Box Full of Bots

By Peter Barns

In the serene waters off Scotland's coast, an otherworldly event shatters the tranquility: an alien spaceship crashes into the sea. Now, amidst the wreckage, two rival factions converge with one goal — to seize the extraterrestrial technology that could redefine power on Earth.
Meanwhile, Dylan Headley's quiet midnight swim becomes a dive into adventure and danger when he encounters a mysterious girl. Little does he know, their meeting sparks a chain reaction of alliances and betrayals that will test his courage and loyalty to the limits.
In this gripping tale of discovery and peril, Dylan Headley navigates a thrilling journey where love, ambition, and the unknown collide with earth-shattering consequences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Barns
• Release date: Jun 13, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224715831

Peter Barns

Author - Poet - Versifier Born in Harlsden on the outskirts of London in 1943, Peter Barns spent his formative years living beside Regent's Park. Educated at a Secondary Modern school, he left with just one qualification in 'O' Level Art. Passing through a variety of occupations after leaving school, he finally ended up working in the construction industry as an electrician. After taking his City & Guilds, he became an electrical engineer and spent the next twenty years working on building sites. Somewhere in there he got married and divorced - a couple of times - and had two children. He moved to the Highlands of Scotland in the late 1980's along with his partner. With the move came a new occupation - counselling people with alcohol and drug problems - which he did for six years before managing a charitable company recycling redundant computers back into the community. Now retired he spends his time writing, and refurbishing houses. I love my mind: it takes me to fabulous places where strange creatures roam. A land unseen and unexplored. A visage reflecting the faces I've seen, the words I've heard and dreams yet to come. Peter Barns 2014

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Class 3 Advanced Robotic Piloting System slid the spaceship through a local twist in the space-time continuum nexus and emerged on the dark side of the moon. It quickly engaged the stealth shield and checked the ship’s systems, then sent a message back to its home planet, Thiri. The message would take a long time to reach the Zru galaxy in which Thiri was located, but this didn’t influence ARP3’s calculations because it was an independent entity and could take the actions required once it had completed its scan.

ARP3 contained a conglomeration of pinsectors in a spherical chamber the size of an Earth football. It had a computing speed one hundred to the power of ten times faster than any computer system currently in use on Earth, the planet it was heading towards. Thiri had been observing Earth for millennia because The Great Conglomerate had calculated the occupants were well on their way towards an extinction event.

ARP3 settled the ship into an orbit that allowed the calculation of many metrics and recordings to be made. At the end of the analysis, it would take the required action to fulfil its orders.

Having no further responsibilities at present, ARP3 shut itself down.

On the thirteenth revolution, Arp3 detected a breach in the ship’s after section and came back online. A piece of the space junk that constantly circled the blue planet had slipped through the detectors and punched into the engine cavity, damaging the stealth shield circuitry and the laser-ion propulsion unit. Although ARP3 reacted quickly by rerouting the supply through another Trion cluster, the shield had been offline for a few vital seconds, leaving the spaceship open to detection. Unable to repair the engine damage while in flight, ARP3 prepared the ship for a crash landing.

The spaceship hit the waters of the Inner Sound off Applecross in the UK’s Scottish Highlands at a hundred kilometres an hour, ending up forty metres below sea level. The plunge created a spout of water nearly two hundred metres high, which splashed down on an isolated rocky field of the peninsula, frightening a flock of sheep peacefully grazing the stubby grass.

ARP3 shut down all unnecessary services and set about checking the integrity of the spaceship.

Apart from a few dents and the damage to the rear section, the ship had landed intact. ARP3 quickly used a self-sealing goo to plug the small hole in the hull. The stealth shield was back online and holding steady, but the engine would take time to repair. Although the ship was in stealth mode, as an extra precaution, ARP3 set the trinbute pockets around the ship’s circumference to vibrate. Slowly the big ship sank into the seabed, burying itself just under the surface.

Satisfied the spaceship had suffered no permanent damage, ARP3 opened a section of the central chamber and slid out the duplicator apparatus. The first bots off the printer were for the Inspection and Repair of the engine. As soon as each one was printed, the IRBs quickly scuttled off and began the complicated repairs.

