“Having a breakdown, by the sound of it,” said Pete Turner.
Mom hadn’t quite finished. “Midi, le vingt-cinq Septembre.”
“What?” Ryan O’Keefe laughed. “Now she’s gone bilingual on us.”
“Mittag, der fünf und zwanzigste September.”
“Trilingual now.”
The computer-generated voice fell silent, leaving them to consider their situation again. Steve Romero had finally given up on his Mayday calls, joining the others.
“We’ve got a whole day and night to check this out and establish contact with mission control.” Jim Hilton stood up.
Jeff Thomas raised a hand. “What if we don’t get in contact? Do we burn up on the way down?”
“Probably not, though it could get warm. The ship’s programmed to get through even without help from Stevenson.”
“How about landing?”
The captain rubbed fingers through his thinning, pale blond hair. “I did it often enough on the simulators. But there isn’t any question of that happening, Jeff. Must be some sort of electrical interference up above the atmosphere. Once we break through, everything’ll be fine and we’ll be back on target again.”
Jim Hilton wished that his own voice had sounded a little more convincing.
IN THE NEXT FEW HOURS the crew of the Aquila began to piece together a partial picture of what had been happening during the second “sleep” of the two-year mission or, put another way, what hadn’t been happening.
It was like an infinitely complicated jigsaw puzzle with some vital sections missing or wiped clean.
Kyle found that the automatic cameras set up to record a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view around the big shuttle every fifteen minutes had malfunctioned.
“Got pix all the way up to ten months ago. Not long after we capsuled again. Then zilch.”
“Camera fault?” asked Jim Hilton, sitting in his pilot’s seat and receiving the variety of status reports from everyone.
“Comp-control failure emanating from Stevenson,” replied the navigator. “Most of the course-correction data ceases around the same point. Like they stopped caring about us.”
Pete Turner had been recalling some of the routine input tapes received by the Aquila while the crew were in their state of suspended animation. Normally that would have been one of the jobs of the late Bob Rogers.
“They stop, as well, Captain. Ten months ago. Everything since then is blank.”
Jim Hilton closed his eyes. “Shit,” he said wearily. “Think this is some sort of exercise? One of their fun little tests?”
Mac was leaning on the back of his seat and he laughed. “Too realistic for one of their realistic simulations, isn’t it?”
“Guess so. You got any ideas? You been around longer than any of us.”
McGill shrugged. “Eighty years ago I’d have said the Commie bastards had come out of their tunnels and started the next… the last world war. But now… I really don’t know. Could there be any clues on the news tapes?”
Jim Hilton called up Jed Herne. “Mac suggests a look at the most recent news input tapes in the return familiarization section of the library. Can you do that now?”
“Sure thing.”
The ex-quarterback made his way along toward the stern of the shuttle, up a narrow ladder, his old knee injury barely noticeable.
He called back to the captain almost immediately. “Tapes stop. Nothing incoming and recorded since the middle of January. Fifteenth. Usual two-minute updated bulletin. All the earlier ones are there.”
“Put it through, Jed.”
“Last one?”
“Sure.”
“Hey!”
“What is it?”
Jed sounded puzzled. “Just noticed. The tapes after January. It’s not that they never came in, though… Oh, I get it. From January through to the beginning of April they came in on schedule, but something happened then to instigate self-erase mode. Yet there’s no command record here.”
Jim Hilton glanced across at his number two, raising his eyebrows. But Marcey didn’t offer any kind of response.
“Yeah. After the start of April they never came in no more. Nothing. Whatever happened to freak out the comps on the ship must…it must’ve happened between the middle of January and the middle part of April.”
“Put the last one on the intercom, Jed. Might be something in it.”
“Sure. Here it is.”
The voice was male, perfectly calm and ordinary. Jim recognized it as belonging to the broadcaster whom he’d met down at Stevenson on one of the media picnics.