2053

William Todd

Description

The novel 2053 is the first volume of the New Life trilogy. This book sets the scene for science fiction sequels. 2053 is a story of human frailty, endeavour and ambition with episodes of murder, sexual indiscretion and exploitation taking place in a futuristic world. The novel is quick paced with apparently unrelated events leading to the search for a mysterious girl. Parallel to the search, the story follows the preparedness of the spacecraft New Life.

Sujets

• Science fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Date de parution: 31 mai 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781528954174
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

2053
William Todd
Austin Macauley Publishers
2019-05-31
2053 About the Author About the Book Copyright Information Prologue Chapter 1 Fryston, England March 2053 Chapter 2 Fryston March 2053 Chapter 3 London March 2053 Chapter 4 Ogdean Industries HQ Early April 2053 Chapter 5 York April 2053 Chapter 6 New York April 2053 Chapter 7 Milan April 2053 Chapter 8 Fryston April 8, 2053 Chapter 9 Dubai April 11, 2053 Chapter 10 Milan April 13, 2053 Chapter 11 New York April 15, 2053 Chapter 12 Milan April 17 Chapter 13 Southwest America April 17, 2053 Chapter 14 London April 18 Chapter 15 Mojave Desert April 20, 2053 Chapter 16 Space City April 20, 2053 Chapter 17 Fryston April 22, 2053 Chapter 18 Milan April 27, 2053 Chapter 19 Rome April 29, 2053 Chapter 20 Arona April 30, 2053 Chapter 21 Space City April 30, 2053 Chapter 22 Rome April 30, 2053 Chapter 23 Switzerland April 30, 2053 Chapter 24 Rome May 1, 2053 Chapter 25 Germany May 1, 2053 Chapter 26 Greece May 3, 2053 Chapter 27 New Life May 3, 2053 Chapter 28 Arctic Circle May 4, 2053 Chapter 29 Greece May 3, 2053 Chapter 30 Arctic Circle May 4, 2053 Chapter 31 New Life May 9, 2053
About the Author
The author was brought up in the Lake District before moving to Leeds to take a graduate course at Leeds University. In 1966, he graduated with a degree in Engineering. After a long career, at home and abroad, in the mining and oil industries, he returned to Leeds and took a PGCE, specialising in Physics and Technology. He retired after a fifteen-year teaching career. The author still lives in Leeds.
About the Book
The novel  2053  is the first volume of the  New Life  trilogy. This book sets the scene for science fiction sequels.
2053  is a story of human frailty, endeavour and ambition with episodes of murder, sexual indiscretion and exploitation taking place in a futuristic world. The novel is quick paced with apparently unrelated events leading to the search for a mysterious girl. Parallel to the search, the story follows the preparedness of the spacecraft New Life.
Copyright Information
Copyright © William Todd (2019)
The right of William Todd to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781788480871 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781788480888 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781528954174 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Prologue
Ronald Viljoen’s transport plane flew over the eastern shore of Lake Baikal and descended towards the city of Ulan-Ude, capital of the Russian Republic of Buryatia. Ulan-Ude was an important hub, being situated at the confluence of the Ude and Selenga rivers. In addition, it was located at the junction of the Trans-Siberian Railway and the Trans-Mongolian Railway, which routed south to China. The pilot flew low over the sprawling conurbation so that Viljoen could clearly see the huge railway sidings and the branch line extending to the military base, located twenty miles north of the city. As the aircraft followed the route of the railway line towards the landing strip, Viljoen could not miss the long line of bogies loaded with large elongated crates.
The rockets, he thought.
Just before landing, the pilot skimmed over a trio of aircraft hangars. Viljoen knew that they did not contain jet fighters or bombers, but something equally as lethal. On touchdown, a jeep scuttled out from the bowels of the control tower to collect the South African and his two technicians, while the pilot taxied the plane to a fourth small hangar to unload his cargo. After a five-minute drive, the three visitors arrived at the Base Headquarters, a less-than-impressive ramshackle brick and timber building, surrounded by numerous wooden barracks. General Pelotsin, Commander of the Eastern Army, awaited them. The technicians were escorted to guest quarters while Viljoen joined the General in his office. Refreshments and vodka immediately appeared and the two men toasted each other’s health.
“To our future,” said Pelotsin as he raised his glass.
Viljoen acknowledged the toast and replied, “I don’t know how you survive in this god-forsaken place, Lev.”
“It suits our purposes, Ronald. I am 3,500 miles from Moscow’s prying eyes. I can do as I please without fear of discovery. Once our little project is up and running, I shall clamour for a return to the comfort and security of a desk job in the capital.”
