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Daryl Spektorov, II

2051, Spektorov Foundation, Alexander Graham Bell Orbital, Low Earth Orbit 

"You know, I hear the craziest thing over in Legal. Someone said you were building a new kind of ship."

A pair of joggers waved as the electric cart passed them. Sprinklers erupted over a lawn; the water arcing further in low gravity.  Off the side walk, a segway was parked by a bike rack. None of the bikes were chained.  

"Oh?" Spektorov, leaned back in his seat. His steering wheel recessed and the cart began self-driving. White buildings with thick ivy drifted past.

"Yeah," said Sam Snyder. "The kind that goes to other stars."

"I agree, that's a pretty crazy idea."

Sam sighed and closed his eyes. "Thank God."

"That doesn't mean it's a bad idea. I think it's a freaking great idea!"

 "What?"

The cart pulled alongside the station café (the "Star Starbucks"). People sat out around white tables, sipping lattes and reading tablets.

"Come on," Spectorov climbed out, "you should try the Viet Robusta."

"Daryl," Snyder jumped out, "Tell me you're not building a goddamn starship."

"I'm not building a goddamn starship."

"Then what are you building?"

"I'm not building anything. We're still in the design stage," he sat and waved down a waiter.

"Then what are you designing?"

"A goddamn starship. Coffee?"

Snyder stared.

"Just me then," the waiter took the menu and left.

"Can I ask you - why?"

"Yeah, but that's a really dumb question when you think about it. You know - STAR ship?" Spektorov laughed.

Snyder did not.

 "It’s not what we do, Daryl."

"No, but it might be what I do. I got the money. I got the time. Why not do something fun with it?"

"Going to a ski resort is fun."

"Ski resorts? I own ski resorts. I might put one in space. Fuck ski resorts, snow is cold shit. It's what you do if you can't afford a beach."

"How are you even going to do it? Make a starship?"

"I don't know, but I got some really smart people on it."

"Those scientists you hired from ESA?"

"They were going cheap. Buy one get ten free."

"They were not cheap."

"Yeah they were. So many German accents. I'm like Uncle Sam, buying up Nazi rocket scientists. I paid the Peenemunde price!"

"You're not going to make any money on interstellar travel."

"It's - my - money," he pointed to himself with each word. A steaming cup was set before him.

"It's not even possible, or NASA would be working on it."

"It's - my - money."

"Would you even live long enough to see it happen?"

"It's - my - money."

"Fuck your money!"

"Ah! So you accept that it's my money, and that I'm going to do whatever I like with it."

"I'm the head of your legal department. It's my job to stop you from doing stupid things like this."

"It's your job to stop me from doing illegal things. Starships aren't illegal, and even if they were, I'd go somewhere else that it was. I can pay for the support. They're politicians, Sam. They're like leeches. You just show them a little blood and they come running."

"Have you thought about how this would look?"

"How it looks?"

"Sun Star makes gardens of Eden, and puts them over a dying world. Gardens with organic food, real meat, and picket fences. Meanwhile, ten billion people go hungry down there," Snyder pointed at the ground. "If you want to spend money dramatically, put it in climate refugees. It'll help our staff morale and the company's image. Don't blow it on some white elephant with no bearing on people’s needs."

Daryl sipped his coffee slowly.  "You’re dead wrong about one thing."

"What am I wrong about?"

"People's needs. They need this. The whole world needs it."

"Do you think you're running for President? How does a starship help Bangladeshi boat people?"  

"Exploration and science are always important, especially in times of crisis. They are investments in our future, and we cannot stop doing that. If we do, we’re as derelict in our duties as the generations that brought us here."

"This isn’t self-repairing dykes and drought-proof rice we’re talking about. This is building a spaceship to reach another star."

"Precisely. How does that not advance science?  We can’t even guess at what we’ll learn. This ship would fly to the Alpha Centauri system. We know it has worlds that could support life. You can’t tell me that this isn't an investment we should be making."

"Actually yes I can. Let's talk specifically about investment. How much is this going to cost?"

"Well, I’ve done some calcu – "

"No, stop. This isn’t scholarships for runaway, African, child soldiers.  Even your entire personal fortune couldn’t bankroll a project like this. You’re not putting together modules Daryl, you’re developing technology. When has that ever been cheap? You’ll have to go to the board. Where is the return on investment? How can you make this something they would invest in? Even if they said yes, we just don’t have the money. We’re one company, Daryl. Something like this needs a group of nations."

Daryl smiled.

"Oh come on!"

"Like I was saying, I’ve done some calculations. An international program is the best way this gets funded. Sun Star should try get the world behind an expedition to Alpha Centauri . It'll work: now that it has real problems, the world is better at getting serious."

"Is that coffee you're drinking, or liquid bullshit? Take a fraction of the cost of refugee orbitals. Any fraction, it doesn't matter. With that, the Big Five could house and feed the world's refugees. Something that would end a very real security threat to the world. They could, as you say, get serious about real problems. Instead, they spend billions on growing their orbiting, military industrial capacity. You want to make a humanitarian appeal to such people?"

"Why not? Those military shipyards, by international agreement, are all producing refugee orbitals."

"That doesn't make your argument. What else would those shipyards be making, bombs? The refugee orbitals are an excuse, it keeps the Space Arms Race pleasant. Within 48 hours, any of those shipyards could be building anti-satellite weapons. That's the whole point of them."

"So then, whether they build orbitals or interstellar ships, what does it matter? They want to develop their military shipyards, without pissing off each other. It's an arms control issue.  We point out that rather than cosmetic orbitals, they do an interstellar program. We offer them real benefits."

"Real benefits? Like what?"

 "Like giving people hope."

Sam laughed. "Hope? Who needs hope?"

"Hopeful people don't go extremist. A Centauri mission will create hope for all peoples, around the world."

 "Orbitals create hope. Your number comes up, and you’re out of the slums. Only one in a thousand go, but hope keeps the rest from rioting. Off to somewhere with more space and food. There are no minorities to fight with. There’s just one language, one religion, one caste."

Daryl threw up his hands, "Christ, what makes you call that hope?"

"Have you met these people, Daryl? Your typical climate refugee is not big on middle class values. People learn to spell or to hate. They only rarely do both. If you try to force your values on them, they push back violently."

"Well I can’t accept that."

"Well, you have to. This ship is a dream of a better era. People will support this Daryl, lots of people. But you can’t expect the whole world to get behind it. Only the rich, or those lucky enough to be born in a prosperous nation, will support this. People like us."

 "Us? So you support this?"

"No, of course not. I think it’s a bad idea, that literally won’t fly. However, that doesn’t mean I don’t think it’s a nice idea. It’s what our grandparents promised, and our parents failed. It's not creating hope, it's renewing it."

"So you do like it?"

 "I like to hate it, yes. But you’re my boss, and I like your money. So if I can't dissuade you from a dumb idea, I'll just get paid to help you with it."

"Thanks?"

"I have one last question for you. This is a doozy. It's a moral question. Are you ready?"

"Hit me between the eyes."

"The orbitals do help some people. If you succeed, you're going to be denying them. Are you okay with that?"

"Oh God yes, fuck those losers."

Snyder frowned. "Is that your final answer?"

 "Look, I get it. Desperate people need hope. But they're not the only people in the world."

"Those people are competing with you, for resources. It's your dream, or their lives. You don't think you're being callous here?"

"I don’t resent those people, I feel for them, Sam."

"Uhuh?"

"But without something to hope for, I would start to resent them. I think my attitude speaks for many."

"Oh you're good. Alright, tomorrow, I’ll call you up and see if you still feel this way. If you do, I’ll start working on this."

Spektorov sat back and smiled. "I’m glad you’re onboard with this."

"We’ll see what you say tomorrow. I want you to have a good think. Would you do that for me?"

"I will."

"That’s all I can ask."

"Do you want to meet the team?"

"The designers of this – what’s it called?"

"We’ve been calling it the Pathfinder."

"Yes, let’s go meet them. Maybe at least I can talk them out of that stupid name."

Jansen Henrikson, II

2051, Alexander Graham Bell Orbital, Low Earth Orbit

"The single biggest problem of interstellar travel, is propulsion."

 Spektorov looked around the room. The scientists were well dressed, three had obviously had haircuts that very morning. Their faces were reflected in the polished, wooden, boardroom table.  Pale, tense, smiling when they thought someone was looking.

Sam Snyder leaned forward, jacket off and sleeves rolled up. He looked like he was campaigning for office in a folksy town.

"Propulsion determines everything. What can be sent, done, even when the mission happens," Doctor Henrikson waved his presentation from his tablet, to the huge wall display. "We’ve assumed that the mission must quick. Results must come in as small a window as possible."

"Why?" asked Sam. "Seems like rushing."

"It is," the grey haired doctor nodded.  "But do you trust Washington not to pull the plug after a few years? How about the UN? The shorter the mission, the lower the political risk."

"Political risk?" asked Spektorov. "What about other risks? Doesn’t favoring speed cost us in other areas?"

"Engineering problems," Henrikson waved his hand dismissively. "We can handle those. What we can’t handle are policy makers. If you want a Centauri shot, this is how it has to be. Otherwise, you put the mission at the mercy of people you can’t control. I learned that the hard way, at ESA."

 "Alright," replied Spektorov. "Fast as possible. Like jocks in dark corners, at Prom. Where does that lead?"

"To the most powerful and efficient engines, possible."

"Nuclear?" asked Sam. "That's right, I’ve done my reading."

"Fission and fusion can indeed get us there," Henrikson nodded slowly, "in principle."

"In principle?"

"Yes. They’re just too inefficient."

 "You worried about cost?" asked Spektorov.

"Partly."

"Doctor, however you cut this, it’s going to cost a lot anyway."