Finally, ARP3 set the printer on a new task and switched itself back to standby.

Chapter 2

Dylan Headley ran his fingers through his thick mop of black hair, turning his head from side to side as he examined it.

Needs a trim, he mumbles. I’ll get Dawn to ...

He falters to a stop, his dark brown eyes misting with tears.

It was nearly a year since his girlfriend had died—when some stupid idiot pulled out from a side road in front of her bike without looking. Dylan was following Dawn on his new metallic blue Suzuki GSX Tourer when the accident happened. Until a few weeks ago, he still saw the whole thing as a slow-motion replay that repeated itself over and over in his nightmares.

Christ! He could still smell the burning rubber as her bike snaked along the tarmac, too late to do anything other than smash into the side of the van. Slamming on his own brakes, he’d been lucky not to follow her as she somersaulted over the roof of the vehicle, landing five metres away with a sickening thud. Her helmet and leathers did little to stop the damage to her body as she rolled beneath the front wheel of a lorry travelling in the opposite direction.

With angry swipes from the back of his forefingers, Dylan swept away the tears, swallowing back the threatening sobs. It had taken him months of psychiatric help before he could shake off the constant anger that bored itself deep into his mind. He had jumped off his bike and attacked the driver of the van, leaving him with a broken cheek, three missing teeth, and many cuts and bruises. If the lorry driver, himself traumatised by running over Dawn, had not pulled him off the unconscious driver, Dylan knew in his heart that he would have kept beating the man until he was dead.

He had been lucky not to end up in prison.

Dylan growls low in his throat and spreads his hands on the bathroom wall, his head hung low between his shoulders. He shook his head, and took some slow, deep belly breaths to disperse the anger—just as his psychologist had taught him to. Dealing with it was getting easier, but he still felt like something had broken deep inside him. Something that would be impossible to fix.

Even after all these months, every time he saw a white van, it still poked and prodded at him, bringing a shortness of breath and a sudden flood of rage.

Turning from the wall, Dylan leaves the en-suite and grabs his rucksack, full to the top with clothes and other odds and ends he thinks he might need on his holiday. He picks up his helmet and takes one last look around his bedroom, checking he had left nothing behind. Satisfied, he thumps his way downstairs into the old-fashioned lounge.

Seated on a small settee opposite the TV, his parents watch a gardening programme.

That’s me all ready to go, Dylan says as he sets his rucksack on the floor.

His mother stands and gives him a hug. You sure you’ve got everything? she asks. We don’t want to drive all the way up there with something you’ve forgotten to pack. Do we, dad?

Dylan’s dad grunts something unintelligible and goes back to watching the TV.

Don’t worry, mum. Got it all in there. And the tent’s already packed away on the bike.

Thought you were going to stay at some cottage or other? his father says over his cup of tea.

Yes dad. I am.

Don’t pay him no attention, Dylan. You know how he is. Now don’t you forget to phone me every night when you set up your tent. Let me know when you reach the cottage and how you’re doing, his mother says as she places a warm palm on his cheek. She sees the remnants of tears in his eyes but says nothing. Pecking his cheek, she gives him a soft smile.

Okay mum. Talk to you later then. Dylan picks up his rucksack, waves a goodbye at his dad, and heads for the door, his black leathers reflecting the sunlight now pouring through the big lounge windows.

Sitting astride his bike, Dylan reaches down and flicks the petrol tap on. Inserting the ignition key, he turns it, checking the neutral indicator is green. He hits the starter button and the engine springs to life with a satisfying roar. He blips the throttle twice and nods his satisfaction.

Looking back at the house where twenty-six years ago he had been born, he blinks his eyes. A deep frown creases his forehead. Why was he still living here? He should have got his own flat years ago.

You know exactly why you’re still living at home, Dylan!

Not willing to let the answer take over his thoughts, he pushes them aside and turns the throttle grip, roaring off to what he hoped would be two weeks of relaxation.

A time spent in recovery. A time to get himself back on track.

