of the Pyramid where I was shown the future. The Angel of the Lord showed Me how people would flock here, worshipping the Ship and turning away from God. The Angel of the Lord showed Me how the Antichrist would come in boiling black clouds; how those who worshipped at this unholy altar called the Ship would summon the Antichrist, the destroyer, the eater of the soul. We must stop the Ship. We must keep it from claiming the souls it needs to open the way for its hideous creator. So say I, so sayeth the Lord.” The image paused and there was a curt ping from the console. The Minister toggled his earpiece.

“Yes, Diane?”

“Minister, there’s a courier here to see you,” The Minister froze a moment. He hadn’t thought of the British Ambassador’s cryptic linx all day. He’d forgotten somehow; not simply put it out of his mind. So another mystery was about to be solved.

“Send him in, Diane.” He shut down his console, got up and straightened his shirt and tie. The courier knocked on the door to the inner office twice before stepping in. The courier wore a suit but the line looked a little bulky for his frame. The Minister suspected he was probably wearing body armour and wondered at the nature of what was in the metallic case shackled to his wrist. The courier put the case on the table and opened a panel on its side. He pulled out a reader, the chain shackling him to the case giving him enough reach to use both hands.

“Minister, I’ll need to confirm your identity with your eye print,”

“Of course,” The Minister said, taking the reader from him. The reader had a binocular-like device on its side. The Minister brought this up to his eyes. A dim red light shone into his eyes. The light changed gradually from red to green. He handed the reader back to the courier.

“Confirmed,” The courier said a moment later. He replaced the device and opened the case. Inside was a sealed diplomatic pouch. The courier took a second reader from within the briefcase, detached a track pen from its side and began filling in a small form displayed on its screen. He then turned to the Minister.

“Please verify Minister, that the seals on the pouch are intact and sign this,” The Minister studied the pouch and took the reader from the courier, signing it and returning it to him. The courier scrolled to another part of the form. He noted the date and time and then handed the pouch over to the Minister. The Minister took it and then the reader was proffered again.

“Please sign that you have received the package, Minister” The Minister did. The courier packed up the device, bid the Minister good evening and left.

The Minister toggled his inter office link. “Diane, you might as well go home. Lock up behind you. I’ll set the alarm when I leave.”

“Sir, try to get some sleep tonight.”

“You too Diane. Sorry I kept you so late. Knock off early on Friday. Say around ten AM. Any later and I’ll have to fire you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Thank you, Diane.” The Minister heard her leave a moment later. He sat down at his desk, looking at the envelope before him. The first thing he’d noticed after taking receipt of the package was how light it was. He opened it. A lot of packing material held a single hard-sealed letter. It was labelled in angry red letters with the inscription

TOP SECRET: DEFENCE MINISTER’S EYES ONLY!

The Minister opened the envelope. The letter inside was printed on real paper as opposed to a reprintable magnetic sheet and was written in the precise, deliberate hand of the former Defence Minister.

Minister,

You have come to this office because either I have retired or been replaced. Whether I have been replaced through death, election, or cabinet shuffle is unimportant. Whether we are from the same party or not is irrelevant. We are both mandated by this office to protect the lives of Canadian Citizens. For this reason I must ask that you pay close attention to the words in this letter. You must follow these instructions precisely, because to do otherwise would be to put the lives of all Canadians and indeed the lives of everyone in the world in danger. Secrecy is of the utmost. If you will not abide by these conditions this letter must be destroyed and the case returned through the same messenger that brought it. Instructions on how to contact this messenger are printed on the last page of this letter. I urge you to stop now and consider the importance of the rest of what I have to say and your ability to commit to it before you read any further.

If you are reading further you should know that you are bound by the First Sealed Clause of the Official Secrets Act. At the end of your first day as Defence Minister I trust you have already been made aware of the Sealed Clauses of the Act. If not read no further until you have been. You are now one of nine people who at any given time sit on a secret international body known as The Committee: from Great Britain the head of MI-6, the Ambassador to Canada and the Defence Minister. From Canada, the Defence Minister, the Minister of Natural Resources and the Solicitor General. From the United States the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the White House Chief of Staff and of all people the Curator of the Smithsonian Institute.

In order for the Committee to sit, two thirds of its members must be present. An informal group of councillors made up of former chairs of the Committee advise us. The Committee was founded just after World War Two, in 1946. During a joint British-Canadian archaeological dig in the Alberta Badlands a ship of alien origin was unearthed. It had been there at least sixty million years.

“Now, doesn’t that sound familiar?” The Minister murmured.

The Committee’s sole purpose is to catalogue, where possible acquire and study any and all artifacts of alien origin. We have been able to adapt many technologies form these artifacts for use here on Earth. Others still remain a mystery. You were instructed earlier by another member of the Committee to contact them after you had received this package. At twenty-three fifty-nine hours tonight use whatever method was described to you by that person to contact them. If you have already missed that window repeat at one-fifty-nine and if necessary again at three-fifty-nine. Cease all attempts to contact for the night, should the last contact not be made. Resume contact attempts again at twenty-three fifty-nine tomorrow night. If you fail to meet a final rendezvous time of twenty-three-fifty-nine the day after tomorrow we will assume you have defaulted and I will resume my post on the Committee. If you keep your appointment you will be fully briefed on the Committee and the organization it commands. If you stay with the Committee, Minister then I congratulate you and promise to pray for you. Because nothing that can be said will prepare you for the burden of what it is we do. Dispose of this letter in the manner your contact specifies and good luck to you.

The Minister checked his watch. It was a quarter to one. Looked like he’d have a little bit of a wait and plenty of time to reflect on whether or not he wanted to make the contact. He sat back and pondered this latest turn of events. If he’d had all this to do over again, he thought, looking at the cold rain dropping down from the black sky, he would have told the Prime Minister to go to Hell. He still had the option of not calling, of leaving the Committee to the former occupier of this office. It would require no effort on his part; all he’d have to do was not send a linx on channel QU137 and he’d be free. But the Minister
knew
. He knew with a certainty that weighed heavily on his heart that he could no more refuse the Committee than he could have refused the Prime Minister when he was first offered the Defence portfolio. Although the Ship had removed much mystique from the prospect of aliens coming to Earth, the Minister had too many questions following the letter he’d read to refuse. He also had a duty to the Canadian people. He had been given this portfolio and the Committee was, although not what he’d been expecting, part of that portfolio. The Minister counted down the time remaining until he was to contact the British Ambassador. Time stretched agonizingly; the combination of the late hour, the long day and the news he had just read swamping his system.

He was alert and exhausted all at once and he doubted he’d be able to get much sleep tonight without assistance. He just hoped that there was a joint left in the pack at home because at this hour there wouldn’t be anyplace he could buy another pack. The RDCBO, the Recreational Drug Control Board of Ontario, would be closed until nine in the morning. He’d need some relief tonight--this morning really--if he were to get any sleep. Finally it was time to place the call. And now the Minister found he still hesitated. It only took a moment and the British Ambassador was onscreen, looking at him.