"We understand, but high cost and engineering problems often intersect. Fission and fusion gives up less than a percent of their fuel’s energy."

"So?" said Sam. "Sorry, I’m lost. I’m just the reluctant lawyer."

"Mr. Synder, I understand you drive a gas-powered car, yes?" asked Henrikson, taking off his glasses. They powered down.

"Well, yes."

"Sorry, I didn’t mean it as a criticism.  The heavier your car, the more liquefied gas you would need to get to work, yes?"

"Yes."

"But when you tank up, do you wonder about how much weight, the gas itself adds?"

"What? No!"

"Exactly. What goes into your tank weighs so little, you don’t even consider it. But what if you needed to drive across to the East Coast, and there were no gas or charging stations on the way. You’d have to take all your gas with you. Maybe get a trailer with some tanks."

"Okay. Sorry, I still don't see your point."

Henrikson smiled. "Doesn’t the trailer add weight? Are you getting the same mileage, pulling all that fuel, behind you? Aren’t you using more gas, just to pull along gas?"

Sam was no fool.  "So a nuclear Pathfinder would be burdened with its own fuel?"

 "A fission or fusion Pathfinder would be burdened. The mission would be possible, Mr. Snyder. It just wouldn’t be practical. The ship would be a monster, and I don’t want to design a monster anymore than anyone else will want to pay for one. What is practical, is using antimatter."

Spektorov cleared his throat. All eyes went to him.

"Doctor, isn't antimatter fuel a 100% efficient? Cause I've been looking through your group’s notes, and it seems you guys can't decide."

 "Yes, most people think it's 100% efficient. It is when an electron meets its own anti-particle, the positron. But, this is not the case with all antimatter. For example, when an antiproton meets a proton. Then, only part of that system becomes energy. The rest, becomes other particles."

"So we want the first case? 100% conversion into energy?" asked Sam.

"No. Full conversion is a bad idea, because energy isn’t the same thing as thrust.  We want better efficiency from the fuel, sure. But we also need something coming out the exhaust for the ship to push against.  

"With total conversion, you just get gamma rays. They’re high energy and go in all directions. You can’t really deflect them either –not practically. And if you did, the ship would soak most of it, as heat."

"So let me review here," said Spektorov. "Fission and fusion can do the job, but are too inefficient. Antimatter can too, but is too efficient?"

"Essentially. However, different engine designs give different results. We simply need an engine that balances efficiency and thrust."

"Is there such a design?" asked Spektorov.

"As a matter of fact, yes. Remember I said with protons-antiprotons, you get mostly particles?"

"Sure," lied Sam.

"That’s what the ‘beamed core’ design uses. The collisions create charged particles, among others. A powerful magnetic field pushes the opposite, charged particles, out as exhaust.  These particles leave at close to light speed. The process is ten times more fuel efficient than fusion."

He pulled up a new slide of an engine diagram. Colored field lines and moving arrows showed flow. "Gentlemen, this is the beamed core rocket. The best efficiency and the best thrust, for the Pathfinder mission."

The other scientists and engineers smiled, as did Henrikson. Someone started to clap, but stopped when no one joined.

Sam made a face.

 "Really? I’m not impressed. You want us to fund an engine that’s never been made? With a fuel that needs explaining?"

The team lost their smiles.  

 "Why are you bothering with fuel at all?" Sam continued. "You could just use a light sail. Build and operate a laser beaming station near the sun. It could run for a few months and then you’re done. Light sail tech already exists, and it's getting cheaper. Just yesterday Mitsubishi announced they’ll be putting up a commercial beaming station."

"Mr Snyder, you have done your reading," Henrikson smiled and nodded appreciatively. "But how big do you think a light sail would need to be to get to Alpha Centauri?"

"I don’t know. Big?"

"Huuuge?" ventured Spektorov.

"Certainly. Let’s say the a probe that weighs a metric ton. Now, a tenth of light speed is the fastest we can safely go.  Faster, and collisions with interstellar dust and gas become too dangerous. At this speed it’s a forty year trip. With me so far?"

"Go on."

"That sail would have to be four kilometers in diameter. The beaming station’s output would have to be sixty five gigawatts. Gigawatts, Mr. Snyder. And that’s just a flyby, it wouldn’t stop."

"It can't?"

"Not without another beaming station at Alpha Centauri, to slow it down.  Well, it is possible to slow it down, using only a laser from Earth. But the sail would need to split into two. And your energy needs would go into the hundreds of terawatts. Thousands if you want to send a bigger mission. The world uses about 20 terawatts, a year."

 "You worked out those numbers?" asked Sam.

"No, but I’ve done my reading too, Mr. Snyder. These are Robert Forward’s numbers from back in the 1980s. People have been trying to solve these problems a lot longer than we have. You are correct, light sailing is an old and mature technology. Also, the engineering is much simpler than what we’re proposing."

"If it's still somehow simpler, then isn't it the way to go?" asked Spektorov.

"The problem is the time window. A beamed core rocket needs a window long enough to get underway. That's it. After that, politics becomes irrelevant. The rocket will arrive, whether or not Earth cares.   With light sailing though, long term support is critical. Someone needs to flip the switch on the second station, forty years later. Someone needs to build the second station. Will they succeed? The second laser could destroy countries. Do you think it's existence would be tolerated? We can’t guarantee that. No one can. That’s why we ruled it out."

"So is that it, then?" asked Spektorov. "We need to build a beamed core rocket?"

"Later. We need make antimatter first, specifically antiprotons."

"And how do we do that?" asked Spektorov.

"There are all kinds of ways, all of them terrible. We even considered harvesting antiprotons from the magnetospheres of gas giants. What we kept coming back to, were particle accelerators."

"Like CERN?" asked Spektorov.

"Yes. They create antimatter as a byproduct. Not much though: CERN will produce a gram – in a hundred billion years. However, an accelerator can be custom-built to produce more antiprotons. For best results, we want to smash heavy metal ions –Lead, Thorium, ideally Uranium."

 Bad things happen when you collide Uranium," said Spektorov.

"Only if you want it to. The colliders would be small – just a hundred meters in diameter. Antimatter production would be massive. As much as a gram a week."

"That doesn’t sound like a lot, Doctor."

The scientists exchanged knowing looks and one giggled. "Mr. Spektorov, one gram of antimatter is an unheard of amount. An amount as powerful as forty kilotons of TNT. That’s twice what we dropped on Nagasaki. Sun Star Mining would become a nuclear power."

Spektorov and Sam sat up, and looked at each other.

"But is it safe?" asked Sam.  

"Of course not. The nuclear waste produced will be considerable, and deadly. It’s one reason it hasn’t already been done, on Earth."

"How much Uranium would we need?" asked Spektorov. He turned to Sam, "we can talk to the Department of Energy. I know the Secretary."

"You will need far more Uranium than the United States will ever give you, or any country for that matter. Uranium is ideal, though more common elements like Thorium or even Lead will do. It will just take longer, and you will need more accelerators."

"Doctor, how much Uranium?"

"Depends on the mission. At a tenth of light speed, and then slowing down," Henrikson made scale balancing motions, "right now, we’re estimating a kilo of antimatter, for every kilo of payload. That will change as we do research and develop the technology. Right now, everything is speculative."

Spektorov looked up, running numbers. Then, the life sagged from his shoulders.

"But we can still get the Uranium, more than enough of it," Henrikson smiled.

"No one will give us the quantities needed, you said it yourself," said Sam.

"That’s because no one has the quantity, that we already have."

The wall screen hologram changed to a slowly spinning asteroid.

"This is 2043 QR 3. It is a metal-rich, Near Earth Asteroid. It was visited eight years ago by Sun Star micro probes."

"Why am I only hearing about 2043, now?" asked Spektorov.

"Probably because it’s worthless. 2043 was found to be rich in heavy elements, particularly Uranium. No one much cared at the time. The world was switching over to Thorium nuclear and solar power. Uranium was not a growth mineral, on Earth or in space. It still isn't."

"How much Uranium does it have?"

"It’s a piece of failed planet, Mr. Spektorov. It's estimated to be between five to fifteen percent, Uranium."

"I've never heard of anything like this."

"It's like floating, platinum mountains. No one has found those asteroids yet, but statistically, they exist. It is all you will need for not just one mission, but hundreds. And it already belongs to the company."

Sam clapped Spektorov on the back, and they grinned like school boys.

"There are problems, however. While 2043 QR 3 does orbit the Earth, it is a very wide orbit."

"So? Let's move it," said Spektorov. "We've done it before."

"With high ice-content asteroids. 2043 has no ice; we would not be able to mine and make rocket fuel on site. It is has almost no volatiles, so we can't even use lasers to steer by flash-boiled geysers. Moving it closer to Earth will not be cost effective."

"It orbits us, right?" asked Sam. "Why does it matter if it's far away?"

"Protection of the Earth’s magnetosphere," said Spektorov.

"Yes," Henrikson nodded. "Without that, it becomes a very dangerous place to live and work. There are currently no orbitals beyond the Earth's magnetosphere, for just this reason."

"What about underground?" asked Sam. "Just dig a bit."

"Yes, but the asteroid itself is radioactive, Mr. Snyder. But let’s set this aside. Consider how far away 2043 is. From Earth, there isn’t a Sun Star mine you couldn’t reach in three days. 2043 however, will take twenty days by ion drive."

"Ion drives can go a lot faster," said Spektorov.

"An ion drive could get you there in two days, Mr. Spektorov. However, that is not economical. Twenty day assumes a tenth of a pound of thrust. It’s a much more realistic figure. After a three week trip, how long does the engineer stay? It would be too expensive to send him back soon. A year though, would be a good tour. What PhD astronaut would spend a year underground, on hostile 2043? Even if nothing went wrong, they would take a lot of radiation."

