Gary Gibson - Final Days

At the centre of the concourse was a recreation and dining area, consisting of several low buildings and open-air restaurants surrounding a paved courtyard, where a small fountain stood in the middle, surrounded by shrubs. Saul looked around, but there was still no sign of life. If Mitchell was really determined to prevent him from shutting down the gates, he was certainly taking his time about it.

Saul made his way towards an elevator set into a recess beneath a plaque reading ‘ARRAY SECURITY AND IMMIGRATION’. His shoes squeaked slightly on the polished floor of the silent concourse, sounding unnaturally loud to his ears.

Something suddenly clattered to the ground at an indeterminate distance away. Glancing immediately towards the row of Black Dogs, Saul noticed that the same one that had tracked him earlier was now turning to face the other way, as if something on the far side of the recreation area had drawn its attention meanwhile.

Something, or someone?

It had to be Mitchell. He was obviously hiding somewhere close, and Saul wondered what he was waiting for. He took a firmer grip on the Cobra, ignoring the rapid tattoo that his heart was beating against the inside of his chest, and tapped on the weapon’s screen so that it integrated with his contacts. Targeting information instantly superimposed itself over everything he saw.

He scurried towards the elevators, crouching low, passed through a cordon that would normally be manned. Recognizing his UP, one of the elevators opened at his approach. Saul stepped inside, pressing his back against the interior wall, while aiming the Cobra back in the direction he had come.

Just before the doors closed, he caught sight of movement somewhere by the fountain. Mitchell, he decided: it couldn’t possibly be anyone else.

THIRTY

Lunar Array, 11 February 2235

Saul logged into the Array’s localized security network. As he stepped into the lobby of the operations room, he saw personal belongings scattered on desks and jackets hooked over the backs of chairs, as if the staff here had simply got up in the middle of their work and departed en masse. Perhaps, he thought, that was exactly what they had done, and he wondered just how much warning they’d received. If that was the case, had they chosen to flee, or simply gone back home to be with their loved ones?

He slung the Cobra back over his shoulder, its targeting data fading the moment his fingers released the barrel. Moving on quickly, past the empty desks and workstations, he began activating the code given him by Hanover. A further layer of information appeared on top of his usual UP overlay, guiding him towards the single elevator that serviced the executive suites assigned to the members of the ASI’s directorate. It carried him yet further below the lunar surface, depositing him in a carpeted corridor, where he headed past conference rooms and numerous locked doors until he was guided to the suite of offices belonging to Thomas Fowler, the Director of the ASI himself.

The door was locked, and there didn’t appear to be an option in the EDP overlay that would allow him to bypass it. He swore softly under his breath, then unslung the Cobra and fired a short burst directly into the door. It swung inwards as if it had been kicked.

Saul entered to see an enormous oak desk to one side, a couch and several leather armchairs on the other, along with a wall-sized display of a beach at sunset.

The EDP overlay drew him towards Fowler’s desk. As he sat down in the chair, the surface of the desk automatically came to life, with sets of icons floating above its surface. He followed the overlay’s instructions, reaching out to one icon in particular and once again entering Hanover’s code.

Hearing a click from somewhere next to his knee, Saul pushed the chair back to find one of the desk drawers had slid open. He dipped a hand inside and withdrew a single unmarked keycard.

He stared at it dry-mouthed. It looked so innocuous for something that could change the fate of the human race. That caused a momentary flicker of doubt, and he wondered if perhaps Hanover had tricked him deliberately, and the keycard served some other purpose.

Only one way to find out.

He stood up, letting the overlay guide him to a single unmarked door at the far end. The door was locked but a single slot, at waist height, was just about the right size to accommodate the keycard. Saul inserted it and the door swung open with ease.

Saul retrieved the keycard and let the door swing shut behind him. He found himself standing in a functional-looking space that was almost as large as the office itself. Apart from a couple of terminals facing each other from opposite walls, the room was entirely bare.

This, then, was the secret terminal room that Hanover had told him of.

Security menus appeared as Saul walked further into the room. He waved them to one side, while the overlay directed him towards the terminal set against the right-hand wall. He stepped right up to it, more menus appearing around him. He scanned them quickly, then reached out to touch one in particular. Following its instructions, he then re-entered the access code.

With one trembling hand, he placed the keycard into a slot and waited to see what happened next.

Nothing.

Of course . He’d almost forgotten Hanover’s warning that the two-man rule was only rescinded when one of the pair of security servers fell out of contact with the other.

Maybe, he surmised, that was the reason the Copernicus–Florida gate had never been shut down. Maybe the paired servers had stayed in contact with each other until it was much too late, and the force devastating the Earth had done the same to Copernicus.

If that was the case, maybe he was going to need someone else’s help after all. He slammed a fist against the wall next to the terminal in fury, nearly weeping with frustration.

At that moment, he heard the sound of movement through the door leading back into Fowler’s office.

Saul gripped the Cobra close to his chest, remembering the speed with which Mitchell had moved inside the lander.

He stepped cautiously back out into the main office, swinging the barrel of his weapon from side to side.

Nothing to be seen.

He licked his lips and moved on past the desk, and towards the ruined door.

From of the corner of his eye, he saw part of the image in the wall-display move, the beach-front houses rippling. The scene looked like it might be somewhere in the Florida Keys.

Too late, he realized it was a trooper with his chameleon circuitry activated. Saul caught a brief flash of an angry face before something slammed into his skull with terrible force, plunging him into darkness.

Saul woke to the smell of smoke and an intensely bright light shining into one eye.

‘He checks out,’ said a voice from somewhere close by. ‘Minor concussion, but that’s it.’

‘Fine,’ said a second voice, as the light receded.

Someone kicked Saul in the shin. ‘Get the hell up,’ ordered the second voice.

With a groan, Saul heaved himself upright. He looked around to see he was back on the concourse that served the Copernicus– Florida gate. Six troopers – four men and two women – stood in a semicircle gazing down at him, where he had been propped against the wheel of an APC. Their faces streaked with grime, their eyes uniformly bloodshot, they looked more like the walking wounded than anything else.

‘Where the hell did you come from?’ asked Saul, rubbing at the back of his neck. He noticed that the owner of the second voice was a man in his late thirties, his sandy hair cropped short above frightened eyes. The UP ident floating next to his head identified him as a Colonel Bailey.