Deanna slumped back on the couch and watched as the holo projection of a news reader – sat (virtually) on the high back chair opposite – read news that was at once anticipated and expected. The young woman’s face: the perfect professional picture of solemnity. Delivery of these unwelcome words likewise measured.
‘The ship, the Farquest, containing the three passengers, Scott Alendry, Joshua Adams and Dr Fredrick Lichman, was believed to have had a serious engine malfunction.
‘The remains have yet to be recovered...’
Deanna ordered the projection to stop. She’d listened to updated versions of this programme all of twenty times, hoping with each new report there would be something – at least evidence that he would never be returning, rather than what amounted to no more than speculation; there was always the expert detailing how such cutting edge technology inevitably carried a risk of catastrophic failure. But then there were many questions to answer: the space agency having to face legal proceedings from the Canadian government they were contracted to. Potentially, if they were found to be wilfully negligent, they could end up being hauled before the international court. Commercially sponsored space agencies were bound by a strict code; their only defence might lay in the mission contract. But it was looking to the world that they had been inveigled by a wealthy developer to send their flagship craft on a hurried mission.
Deanna, however, would not accept Scott was dead. Not until she had evidence. And sitting here waiting was pointless. There was nothing she could get on with; work was impossible: even though she’d refused any interviews with the media, word had gotten around that she was the partner of the key architect, and now they were hounding her for insights into his life. Who could blame them really: Scott appeared to have – to have had – the perfect life. It was indeed a good story, albeit a tragic one for the world to see. And she was expected to play the part of the grieving partner.
Except they were not going to get their story. At least not until she had got to the truth.
One advantage Deanna’s new recognition had brought her was a direct line to the Canadian Independent Space Agency’s official representative. She patched through using the holo interface, her ident immediately recognisable. For once she didn’t care about looking unkempt in her lounging clothes; it somehow seemed fitting in her situation. The man appeared where the news reader had once been, sitting bolt upright behind a desk, in a smart suit, probably fresh from another media grilling if not a government one.
‘Ah, Miss Flores,’ the man said, stress evident in his voice. ‘How can I be of assistance?’
‘You can start by telling me what you really know.’
‘I can only tell you what I have already told the By-partisan Judicial Committee: we have yet to find any trace evidence but are continuing our investigation.’
‘So absolutely no progress from last time?’
‘I am very sorry Miss Flores, I known this must be a very distressing time for you, but as soon as we make a significant discovery---’
‘I think you’re hiding something, perhaps if the truth got out it would be highly damaging to your organisation. I’m not just talking about safety issues, negligence thereof, I think there’s something more to it … someone.’
‘It must be difficult to come to terms with---’
‘Oh please, I don’t need another sympathetic line. Just look me in the eyes and tell me there was nothing more to that ship’s disappearance than you have told the BJC or the media.’
The man stared at her blankly for a while. ‘There’s nothing I can tell you other than we suspect the ship malfunctioned.’
‘And just disintegrated? Shouldn’t something have detected it – a telescope. It would have been one heck of an explosion.’
‘Perhaps we should discuss this in person. You are welcome to visit out headquarters.’
‘Perhaps I will.’ His image then vanished.
Less than a minute had passed before a visitor called. The sensor showed a man holding up some kind of plastic pass onto which the camera zoomed: WASD, agent Ebon Standford, Western Alliance Security Directorate.
She felt at once fear and suspicion: there was something strange about that man’s appearance – the dark suit, the hat. But then she felt suspicious of many people these days. And after a couple of minutes of seeing him with that fixed expression and unwavering intense stare, she knew he was not going just walk away.
As she opened the door Deanna was taken aback by just how tall this man was. She was slightly above average height herself but hardly reaching his chest level.
‘Ma’am,’ he said. ‘You must leave this place immediately.’
She thought she was about to say something back in the two seconds before he raised the blue-glowing device.
***