"Money talks, we’ll find people."

"Can you find a thousand? Now we’re coming to the biggest problem," Henrikson’s shoulders seemed to sag slightly. "The problem of scale. Let’s say the mission is only half a ton - the mass of a compact car. We would need 500 kilograms of antimatter. If we built 500 colliders, we would need to run them for five years."

Sam laughed, it was an evil sound. "So this is the big solution you’ve been building up to, all this time? 500 machines smashing Uranium on a distant, hellish, asteroid? For years? "

Mr. Snyder," Henrikson began stiffly, "they can be built more economically than you may think."

"And how is that?"

 "By investing in new technology. Von Neumann machines, specifically."

"Are you fucking nuts?"

"Sam, settle down!" Spektorov frowned.

"No, no, the best of ESA here wants us all to get arrested for doing banned research, and building a weapon of mass destruction."

"Yes, Mr. Snyder. Banned research."

"I’m sorry Doctor, am I missing something here?"

"You are, in fact. Mr. Snyder, we are trying to send an expedition to another star. Immense infrastructure. Technologies that do not exist yet. Unreasonable goals.   Did you not think to expect these things?"

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but Spektorov held up his hand.

"Mr. Spektorov, if you want enough Uranium colliders, you are going to need Von Neumann machines: devices that build more of themselves. You’ll need them at Centauri too, to build the actual colony. How else can you manage given the cost of even the tiniest payload?" he stopped and put on his glasses. "Both of you, please understand this. Nothing about this mission profile, or any other, works without Von Neumann machines. Nothing. It's like when we went to Mars. The astronauts had to make air and fuel, in situ. Or as when Amundsen went to the South Pole, living off the land while Scott starved."  

The room was silent.

"Right, so that’s an engineering problem," Spektorov finally spoke, "you said you could handle engineering."

"With the support we need, yes," Henrikson nodded.

"Daryl that’s illegal – "

Spektorov  held his hand up.

"So, let's say I say yes. Green light for an antimatter mission. What happens next?"

 "Well, we start. This is a going to be a big program, and I will only be qualified to run my little part of it. You'll need engineers, scientists, support staff. Most of all, you'll need miners. You can’t use AI as you do at your other mines."

"Why not?"

 The radiation is too high. Think of how compact a modern computer processor is.  Quantum effects are a problem. You can shield them, but it would be a huge expense. Human brains are much more robust, and need far less protection. You will need human miners for mid and higher level decision making."

"I’ll get you your miners," he stood and picked up his coat. "In the meanwhile, you start working out how to get me a Von Neumann machine."  

"Daryl!" Sam flared. "I can’t allow you to do that!"

"It’s alright, Sam. I’m only going to need one."  

"Did we do the right thing?"

Henrikson looked out the window as Spetorov's car pulled out and drove away. Still seated, the woman's focus held him to her question. Across from her, a man snorted, ignored the sign, and lit a cigarette.

"What does it really matter?" asked the smoker. "You can't argue with a client, still less one like that. No one has said 'no' to him, his entire life."

"We presented facts," said Henrikson, turning around. "We gave him the magnitude of what's needed. The lawyer helped - he underlined how ridiculous the project needs are."

"And Spektorov didn't bat an eyelid," Smoker shrugged.

"But, we gave him the idea that all this was possible," said Questioner. "We didn't suggest that this was unrealistic."

"Ingrid it is possible," said Henrikson. "It's just not practical. We did say this needed a high-energy physics factory, in space. Maybe he just sees such things differently, he is the richest man alive. But no, I don't think it will happen this way."

"So, how will it happen?" asked Smoker. "Since, you know, we're the ones who are supposed to make it happen."

"We did not lie to him: the fundamentals are the same," he sat back down and woke his tablet. "Here," a 3d CAD drawing appeared over the table, cut from blue laser lines.

"What's this?" asked Doctor Ingrid Dethier.

"Another mission profile. A practical one. Do you see the difference?"

"It looks just like Pathfinder," said Smoker. "With an optimistic fuel tank. What does it use for propellant? Prayers?"

"Look again, Evrim."

"The scale!"  Ingrid's eyes became saucers. "This is tiny!"

Henrikson grinned. "The diagram is 1:1 scale. You can carry this ship under your arm."

"A probe?" Doctor Evrim Uzun ashed his cigarette, the blue glow lit his face as he came closer. "Even Kuiper Navigator's landers were bigger than this."

"Kuiper Navigator was what got me thinking about this. Remember Francoise Laplace?"

"Was she the engineer they called the 'Shrinking Queen'?"

"That was her. Her team's entire job was to make Navigator's components as small and light as possible. Save fuel at launch, save fuel during the mission."

"I've worked with her," Dethier nodded. "She once told me they were going about things all wrong. That they shouldn't be building tiny parts for Navigator, but getting Navigator, to build tiny parts."

"Exactly! Why should the mission be constrained by what you can carry? Here, the mission is to deliver a payload of nanomachines. On arrival, they construct the rest of the mission. Your propellant is just two liters of water, stored as ice. You just need 35 grams of antimatter.  The payload is only a hundred grams."

"A hundred gram mission profile?" Uzun's jaw dropped. "No wonder you kept hammering on about Von Neumann machines!"

"Now Ingrid, this is a practical mission profile. And it is no different from what we just presented - except in scale."

"I don't understand," Dethier shook her head. "Why didn't you present this in the first place? Why didn't you tell us about it?"

"Because the client doesn't want this," said Uzun. "Am I right?"

"Yes," Henrikson nodded. "This is not what we were asked to do. Spektorov wants a giant mission, a hundred, smiling, engineer-colonist, heroes. He's not interested in our literally small-thinking. He's also from a class of business men who believe in thinking big. A giant mission is a challenge to him, not a shutting door."

"So, we pandered to him?" asked Dethier.

"Why are you so worried about this?" Uzun scowled. "The man he has more ego than sense. But, unlike ESA, he wants to pay us. Would you prefer academia? Getting stuck at parties with social scientists running their dumbass mouths? You are on a paycheck rocket. It'll crash, but not before going up."

"We're not pandering to him, we're doing our jobs. He wants a Pulp Scifi space colonization mission profile, and we gave him one. And I intend to deliver it to the best of my ability. And I need the same, from you two. What this is," he jabbed at the hologram, "is a back-up. A way to succeed, if we find we're a hundred years too early."

"We are a hundred years too early."

"Well, let's test that."

Two Months later, Louisiana, Route 61

"What you think it’s going to be today, huh?" Jose grinned. The orange jumpsuit was a size too large for him. "Working GM rice again?"

Ken Brown reached over his cuff and scratched the back of his hand. All the other shaved heads on the bus were quiet. The guards up front sat motionless by the driverless compartment. Even if they could get past them, thought Ken, they’d need a mechanic to bypass the self-driving unit.

"The weather is great," Jose said while studying the passing world. "We should be doing rice."

"We’ll know when we get to Baton Rouge. If we get on to 190, then we’re going to farm rice. If we get on to I-10, then its mending dykes."

"Man, I fucking hate working dykes. They should all just bust up and drown all these mothers."

"You know some of us have mothers out here."

"You know what we call you people?" the young man grinned, showing a faux-gold tooth.

"You mean white people?"

"No , I mean you people. Louisiana refugees. We call you Campamentos Mexicanos. The Camp Mexicans."

"Why is that?"

"Because when you put a white person in refugee camp, the other white people can’t recognize him no more."

An hour later the bus hit morning traffic coming into Baton Rouge. They were self-driving electrics and LPGs mostly, but also biodiesel  container rigs.

"Fewer and fewer gas guzzlers every day," Jose shook his head.

"You seem nostalgic."

"I had a ’35 Buick man, she was sweet. Never gave me no trouble or nothing. Just 50,000 miles on her when I sold her."

"Why did you sell early?"

"I couldn’t afford the gas no more."

Right before Southern U and A&M, they took the on ramp to I-10. Groans broke out from the other inmates. Soon the billboards weren’t lit up anymore, and many showed rust stains. They passed abandoned towns and flooded fields. The highway climbed an embankment –on either side stretched the sea.

In the distance were the lights of New Orleans.

They were back at Dyke CB-17. It was a big job this time – several other buses had arrived and some National Guard engineers. CB-17 was leaking swimming pools, orange jumpsuits waded behind it, knee-deep.

The surprise sunshine quickly turned back to squalls. They slipped and soaked with sand bags for the next six hours.

Lunch was vitamin enriched rice, reconstituted scrambled eggs, and some hot sauce.  At least the hot sauce was good, thought Ken.  A day like this he could have gone for some Jambalaya.

"Fuck man, that was like what, a whole day?" Jose’s face was drained. Men rested their heads against windows or on shoulders. They were too tired to care if they looked gay.  Outside, the sky was black with promises of storm.

"Three dollars," replied Ken.

"What? Fuck that shit, you got to be wrong."

"Three – dollars – kid.  Six hours, and fifty cents per hour. You can do the math."

"I don’t even."

"What? You don’t even what? I love how young people say that, because they can’t think of anything to actually say."

"Hey fuck you man, don’t take your shitty day out on me. It was my shitty day too, and all I got," he banged his cuffed fists against the seat in front of him, "all I got is fucking three measly dollars!"

A guard stood up and walked to their row. Men looked up, watching it pass.

"Is something wrong, Jose Jimenez?" it asked. Its visor was stained with dust and rain splotching.

The boy looked away, sullen. The guard remained still a few moments, then turned and walked back to the front.  

"Fucking guards," Jose muttered. "Can’t even send a real man to stare me down."

"You can’t shank a robot," said Ken. "You can’t harass it. You can’t threaten it. It gives no fucks in a riot, and it’s faster than all of us."