“We should be ready in about six months. I noticed the rockets have arrived. How will you get them to the launch site?”
“Not a major problem. I intend to extend the branch line to the preparation area. It’s about three miles and will only take two weeks to complete. The rockets will be ready to receive their payload long before your six months is up.”
The multistage Angora B5 rockets had fortuitously fallen into the hands of General Pelotsin a few weeks earlier. They had previously been housed at the Vostochy Cosmodrome in Eastern Russia. As soon as the conflict with China escalated, it was thought prudent to relocate the hardware to the Plesotch site near Archangel. General Pelotsin had been tasked with organising the transfer. He saw the opportunity to acquire the devices for his own purposes and reported that as the train was approaching Udan-Ude, one of the containers located close to the ten tankers of rocket fuel had caught fire. The General told his Moscow masters that he suspected sabotage and, for the safety of the city, had diverted the train to the branch line serving the military base. The hierarchy believed his story and soon lost interest in the fate of the rockets. At the next strategic command meeting, the Premier dismissively announced, “Leave them where they are for now. We are not in a position to pursue our planned space programme under the present circumstances.”
There were no objections to his statement. No one in the room wanted to propose, or ratify, the decision to proceed with the dispatch of a potentially dangerously explosive goods train through the densely populated cities of Ulan-Ude and Omsk. Ĺ few weeks later, there were no questions or objections when Pelotsin informed them that he intended to build a launch pad and adapt the space rockets as missiles launchers to be used as a weapon of last resort.
Once lunch was over, the General rose from his chair and smilingly declared, “Shall we go and inspect the troops, Ronald, before we go to the cargo hangar and open the packages that you brought in?”
The jeep carried the two men to the nearest of the large hangars, where they entered via a small side door. The inside of the building was hugely dark and eerie, but surprisingly, the air around them felt warm and comfortable. Viljoen instinctively looked up at a big illuminated thermometer that hung from the roof. The readout said ‘37 o C’.
“Perfect,” he declared.
As they moved away from the door, subdued lighting automatically triggered to illuminate the way. Apart from a computer console that occupied the centre of the hangar, the entire floor space was taken up with a rectangular grid of hospital-type trollies placed a small distance from each other. Each trolley carried a coffin-like container. However, the caskets did not contain corpses but soon-to-be-alive male soldiers. The grid comprised a row of one hundred trollies by a column of eighty, giving a total force of eight hundred men. The configuration was repeated in the other two large hangars.
Viljoen stopped to examine the contents of the first casket as they walked towards the computer control centre. He looked down through the porous, transparent membrane to see the wholly formed skull, covered with a layer of gelatinous material. Nose, mouth and ears were beginning to take shape. The eyes were already formed and open, peering sightlessly up at the vast network of tubes and cables that were suspended from the roof.
“Things are looking good,” commented the scientist as they progressed along the aisle. On arrival at the console, he inputted several commands and was rewarded with a status report on the display screen.
“All units viable and on schedule. There are no anomalies and no failures,” Viljoen informed the General.
“So when will the first detachment of my new army be ready for combat training? The situation in Kamchatka is becoming grave. Although the quality of our troops is superior, we are being overwhelmed by sheer weight of numbers and the High Command refuse to let me deploy tactical nuclear weapons.”
“We can begin brain feed within a month. Gently at first, to stimulate basic functions. Complete programming will take a further two weeks.”
The two men examined the other hangars with the same satisfactory result.
“Excellent,” enthused General Pelotsin. “This will give those Chinese peasants something to think about. Now let’s go examine our own salvation.”
The jeep took them on to the small hangar, where the offloaded packages were waiting. The contents contained the culmination of Viljoen’s life’s work and his death’s ambitions.
Ronald Viljoen and General Lev Pelotsin had met two years earlier at the Luxor Hotel in Nairobi. The fifty-three-year-old tiny, rotund South African’s appearance contrasted with that of the tall, slim, dynamic seventy-two-year-old Russian. Despite the physical differences, the two quickly became friends. Viljoen was in Africa to oversee the upgrade of one of h