* * *

Dylan’s mother sat down beside her husband and slipped her arm through his. He turned his head, his eyebrows rising in curiosity.

Turn the TV down for a minute, Reggie, she said, nodding at the remote.

Reggie picked it up and muted the sound. Turning, he gently placed a finger under his wife’s chin, raising her head to better see her. His heart warmed as he looked at her. Fifty years of marriage, and with one look, she could still steal his heart.

What is it, luv? You worried about Dylan? he asked softly.

She shrugged, her expression troubled. I had a word with his psychologist yesterday, Reggie. He wouldn’t tell me nowt, but it gave me a chance to say how worried I am about him. It’s been a year. He should be getting over it by now. Don’t you think?

He’s a tough lad, luv, Reggie chuckled. Working on building sites as an electrician will do that to you. Just give him a bit of space. He’ll get there in his own time. You’ll see.

She cuddled into her husband’s shoulder and smiled, her worry easing a bit with his reassurance. And what makes you so all-knowing? she asked with a chuckle and a playful dig to his ribs.

Omniscient me, ain’t I? he answered, leaning over to kiss the top of her head. And don’t you forget it. Got eyes in the back of my head, me!

She sat up, eyebrows raised, the corners of her mouth twitching. Swallowed a dictionary now, have we then?

He chuckled. No. Heard that word on the telly. Been wondering for weeks how to wangle it into a conversation.

So you’re not worried about Dylan, then? she asked, her tone more serious.

Reggie shook his head. No, luv. He’ll be right. Soon as soon. Just look after him like you have been, and he’ll be good.

She turned the TV sound up again, praying that Reggie was right. They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the gardening program providing a soothing background noise. She couldn’t help but think back to the day of the accident. The pain of losing Dawn had affected Dylan deeply, and she had watched her once lively and outgoing son withdraw into himself.

Dylan’s mother knew that the trip was a step in the right direction, but she also knew that grief didn’t adhere to any timeline. She sighed, resting her head on Reggie’s shoulder. She hoped that the time away would help Dylan find some peace and heal the wounds that ran so deep. The memory of Dawn’s laughter, the way she brightened their home, was still fresh in her mind. She missed her too, but she also knew that life had to go on.

Reggie, sensing her thoughts, gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. He’ll be alright, luv, he said softly. Just needs time, that’s all.

She nodded, drawing comfort from his words and his presence. Together, they watched the TV, both lost in their thoughts, but united in their love and concern for their son.

He used to love being outside, she murmured, almost to herself.

Reggie nodded, his eyes distant as he, too, was lost in memories. Aye, he did. Remember when he built that treehouse? Spent the entire summer working on it. Didn’t want any help, either.

She smiled at the memory. Stubborn as ever. Just like his father.

Reggie chuckled softly. Runs in the family, that. He’s got that same determination. He’ll come through this, luv. Just needs time to find his way.

A comfortable silence settled over them again. The TV now showed a segment on vegetable gardening, the cheerful host showing how to plant tomatoes. Reggie reached for his wife’s hand, cradling it.

We’ve faced tough times before, he said quietly. And we’ve always come through. Together.

Chapter 3

Sixty-six antennas make up the Atacama Large Millimetre-Sub-millimetre Array (ALMA), which is on the Chajnantor Plateau in northern Chile. The location’s extreme dryness and stable atmospheric conditions make it ideal for observing faint radiation from astronomical objects light-years away.

The Jodrell Bank Centre for Astrophysics at the University of Manchester hosts the UK ALMA Regional Centre and is a key part of the Interferometry Centre of Excellence. This centre provides essential support for UK scientists using the powerful Atacama telescope.

Enara Nagore had just returned from a coffee break when he noticed an unusual frequency flicker from the secondary reflector. At first, he wasn’t sure if he had actually seen anything, but upon replaying the recording, he stared at the screen for a long moment, perplexed. Finally, he shrugged and pushed a copy of the signal through to Jodrell Bank before returning to his other work. The designers and builders of the Atacama Array had intended it to observe radiation from objects light-years distant, not a brief burst from somewhere over the UK.