"Fucking gets paid more than all of us."

"They do."

"They do?"  

"Yeah. The security company keeps all the money. You want to know how much? Fifteen thirty. An hour."

"That’s bullshit man, why pay a robot more than you have to pay a person?"

"State law. You can only use an AI worker if there’s a chronic lack of humans in the industry, and you’ve got to pay above minimum wage. That creates an incentive to hire warm bodies instead. But nobody wants to be a prison guard, Jose. Department of Corrections employs more robots than the US Army."

"They’re paying robots fifteen thirty an hour, and we get paid fifty cents?"

"That’s not new, Jose. Prisons have been cheap labor for big corporations for the past seventy years. No unions, no strikes. Say no and you end up in solitary. Only the irony has changed."

 "I don’t know what that word means."

"It’s when you fall and hit your head, in a pillow factory."

"Pillow factory," Jose yawned. "I don’t mind fifty cents an hour working there. Sign me up man."

Dawn the next morning, they left their cell to go to work.

"What gives?" asked Jose, squeezing between two huge African-Americans. "Where is everyone going today?"

"Some kind of big job," said one the African-Americans. He had a curling dragon tattoo on his head.

"Did a dyke burst?" asked Ken.

"What do I look like white boy, fucking CNN?"

They made their way out through the stream of orange. The guards were out in force, mace cannons and taser batons ready. The two cellmates stepped out into the yard.

"What the hell man, is this like the whole prison?" Jose pointed beyond the chain-linked fences that bound their world. "What’s with the big ass plane?"

Ken followed his finger, his face suddenly unreadable.

"What? You know something about that airline? Their food no good?"

"That’s not an airline, Jose. Sun Star is a company. This is one of their planes."

"Nice!" Jose punched the air. "I told you I ain’t doing no fucking dykes no more."

Ken kept his eyes on the plane. The first group of prisoners had already begun boarding. "Yeah. There aren’t any dykes in space."  

"This is outrageous! How could something like this even happen? This is legal in this country?"

Maeve in HR knew everyone else at Sun Star looked down on her.

She was in HR you see, and you know what people say about MBAs who go into HR. Why not go into teaching while you're at it? Look at those smug assholes in Sales and Operations. Yeah, whatever. Someone hired you once. Someone in HR.

"No I'm sorry, I can't accept that. I insist on seeing these men, and I insist on having a final say in the hiring."

Unless, the boss hired you. The Big Boss. The one who made rules, and then broke them at his convenience. Ah, privilege.

"Madam, are you even listening to me?"

"I'm sorry Doctor Henrikson, that's completely unacceptable. We have a lot of respect for you Sir, but this is not your business."

"Don't tell me what my business is! How can you even do this?"

"Do what, Sir?" asked Maeve. The man could have at least shut the door. Outside, Tammy and Clyde from Benefits, were staring. "I understand it was you that required we hire a large mining staff. We've done exactly that."

"You've conscripted prisoners from a private prison!"

"We did what we had to do, with the budget that we were given. Did you think Sun Star was going to create full time jobs with benefits?"

Henrikson stared at her.

"Oh, so you did! That's not how this works."

"But we have the money."

"Oh Honey, we do not have the money. I don't know about you, but I have no money. Mr. Spektorov has the money, and he is not spending it on 401ks for miners. If you want him to spend more on this, then you best ax him yourself."

"I'll do that."

"You know what he's going to say."

Henrikson clenched his fists and looked around, as if an answer may have been about.

"Look, you just have a problem with these people being forced to do something, they don't want to do?"

"That's putting this mildly."

"Then how about this? You can do a final interview with these people. Anyone who doesn't want to go, you can reject.  Just say they didn't meet your specs and I'll sign against it."

His face lit up. "You'll do that?"

"Of course. As long as you don't come barging into my office again, trying to tell me what I can and cannot do."

"I'm sorry, Madam."

"We're doing first intake on Wednesday. Why don't you head on down there early, and enjoy New Orleans? I think you'll like it."

"Thank you Ms. Higgins."

"Call me Maeve."

The crazy European scientist disappeared like a quarterly bonus. Tammy smiled at Maeve and looked back down at her filing.

That's right, keep on smiling, you skinny white bitch.   

Avoyelles Correctional Center, 30 miles South of Alexandria, Louisiana

"Hi, I'm Ken Brown, Prisoner Number Fourteen B Twelve."

The room was prison grey, a wide-brimmed light hung low, over the table. The orange-suited man sat opposite the woolen-suited one. He smiled, bags under his eyes.   

"Hello," the other man extended his hand, "I'm Doctor Henrikson. Thank you for your time, Mr. Brown."

Brown smiled and shrugged, "Time is all I got. At least another seven years. And most of it isn't really mine. Thank you for your time, Sir."

"What are in for, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Not at all. Credit card fraud and identity theft. It was my side hustle. Should have stuck to freelance programming."

"You're a programmer?"

"A little bit. I was. I try to be useful."

"And what did you do for fun? Before?"

Brown let slip a small laugh. "You really are interviewing me, aren't you? I like to make things, still do."

"Like art?"

"Like gadgets. You want to turn a toaster into a heater, I'm your man."

"I think there will be plenty of heat at the facility, but, it would be good to have someone with a knack for machines." Henrikson lost his smile. "So tell me Mr. Brown, do you actually want to go to Space?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Do you want to work on this project?"

"Sorry I - I understand the question, I just don't understand why you're asking me. Are you trying to give me a choice?"

"Yes. You have a choice. If you want to decline, I will simply mark that I rejected you. No one will know, but us."

"That's very kind of you Sir. I've never been given that choice. Not since I came to Avoyelles. Er, I guess the answer is yes?"

"Forgive me if I remark that you do not sound enthusiastic, Mr. Brown."

"Well I mean - it's just that I don't really have a choice, do I? I mean sure, you'll honor my wishes, but what choice do I have otherwise?"

"I'm sorry I don't follow you."

"If I'm sent back into the pool, I'll just get picked for something else, right? Something I won't be given any choice over. You can give me this choice, but does that matter, given that I don't actually have 'Choice'."

The two men said nothing. Elsewhere, someone was yelling to someone else about their mother.

"You seem a little upset, Doctor."

"No, it's - it's just that I don't want to work with anyone who is being coerced. I don't want to be part of that system, you know?"

"I get you," Brown nodded. Then he held up his hands shrugging, "but you are."

A guard yelled at the yeller. The yeller yelled back. More mothers were invoked.

"I'll do it. Because I want to do it, it sounds like really cool work."

"It could be very dangerous."

"So is being a small, fat, white guy in a prison. This project sounds amazing. I'd go for this even if I was on the outside. I want this job, Doctor. If you'll give it to me."

Henrikson resolved a smile. "Yes, it is yours Mr. Brown," he extended his hand again.

"Wow," Brown accepted it and shook. "And you didn't even ask me where I see myself in five years."

"Well, where do you see yourself in five years?"

"Somewhere better."

Lakshmi Rao, II

Outside Al’lbediyya, Sudan

"Happy anniversary, Brigadier General."

Nasri Al-Hamdani of Egypt’s 18th Independent Armoured Brigade, looked up from the battlefield hologram. A colonel and two majors stood before him, smiling like school boy tricksters. One held a combat knife tied with a ribbon made from medical gauze. The other, a steaming, brown, date cake. Headset-wearing operators stopped talking and looked up from their ruggedized computers. Land and air displays of South East Sudan hovered in front of them.  

"What’s all this?" he smiled. "Did we get gay-married, Farouk? I would have remembered that."

The cake went on the table; petrol and thorium inventories disappearing under it.

"Here," Farouk offered him the knife. "It’s everyone’s anniversary. Three years since Operation Ra."

"Has it been three years already?" he held the knife like he was unfamiliar with it. Perhaps now he was. "It doesn’t seem it’s been that long."

"Quickly," one of the Colonel’s waved him along. "Before the ceasefire is over."

Some laughed, but it sounded tired. Al-Hamdani began to cut - the aroma hit and he closed his eyes. He was a boy again, spending his pocket money at Al-Nouri’s, the bakery. He was eating by the roadside with his friends, watching protesters going to Tahrir Square .

He looked around. There was a lot of staff in the command tent. He started cutting smaller pieces.

"This is excellent," he nibbled a piece. His mouth exploded with flavor. "Who made this?"

"An Abrams driver in 2nd Company," said Farouk. "He was a baker in Alexandria, before he was conscripted. We found fresh dates in an abandoned village. His platoon built an oven out of a gutted Sudanese tank."

"That’s incredible. Can he make Khubz?" 

"Of course he can make Khubz. He’s a baker."

"Get him to make us as much as possible. The men will appreciate fresh bread."

"I’ll take care of it. I suppose we should send some cake to our benefactor, too. The UN High Commissioner."

More laughter.

"Lakshmi Rao?" Al-Hamdani wasn’t laughing. "She should be reaching the Atbara camp, soon. Why is Cairo even allowing this? It’s going to be a PR disaster."

 "What are we supposed to do?" Farouk scowled. "If the Sudanese fire rockets at us from a refugee camp, we bomb it. It’s quite simple. If they don’t value their own people’s lives, we’re not going to, either."

"But it’s not that simple. Remember, we are the invading army, with the Abrams and the F22s. You forget, the world doesn’t care about our problems."

"Excuse me Brigadier General, but fuck the world," he replied. "They don’t understand what’s at stake. Ethiopia’s dam will kill the Nile, and Egypt. We have the Americans and the Israelis behind us. We don’t need anyone else. Let the Sudanese cry and wail to Rao, and show her dead children. We will sweep them aside and enter Ethiopia, by Ramadan."

Men cheered.   

"Are you going to get into trouble Sir?" asked the Major, who had said nothing. "For not capturing the camp in time?"

"No, Major. Central Military High Command is not so crazy to think we could have accomplished that in such a short span. But I am surprised they are giving her access. And the ceasefire to allow her passage, just means more rockets coming down on us, later."

There was the roar of an armored vehicle driving too fast, inside the camp. The officers looked outside as an Oshkosh M-ATV pulled up. Its crown was a ten kilowatt, anti-personnel laser. Two men got out; one had the rank pips of a Major. He strode into the tent uninvited.

"Brigadier-General," he saluted.

"What is it? And who are you?"

"And can we keep your Oshkosh?" asked Farouk. "We’re going to save the Nile, you see."  

"Major Qureshi, Central Military High Command," he ignored Farouk. "I have a message for you."

He opened a small valise and handed the Brigadier-General a folder. Al-Hamdani opened it. He lifted out the paper inside, like an archeologist with a papyrus.

"I will need that back when you are done reading it, Sir."

The Brigadier-General frowned. He read the paper, and his frown deepened.

"Here," he handed it back. The major saluted him, got back into his vehicle, and drove off.

"What the hell was that?" asked Farouk.

"Orders. The kind you don’t want to send electronically."

"They’re afraid the Russians will crack our encryption?"

"They’re afraid in fifty years a historian will find it in an archive. We are to prevent the UN High Commissioner from reaching Atbara."

The only sound in the tent was the air conditioning.

"They declared a ceasefire just to let her through!"

"The ceasefire is a sham. Now, no one can say that Egypt denied her access to the camp."

"But we are going to deny access! And they are telling us, just now!"

"No Colonel, we’re not denying her access."

"We’re not?"

"Egypt is not, no. This is a job for our Eritrean friends."

"Your pet Asmaran paramilitaries?" Farouk made a face. "They’re a bunch of raving psychopaths."

"Which is why they will start shelling, during a ceasefire. We will not be blamed."

"Of course we will be blamed. Everyone knows we control them."

"Nothing can be proven," Al-Hamdani shook his finger. "And I don’t think anyone can control a bunch of raving psychopaths, once you give them tanks."

Abu Hamad Toll Road, fifty kilometers North

"High Commissioner, can you tell us why you’re visiting the Atbara camp?"

The reporter’s flak jacket was so large, it looked like she’d drown in it. A heavy belt strapped her waist to her seat, like the rest of the APC’s passengers. She leaned forward, mike in hand. The light on her glasses lit up red to show she was recording.

"Of course, but first some background for your viewers. The Atbara camp is just one of fourteen the UN opened in Sudan, after the start of the water war," Rao, sat across from her, wearing a UN blue helmet. "It has over two hundred thousand refugees. A thousand more are joining it, daily. Resupply is very difficult: all four sides have fired on UN aid flights. The only way is overland, but the roads are often closed by the fighting.

"The current offensive by Egypt and Eritrea has affected the Atbara camp’s access to clean water. This has caused a sanitation crisis. This paired with recent sudden, heavy rains, has caused a cholera outbreak.

"I am going to Atbara to see the situation for myself, and to highlight the plight of these people. Their humanitarian crisis will only grow as Egyptian-allied forces advance deeper into Sudan. The Security Council needs to pressure Egypt to end the offensive, and put in a lasting ceasefire."

"Madam Commissioner, what do you make of the Egyptian military government announcing a unilateral ceasefire to allow you to make this visit?"

"I welcome the move," she said, after a pause. "However, unless the Egyptian government makes serious commitments to protect refugees in this war, and not just those of their allies, then this will only be a hollow gesture."

"And is the UN ready for what might happen if the Egyptians are successful and reach Ethiopia?"

"We are not there yet, but we are planning against the possibility.  The war is destabilizing the region as a whole. The longer it lasts, the more militant groups we’ll see emerging, and the more radicalized they will become. The recent massacres of Christians by militants crossing into South Sudan, are evidence of this danger."

"Comissioner Rao, would you say that the US and Russia are responsible for the crisis in East Africa?"

"I do not think there is any point in apportioning blame. However, the US and Russia can influence their partners in this region, to bring them to the negotiation table. If the Security Council was of one mind, then a resolution could be passed. The Nile Waters Agreement of 1959 must be revisited. There are many nations with claims, and these must be deliberated on, peacefully."

"Thank you, Ma’am," the red linked winked out. The reporter seemed to relax.

"That was great, Commissioner," Anjana gave a thumbs up. The reporter nodded.

"You think so?"

"Oh yes. You present very well. I can’t wait to see you once we reach the camp."

"Hey," the reporter looked to Anjana, "Do you know how much longer it will be?"

"A couple of more hours. We just have to pass through one more town, a place named Berber."

"Berber?"

"Yes. It’s Egyptian controlled."

The reporter made a face. "Well, you could say that. Asmaran Christians took Berber last week."

Anjana shot Rao a look.

"We’ll be fine," Rao waved her concerns away. "If anything, we’ll be safer."

Anjana nodded. After a few moments, she spoke again.

"Commissioner, do you mind if I ride up front with the vanguard? It’s really cramped in here."

"Not at all child. You’re so tall; this must be killing you. Just check with the lieutenant and see if it’s alright."  

Berber, Twenty five kilometers South

"You were right, Arab."

Sand-grimed men in civvies and flak jackets cleaned their weapons. An ancient T-62’s crew sat outside it, drinking tea and talking. Shaded by a mud brick wall, a sniper sat reading the Bible.

The dark sunglasses leaning against the Land Rover looked up and smiled. He wore Egyptian combat fatigues and a flak jacket. He carried a large briefcase.

"They just sent the order to begin shelling the toll road," continued the speaker. Age had furrowed his face and salted his beard. "The UN convoy is to be discouraged."

Beside him was a younger man wearing ammo belts and an RPK LMG. The light machine gunner frowned openly at the smiling Arab.

"That’s what they have to tell you, Grebremichael. No Egyptian officer can say any more than that."

"You are no Egyptian," said the LMGer, pointing his finger. "Why should we do this for you?"

Gebremichael held up his hand to his junior.

"I never said I was," said Sunglasses. "And what’s in this briefcase certainly isn’t, either.  My people and yours have the same enemy here: the UN High Commissioner for Refugees. Her stance against single-community orbitals has blocked many Christian evacuations. This Western diversity model she imposes in space, is causing great suffering down here.

"Bazen," he gestured to the LMGer. "Did you choose this war? No. The Nile nations have gone to war, forcing their neighbors to pick sides. Right now Sudan’s militias are raiding South Sudan, killing and enslaving Christians. Rao has repeatedly blocked moves to evacuate those threatened towns to the E-series orbitals. Now, what happens when those militias begin attacking Eritrea? Well?"

Bazen said nothing.

"The other reason, is the money. If you agree to kill Lakshmi Rao, then I will pay you the advance. The rest on completion. You need funds, and your émigrés in the US and Italy can only give you so much. Gentlemen, her convoy is on its way.  I will respect your decision. However, now that decision needs to be made."

"No," said Bazen.

"Yes," said Gebremichael. "But you must pay us a lot more. I want double."

"Double?"

"Yes. I will respect your decision, but now that decision needs to be made."

The Arab laughed. "Alright. It is agreed." He opened the Land Rover door and put the briefcase on the seat. He lifted up the lid, revealing a computer. He booted it up and he logged on. A donkey cart drove by, its rider a sun baked farmer.  One of the tank crew belched, loudly.

"Could you confirm receipt?" the Arab said at last, closing the briefcase.

Gebremichael nodded to Bazen, who pulled out a satphone and stepped away. Words in Tigrinya passed into microwaves. A few minutes later he returned, his bearing changed.

"We’ve received the crypto currency," he said. "Ten million."

Gebremichael smiled and faced the Arab.

"She’ll be dead in two hours. Thank you for your business."

Berber, two hours later

 "The rear of the convoy has entered the town," said the man with the two-way radio. "Their vanguard should be coming down the road, now Sir."

Unpainted, mud brick buildings lined the dirt road. Crouching behind walls and on roofs were well-armed militiamen. Their keffiyeh-wrapped faces peered, rifles held ready. Behind a tree, a rocketeer and a loader were checking their gear. They stopped and looked expectantly at Bazen.

The growl of engines were heard.  

Bazen put down his light machine gun and looked through his binoculars. Two open-top, Mengshi-pattern Humvees had just come into view. They were packed with Chinese QBZ-111 riflemen in digital, desert camo. Goggled gunners stood at 12.7mm machine guns, scanning. Sitting in the back, one person stood out.

"She’s in the vanguard!" he said excitedly. "Fire!"

The rocket team mates looked at each other.

"But Bazen," the radioman was still holding the antiquated receiver, "Captain Gebremichael told us to wait for, and target the personnel carriers."

"She’s not in an APC, she’s right there in the second humvee! It’s carrying an Indian woman."

"But Bazen – "

"No buts, fire! We kill her, and this is over!"

"So the UN chick is pretty hot."

Sergeant Zhou scanned the mud brick buildings along the road. Broken windows stared back at him, black and sightless. Berber had been wretched even before the war claimed it. Perhaps it had been a mercy killing.

"A real white swan," said one of the men in the back. He was sitting next to the High Commissioner’s aide. She looked out the window, oblivious.

Private Wu at the wheel, peered into the rearview mirror. "Gao, I think you mean a brown swan."

"I should ask to be her bodyguard," said Gao in the back. "That refugee camp is just a big, jihadi, training ground. Pretty girl like her shouldn’t go wandering around without a guard."

 "Don’t be stupid," said Wu. "She doesn’t know you exist. You’ll be sitting in the cold on a bench a long time if you think she’ll ever notice you."