Let them worry about it, he muttered to himself, refocusing on the task at hand. He had other work to do.

At Jodrell Bank, Dr Rachel Morgan was in the middle of a team meeting when an alert popped up on her screen. She glanced at it, noting the source — an unexpected signal from the Atacama Array. Excusing herself, she moved to her workstation and opened the file Enara had sent. The data was peculiar, unlike the typical astronomical signals they were used to analysing.

What have we got here? she murmured, her curiosity aroused. She flagged the signal for further analysis and called over a couple of her colleagues. Together, they dissected the information, cross-referencing it with known terrestrial and extraterrestrial sources. The initial results were baffling — this was no ordinary signal, and it certainly wasn’t coming from any known celestial body.

Meanwhile, Enara, back in Chile, was engrossed in his work. The routine of cataloguing and analysing data from the far reaches of the universe was a welcome distraction from the odd signal he had noticed earlier. However, he couldn’t entirely shake off a sense of intrigue. Despite his earlier dismissal, part of him was curious about what Jodrell Bank might uncover.

As the day turned into evening, the team at Jodrell Bank made a breakthrough. The signal had characteristics of a highly sophisticated transmission, possibly artificial. Dr Morgan’s heart raced with excitement and a hint of apprehension. If this was a genuine detection of an extraterrestrial signal, it could be one of the most significant discoveries in human history.

She immediately contacted Enara to discuss their findings. Enara, this is Rachel Morgan from Jodrell Bank. We’ve analysed the signal you sent. It’s unlike anything we’ve seen before — potentially an artificial source.

Enara felt a surge of adrenaline. Artificial? Are you suggesting it could be from ...?

We can’t say for certain yet, Rachel interrupted, but it’s a strong possibility. We need to coordinate further observations and analysis. This could be groundbreaking.

* * *

Since the Ministry of Defence disbanded its dedicated UFO desk in 2009, no agency has taken responsibility for monitoring unidentified flying objects in the skies over Britain. This decision followed a government report that concluded no UFO sighting reported to the Ministry had ever provided evidence of an extraterrestrial presence or posed a military threat to the UK. So it was with much excitement that Blanton Penn, an ex-military observer for the now-defunct UFO department, received an unexpected phone call.

Hello Blanton. Don Stains here. I understand you are currently working as a security officer at the new Grangemere Building in Camden Town? Correct?

Blanton instantly became interested. He hadn’t spoken to his old boss at the MoD since the shutdown of his department in 2009. So why this sudden out-of-the-blue call?

Hi Major, Blanton said. Long time no see. Or perhaps I should say, hear? He gave a stifled chuckle. And yes, you are correct. I am working in there at present. How the hell did you find that out?

Still got some useful contacts. You know how it is. You got time to speak?

Yeah. My day off today. What can I do for you?

How about meeting me for a drink, then? Got a proposition you may be interested in.

Blanton didn’t answer for a moment, too shocked to respond. You’re here, in Camden Town? he finally blurted out. Last I heard, you’d moved to Kent.

Arrived this morning. Took me until now to find somewhere to stay. Ended up in the Royal Hotel. I take it you know where I mean?

Blanton unconsciously nodded. Yeah. At the end of the High Street?

See you in, say, an hour then? I’ll have a whisky waiting for you.

The line suddenly went dead, leaving Blanton staring at his mobile with a confused expression. He sat thinking, worrying. What was going on here? And did he really want to get involved? Shrugging, he finally eased himself from his lounge chair, turned off the TV, and headed upstairs for his coat and shoes.

Five minutes later, Blanton stepped from his flat in Gloucester Gate Mews and headed down Parkway towards Camden Town. His mind was still in a whirl after the call from the Major, someone he hadn’t seen, or heard from, for some twenty-odd years. On the rare occasions he had thought about his old boss, it was only to wonder if he was still alive.

As he walked through the crowded pavements, Blanton’s mind raced with possibilities. What kind of proposition could Don Stains have for him after all these years? The Major had been a hard-nosed, by-the-book military man, always focused on the job,