"I think someone can’t eat grapes but says they’re sour."

"Don’t bother her Private," snapped Sergeant Zhou. "And never assume people around us can’t understand Mandarin, especially diplomats."

"Yes Sir."

The girl kept looking out the window. She frowned suddenly and leaned towards the glass.

"Hey," she began in English, "I think there’s – "

The Mengshi flipped.

Zhou’s ears rang from the explosion. He was on top of Wu, who was coughing and gasping for air. The cabin was filled with dust and smoke. Someone was screaming, again and again.

"Everybody out!"

Zhou kicked open the door and climbed out. Automatic weapons clattered, the Mengshi rang loudly with each hit.  Zhou dropped to the ground and braced his QBZ-111. Beside him was Private Chen, the machine gunner, dead. Muzzles flashed at Zhou from rooftops.

"Dragon One this is Silk One, over. Dragon One, are you receiving?"

He gave up on the helmet’s radio. He tried the infrared. Immediately, yellow and red blobs lit up all around them.

Private Wu climbed out without his weapon, still coughing.

"Get down," Zhou stood and pulled him down. "Are you injured?"

"I don’t think so, Sir!"

Zhou shoved his rifle into Wu’s arms. "Then shoot something!"

"Yes Sir!"

Zhou climbed back up the vehicle. Bullets passed over his head, optimistic but untrained.

"Everyone conscious in there?" he shouted.

"I’m okay Sir," yelled Gao. "But the VIP, I think she’s hurt."

"Anything broken?" below, Wu opened up with the 111.

"I don’t know, Sir."

"Let’s get her out of there."

Gao carefully picked up the aide. She was limp in his arms, her white blouse stained red. Zhou pulled her out – her eyes had rolled back into her head.

Wu cried out as a rocket demolished the house behind them.

 "Could do with some more shooting from our side!"

"Where the fuck is our side?" yelled Gao.

"Just get your gun and get out! I can’t drop her on the ground like this!" More bullets arced past Zhou.

Gao raised up a Type 91 marksman’s rifle, and tossed it out. Then he climbed and fell on Chen’s body. Wordless, he reached up to Zhou. The Sergeant lowered the aide to him.

A hammer slammed into his back, throwing him off the Mengshi. He landed face first, the dirt scouring him. He spat sand and felt a burning in his back. He reached back and dug with his fingers.

"You alright, Sir?" Gao held the limp aide in his arms, like a frat boy rapist.

Zhou pulled out a gleaming, deformed pellet. "Just my pride. You want to show that rocket team what you division medal is worth?"

Gao grinned, and picked up the Type 91 laser. He braced against the wreck, switched to infrared, and began firing. One shot, aim. One shot, aim. Again and again, silent and recoilless.

Zhou checked her wrist and throat for a pulse. It was strong. She had gashed her shoulder, it was bleeding generously. Zhou pulled out a tube from his webbing and bit the top off.  He forced the wound shut, and around it squeezed the tube. A black cream came out, and began setting immediately. The bleeding stopped.

 "What hit us?" yelled Wu. He tracked a man running between buildings, and fired.

"I think it was a rocket!"

"Why not just use an IED, and kill us all?"

"Maybe they want prisoners!"

Wu stopped for a moment and glanced back.

"No one is getting beheaded today, Private!"

"Yes Sir!"

He left the aide and began pulling the Mengshi’s machine gun from the wreckage. The QJZ-90 heavy machine gun was an older design, but in the PLA you didn’t fuss about hand-me-downs. He propped it over the Menghsi, and aimed.

Six hundred rounds a minute, poured into the attackers. Zhou looked behind, at the second Mengshi charging forward. Its gunner coolly aimed, tearing up mud walls like paper. The attackers fled.

"About time," said Wu. He noticed he’d been shot in the leg, and swore.

The doors opened and Chinese peacekeepers emerged and fanned out. Laser sights cut red lines into the air. Lowered HUD visors swept the battleground.

"Xie, she needs a medic," said Zhou.

One visor nodded to another, who then ran up to Zhou and the aide. He studied her wound carefully and pulled out a roll of bandages.

"She going to be okay?" asked Private Gao.

"I’m fine," said Anjana weakly.

All heads turned to hers.

"You speak Mandarin?" demanded Zhou.

She smiled. "No one has ever called me a swan before."

Corporal Xie tapped his helmet comm and mumbled an acknowledgement.

"Sir, we need to go," he turned to Zhou. "The convoy is under attack."

"RPGs?"

"Tanks."

Out of the ruins came the Eritrean, Savior’s Protectors Army.

Captain Gebremichael commanded almost a hundred men armed with RPGs and assault rifles. The darling of his force though, was a 120mm, pickup-towed, mortar. It was an old piece captured from the Sudanese. He preferred it to the 81mms the Egyptians would sometimes give them as scraps. With HE rounds, and if Johan was aiming, it cracked tanks.

Johan was aiming, but Bazen the idiot had aimed too, and fired. The ambush had failed and the peacekeepers were going to escape. Unless of course, Selassie’s tank platoon stopped them.

When it was all done thought Gebremichael, he would cut off Bazen’s hands.

"Dragon Two, is the Crane up yet?"

The ZBL-11 swerved, hard. The soldiers were thrown against their restraints, the VIP squealed. It barreled down the side street, clipping a mud hut. The building exploded into sand.

 "This is Dragon Two," said the Lieutenant’s helmet comm. "Crane launched, eyes are in the air, over."

A 3d overlay of the battlefield appeared in Lieutenant Lee’s helmet HUD. Some markers were green, the largest ones tagged ONE, TWO, THREE. The rest were blue, tagged with question marks. Then they started flipping red. Tags appeared over them;  RPG1, RPG2, ARMR1.

ARMR2.
ARMR3.
ARMR4.
ARMR5.
ARMR6.

"Fuck."

"Dragon One, this is Three. We have visual on enemy armor - just T-62 antiques, over. Shall we engage?"

"No, you crazy bastard! All squads, deploy smart smoke and begin microwave jamming. Dragon Three, rendezvous at the location I’m pinning now," a yellow marker appeared near the town center.

There was a shrieking outside the APC, followed by a loud pop.

"What was that?" the VIP’s eyes were wide as saucers. She clutched a stanchion with both hands.

"Smart smoke launcher," said the reporter. Lee was pleased she was mothering the head of the UNHCR. "A packet of chaff and timed mini-flares just got fired into the air. The APC is pumping dirty smoke now, right into the air. The mix will make it hard for anyone to see or target us."

"What makes it smart?" demanded the High Commissioner.

The reporter looked stumped.

"Dragon One this is Silk One," said Zhou. "Enemy contacts driven off. One KIA, and the small package is damaged, over."

"Silk One, this is Dragon One.  Is the Mengshi recoverable?"

"It should be fine, but we’ll need an exo-armor to flip it."

"Strip what you can, and then get the small package to the rendezvous point."

"Anjana," the Indian woman touched his arm. "Is she alright?"

"She’s asking about her aide," said the reporter in Mandarin.

"Tell her that she’s injured, but she’s okay."

The reporter turned and spoke to the Commissioner, in English. Immediately, the Indian woman started to wail.

"What the hell did you tell her?"

"What you said. She thinks we’re going to die."

"Don’t talk to her anymore."

There was a pause. "Lieutenant, are we going to be alright?"

"Don’t talk to me anymore."

Minutes later, the APC began slowing. "We’re coming up on the town center," yelled Private Lo, the driver. "Crane drone shows no hostiles."

The APC stopped, and the hatches opened. Lee slung his rifle and climbed out.

The dead town’s square was an uneven space with patches of stubborn grass. Two other ZBL-11s were parked, their soldiers dismounted. Two riflemen with a recoilless launcher were sharing a cigarette. A marksman prone on a ZBL, scanned the surroundings through his scope.

A knot of men had formed around two crouching exo-armors. The pilots had climbed in, helpers snapped clasps and lowered helmets. Servos whined as they got to their feet. One pilot thumbs upped – his frame parroting him with its dinner plate-sized hand. The other drew its two-meter long rail rifle.

On the ground with her back against the Mengshi, was the small package. A crouching soldier taped a saline pack above her, a medic took her pulse. The commissioner ran over.

"Is she alright?" she demanded in English.

The soldiers looked up at her blankly.

"I’m okay," said Anjana weakly but smiling. "Just a deep cut. I lost some blood but I’m feeling much better now."

"Poor child! You should drink some water. Have you drunk any water?"

"Yes Commissioner."

"In this desert you should drink twice as much."

"I’m alright Commissioner."

"I’m so sorry I brought you into this."

"It’s alright Commissioner, sometimes things just happen."

"She needs to let you rest," said the medic in Mandarin.

"I know," Anjana replied.

"What did he say? He took your pulse now, yes? Is your pulse normal? Do you need blood? What’s your blood type?"

"He said everything was fine, and not to worry."

Rao made a face. "Not to worry? People are trying to kill us all, and he says not to worry."

"So what’s the plan?"

Lee stood in a circle with his squad and assistant squad leaders. Any others free to attend were gathered as well. The black, X-45, exo-armors towered over everyone else. Someone was passing around a cigarette.

"The smart smoke cloud is thinning, and it won’t be long before a technical comes driving up to see if we’re here," Lee began. "The radio and microwave jamming prevents them from spotting for their mortar. But, accurate or not, it’s a real danger. While they have it, we’re on the back foot. Once we escape, it’ll try and pick us off as we leave."

"And there are the tanks," said Zhou.

"Now that they aren’t right behind us, I’m not worried about them. It was a bad ambush, let’s make them pay for that. Sergeant Cai," he turned to a crooked-nose man, "The Crane shows the tanks are still in a group, moving single file. Your fire team will kill the lead tank. Corporal Feng’s team will kill the rear one."

Sergeant Cai nodded. "Second Squad will get it done."

"Lin, Zheng," he looked to the two armor pilots. "Hit the trapped tanks on their flank."

"Understood," said Lin. "What about the rest of my squad?"

"I want them attached to Third Squad. Sergeant Han?"

"Yes Sir?"

"Your squad has to protect Second Squad and the armors. Whatever it takes, make sure they don’t get flanked. Don’t get distracted by the tanks, your job is killing interlopers. Use the heavy machine gun and automated grenade launcher to kill, drive off, and discourage their infantry."

"Shall we give Second our recoilless rifle?"

"Yes. And all your HEAT rounds, too."

"What about us?" asked Zhou.

"Corporal Xie’s team will be on an ’11 with the packages. Once we engage, the enemy will start converging. Jamming won’t matter: they’ll follow the sound. Xie, you keep your eyes on the Crane drone feed. As soon as you see them abandon a roadblock, you get the hell out. Don’t stop till you reach Atbara."

"Yes Sir."

"Zhou, you’ll take his Mengshi. We’re going to go kill that mortar."

"We?"

"That’s right. You’re a man down, and I’m coming with you. Does anyone have any questions?"

"Just one," said Zhou. "Does anyone know what’s happened to us?"

"We can’t get a response on any of the radios, but that doesn’t mean they don’t know. If we’re being jammed then we’ve already missed our first check in. A satellite or drone will come and take a look.  We’re also overdue at the camp. People know."

"All we’ve seen are guys with hand-me-down AKs and some ninety-year old tanks. If they can jam our communications, doesn’t that mean they have an advanced asset?"

Lee paused. "I didn’t think of that. Yes, it does. The Crane doesn’t show anything, so it’s probably just a transmitter on the back of a technical. Anything else?"

Silence.

"Alright then, let’s go kick them in the balls."

"Here they come!"

At the intersection, men appeared wearing track suits, white robes, and sandals. Most carried rifles, some carried RPGs. Clattering behind them, the first tank turned on to the street. Its treads and hull were dust stained, the Arabic markings painted over.

It was followed by a second, third, fourth, fifth. More infantry piled into the street, staying close to walls. Others walked between the tanks, using them for cover. Cai counted forty men.

The Type 99 recoilless gun team tracked the lead tank, tilting their weapon after it. The gunner looked down the sight, holding his breath.

"Where’s the last tank?" hissed the loader.

"Just focus!" Cai hissed back.

"They get any closer, we’re going to get seen!"

It was a real danger. His own men and all of Third Squad were ready, but no one was to open fire till the tanks lit up. If they were spotted, the tanks would bolt – or charge.

He activated his helmet radio.

"Feng, this is Cai, Feng? Feng!"

There was a bang! and the rear tank stalled. Men ran and started yelling, someone was wailing. Black smoke started rising from its open turret.

Dust and smoke erupted around him as 99 fired. It slammed into the lead tank, tearing through its front armor. The tank veered to the side and crashed into a mud building, bricks cascading over it. Men were scattered by the blast, the yelling and screaming became panicked.

Two full PLA rifle squads opened up on them.

Green recruits running in the open were quickly picked off. Cai shot two – there were so many. Others were shot trying to drag the wounded to cover. A survivor in the street wailed to his fellows. Two made a quick dash for him.

Hsss. Hsss.

They collapsed as they reached him, something invisible punching their heads. Smoke rose from perfect holes. The wounded man looked at them and screamed with new energy.

"Nobody finish him," said a man peering down the scope of a marksman’s laser rifle.

A greener force might have broken and fled, but the Savior’s Protectors Army had been at war for three years. From darkened windows and collapsed roofs, they returned fire. Bullets zipped around Second Squad, Cai crouched against the ruined wall. He felt bullets thudding on the other side.

A shockwave knocked him back and his ears exploded. He saw the marksman flying backwards, crash, roll, and lay still. Two soldiers ran to him and dragged him away. Further away, a second RPG hit.

"Support weapons," Cai yelled, "Any time you fuckers!"

The second T-62 began forcing the wrecked one aside. Its gun turned and raised to face the peacekeepers.

Explosions cracked the air. The militia men jumped up and grabbed their weapons.

"That’s close by," said the loader. Before him the 120mm was unlimbered and deployed, facing towards the fighting. The spotter climbed the roof of their technical and peered with his binoculars.

"What do you see?" demanded Bazen. Behind him were two technicals, both mounting machine guns. Twelve men stood by them, rifles and light machine guns ready.

"Just smoke," said the spotter. "If Selassie’s boys were firing, we’d see bigger explosions."

"Then they need us!" Bazen turned to the men behind him. "Get on the trucks! We’re going to help our brothers!"

The three mortar crew looked at each other.

"But Bazen," said the gunner, "You’re supposed to stay with us."

"Shut your stupid mouth! I won’t be sitting out while our brothers are fighting for their lives. Let’s go!" he ran to a technical and climbed into the passenger seat. The 4x4s awoke and growled, soldiers ran and jumped aboard as they left.

The mortar crew looked back at each other, again.

"Well now what?" asked the gunner. "Do we just sit here, unprotected?"

An engine growled suddenly, coming from the opposite side.

"I hope that’s Gebremichael," said the spotter. "I can’t wait to tell him." He turned and raised his binoculars.

The QJZ-90 tore him apart. The Mengshi blitzed around the corner, and Zhou opened up again. Six hundred rounds a minute tore into the two men. The Mengshi drove up and Lee jumped out, grenade in hand. He shoved it down the mortar tube and ran back. The tube coughed and fell on its side, smoking. The Mengshi turned and left.

"Move! Move!"

Cai ran under fire, other men scattered with him. The blast pitched him forward and slammed him to the ground. His HUD spider-webbed and died, he tasted blood in his mouth. His chest burned and his hearing was gone.

Get up.

He forced himself up somehow, his legs, jelly. Two men rushed to him, his ribs were stabbing daggers as they dragged him to cover.

The T-62 turret turned for its second shot.

There was a flash and a crash, and the turret rocked loose. A second crash and it popped off, altogether. The X-45 armors came into view, like striding ogres. Shoulder-mounted auto-guns chattered and men screamed. A man was dragging himself aside, legs ruined. A ‘45 veered gently, stomped hard on his head, and kept moving. Rail guns held like rifles, they fired them as they walked. Gyros compensated and computers did the rest. The fourth T-62 began venting black smoke from its turret.

The last tried reversing and shoving aside the wrecks pinning it. The armors stowed their guns over their backs like broadswords, and loped towards it. They grabbed its moving treads, and tore them right off. Then they braced against it like peasants with a stuck cart, and pushed it over.

One stepped around the sideways tank. A hatch opened and the driver tumbled out.

It picked him up, and flung him streets away.

The militia broke and ran. Cheering burst from Squads Two and Three, and they opened up on the fleeing men. Cai’s hearing slowly started returning. His assistant squad leader, Feng, came running up, smiling.

"We got them!" he seemed to whisper.  

Cai looked beyond him, down the road the militia had come.

"What about the last T-62!" he yelled.

Feng winced. "What about it?"

"My HUD and my radio are wrecked! Where is it!"

Feng pointed without passion, "Back there somewhere. Never made it past the corner."

"What!"

"I said it never made it past the corner!"

There was a deep rumbling. The men stopped and looked down the road. The X-45s in the street turned and looked.

The first X-45 disintegrated as the Abrams fired. The shockwave flung the second one aside, it crashed on to its back. Militia swarmed it, unloading their guns into the pilot. The Abrams shoved the wrecked T-62s aside like supermarket trolleys. Its matte black stealth panels slid away, and its AI-guns opened up.  Soldiers were smacked aside, blood spraying from their helmets and chests.

Cai and Feng crouched down in the dirt.

"How did we not know?" yelled Feng.

"It’s been jamming us, and matching a T-62’s signature!" Cai replied. "A little gift from the Egyptians!"

The main cannon fired again, the shock bounced them.  

"We can’t piece its armor! What do we do?" asked Feng.

"We run!" Cai got up on one knee, his other leg felt like jelly. Around him, men were already scattering, dragging wounded. Several men lay still, their bodies twisted.

"We run. We run and hope they chase us!"

"Sir?"

"We’re buying time for Xie to get out with the packages – the commissioner! If we can make it back to ‘11s, we can get out too."

"Sir!"

"What?"

"Your leg, Sir!"

He looked down. There was a gash in his fatigues, red pooled in the sand. He realized why he couldn’t stand.

"Oh for fuck’s sake."

The upgraded Abrams shoved the last tank aside and crushed its way forward. Cai stared down the barrel.

"Run, Feng."

"I will not, Sir."

He turned and smiled at him.

"Wish we had time for a cigarette."

The air shrieked above. Cai looked up, and saw a black wedge diving towards them.

He was knocked on his back by the explosion, dust and falling dirt filled his view. He felt Feng’s arm at his shoulder, pulling him up.

Fountaining black smoke, the Abram’s turret had been blown off. He looked up and saw the black wedge rising, and turning for another pass.

"Who’s is that? The Sudanese?"

"I don’t think so," said Feng. "That was a J-31, Shenyang. We didn’t sell them any."

From the east, they heard the drone of helicopters. They looked and saw four coming towards them. Most of the men started cheering and hugging each other.

"Sir!" a soldier came running up to them, his face a schoolyard full of smiles. "Sir! I can hear them all on my helmet radio, Sir!"

"That’s nice. You want to tell your sergeant and your corporal what the hell is going on?"

"They’re from the carrier Liaoning. The Navy is here!"

More men were cheering. Some of them started to sing.  

"Here," Feng handed him a cigarette. "You have time for one after all."

Chennai, India, 12 hours later

"Anjana Shetty, given the obvious danger, is the UN going to pull out of Sudan?"

"William Cartwright, BBC. What do you make of the Egyptian condemnation of the attack on your convoy?"

"Ms. Shetty, are you going to leave the UNHCR?"

Cameras flashed and boom mikes bobbed overhead.  News crews crammed around the hospital bed like bus commuters at rush hour.  The bed was raised so Anjana could sit up. The side table was piled high and spilling over with flowers. An IV drip went into one hand, Lakshmi Rao sat holding the other.

Anjana smiled weakly.

"I am not leaving the High Commission for Refugees. And the UN is not leaving Sudan. You have to understand, what just happened was not an outlier. Aid workers are attacked all the time. There is nothing safe about caring for refugees in Sudan. But also, we’re not safe talking about it, here in Chennai. Religious extremists can and will strike anywhere."

She cleared her throat and motioned to a pitcher. Camera flashes punctuated Rao holding a glass to the girl’s lips.

"Africa’s population has exploded," she continued. "Climate change has turned many croplands into deserts. Water wars will increase. Education, healthcare, clean government, these have become pipe dreams for many. The violent extremism I am a victim of, has been increasing in Africa and the Middle East, for fifty years. It will continue for another fifty.

"But we’re in this for the long haul. China has troops and America has drones, all over the world. Over a hundred nations are involved in peace keeping, nation building, and counter-terrorism. The world is in the greatest struggle it has ever known.

"Space is where we will win.  Every community resettled to an orbital habitat, is prospering. The more habitats we build, the more people we can lift – literally – out of poverty and hunger. That’s why I am not leaving. I have too much work to do."

She carefully turned to Rao, and the two hugged for the watching world.

"How did I do?" she whispered into Rao’s ear.

"Perfect," she whispered back, cameras flashing all around them. "Just perfect."

"Roshmita, how much longer are you going to sulk?"

The cozy kitchen smelled of fresh made, paneer rice. Above the counter a colonial-era cuckoo clock ticked, tocked.  A staring Shih Tzu sat beside the table, ignoring its own bowl in the corner. The young girl eating opposite Rao, gave her a dirty look.  

"Roshmita," Rao’s tone changed, "are you enjoying acting like a child? Are you trying to punish me? Cause it’s not working."

Roshmita looked down at her plate, but added a scowl to the experience.

"Darling, come on," Rao’s tone softened. "Please don’t do this. I love you very much, I did not try to or want to hurt you."

"I told you not to go," the teenager said at last.

"No one could have known that would happen."

"I knew it would happen!" she looked up, a glaring lion. "Isn’t your team worth anything? Aren’t they supposed to be smart? They didn’t see something like this coming? There’s a video out now of some imams putting a fatwa on you."

"I know about it, just ignore it. I’m a public figure; every public figure gets death threats."

"What is wrong with you?" the dog shrank back, startled. "You think what happened was random?  People tried to kill you, and when they failed, a holy call goes up on social media for some other asshole to ante up and try? Someone is trying to kill you."

The cuckoo clock filled their ears. The Shih Tzu made an exploratory whine.  

"I’m not going to go back there, Roshmita. Nothing like this will ever happen again. New York won’t allow it, even if I wanted to go to another warzone. We have bodyguards now, and the army has put up checkpoints on the street and near the office. No one is going to hurt me, darling. You have to believe this."

"What does it matter, helping refugees?"

"What?"

"What does it matter? For every person you send up, ten more hate you for being left behind. They blame you for their problems. Not themselves. Not a bunch of rich, dead, men from a century ago. You want that? Ama, just leave it. To hell with it."

"Roshmita, we can’t run from the world’s problems when they’re our problems, too. This city is half underwater. People in this country are hungry. If I just thought of myself – of ourselves – what kind of world would I be leaving to you? I’d be no better than my parent’s generation. I have a duty of care to you. I can’t just stop because it’s hard."

"You don’t think staying alive is part of that duty?"

"What happened in Sudan was a fluke. Even if someone is actually trying to kill me, they will never have an opportunity like that again. And we had the Chinese with us. They protected us. They gave their lives to save us."

"And how does that make you feel?"

Rao stopped and said nothing.

"What about your aide, Anjana Shetty?"

"Poor girl, she won’t be able to walk again without a cane.  She needs stem cell injections, it will take months before the nerves all grow back. Then the doctors say she’ll have a chance to walk normally again."

Roshmita shook her head. "I can’t believe you.  You think that’s what I wanted to know?"

"Well, what then?"

"Let’s put aside that your choices put her in danger. What was all that shit with you holding hands with her in the hospital? All that noble cock about ‘I will never stop, this is the long haul’?"

"Don’t you use language like that around me, young lady."

Her eyes slitted.  "I’d rather swear at my mother, than use someone’s injuries to play politics. You pitched her as a martyr, another Malala Yousefzai. You have men all over the planet jumping up and down. The brave, beautiful, girl with the big eyes that terrorists tried to murder! And what does she talk about from her hospital bed? Orbital habitats! Our last great hope! Have you no shame Ama? Have you any fucking shame?"

 "Roshmita! I won’t warn you again!"

"Or what?" Roshmita got up.

"Sit down!"

"Or what? You’ll get someone else crippled to save the loving Human Race?"

"You horrible, horrible child. All you can think of is yourself."

Roshmita’s eyes filled. She stormed out of the kitchen, then Rao heard the front door slamming.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

The Shih Tzu whined again, and put its paws up on her knee.

Abdul Kareem Al-Rashid, II

Zinjibar, Abyan Governorate, Yemen

"I don’t understand. Hisham failed. Why are you rewarding him?"

In the courtyard, an elderly man was feeding some goats. Children screeched and giggled, and ran across the grass and were gone. A large portrait of the Ka’aba hung over an archway.

"Wahlid, Sudan landed in our laps," replied Kareem. "An opportunity that was not of our making. It was high risk, but I decided it was worth it. Hisham did what he could. The failure is mine to bear. I made the decision to chance it."

"That’s it?" his son threw up his hands.  

"Yes, that’s it. Now this Indian group we found is much better placed. They’re all nationals so they can move around freely. Parts of India are very chaotic – they can operate from a slum a few streets from her, and no one will ever know."

Wahlid shook his head. "The Eritreans have been at war for three years –and they were incompetent. Hisham even got them a modernized tank, and they still failed. How is an untested Indian group we’ve not heard of, going to do better?"

"Do you feel you have a better idea?"

"Yes! Send me!"

"You?" he suppressed the smile, but not the frown.

"Yes, Father. Me.  I’ve been to Pakistan, to Kashmir. I know the culture, I can even speak some Hindi. It’s just like Urdu. Give me four men and I’ll kill everyone in her office."

Kareem said nothing. He turned his back and poured himself some red tea. Cardamoms and fennel floated to the top, cluttering his reflection.

"So, what do you think?" asked the boy.

Kareem sipped his tea. "The language they speak in Chennai isn’t Hindi, it’s Tamil. Chennai is in India’s southernmost state. Kashmir is its northernmost state. How can you say you know the culture? You don’t even know the map."

Wahlid scowled.

"This is why I want to work with the Indians. They have local knowledge and assets. We can give them equipment, resources, training. In partnership we can do far more than we could on our own, Wahlid."

"Partnership? Like our partnership with Sukarno? Outsiders only help us as far as it advances them to do so. Once they have all they need, they abandon us, or worse. We should have learned that lesson. Why do you rushing to repeat it?"

 "Sukarno had his own vision, that’s true. In the short run, working with him was an expensive and bitter failure. In the long run though, it was helpful. We need to worry about the long run, Wahlid. The 21st century is the great fast. Its hardships are awakening our fellow Moslems. With that in mind, consider our legacy in South East Asia."

"We have a legacy?"

"Of course we do. A muddled but dangerous group, determined to expel the Chinese. They will train others, who in turn will train still more. There are three hundred million Moslems in Indonesia. How can a Chinese space elevator ever be safe?"

He poured his son some tea. "A united army with one leader is very effective. That is why our enemies fight that way. But a single, large, group is vulnerable to decapitation strikes. The US in particular is good at doing this to us. That’s partly why we need partners rather than being able to do everything.  We can’t do our work if we’re dead. And if we do die, others will carry on our teachings."

Wahlid frowned.

"You don’t seem convinced."

"Father, what is the point? You said it yourself. An organized and united army can fight effectively and achieve victory. What you’re saying instead, is that chaotic violence is better.  That’s ridiculous.  I think you’re just trying to dress a failure, as a success. No one else will call you out for that, but I will."

Father and son locked eyes.

"The Taleban and ISIS each fought as unified armies for a time. They took whole countries. And then they were smashed. Meanwhile, even as the Americans celebrated killing Bin Laden, Al-Qaeda’s children expanded his struggle, ten-fold.  You don’t have to accept this, Wahlid. A drone doesn’t care what you think. It will swat you, like a fly. But swatting flies becomes pointless if the whole meal starts rotting."

"A ‘rotting meal,’" Wahlid folded his arms and shook his head. "That ‘meal’ you’re talking about is the Moslem World. Our entire mission is to resist technologies that reduce their suffering. Don’t you think we have a duty then, to make sure that suffering is as short as possible?"

Kareem’s fingers whitened around his cup. "Again, this argument from you."

"We are in private. I can and will say what I like."

"People are pathetic creatures. They will sell out their freedom and futures to anyone who can bribe or bully them. Moslems are no different from anyone else. The ecological travails of this century, correlate directly with its passion for Jihad. The only arguments that compel are hunger and thirst. Think about that! This century is the first real chance since the Khans, for an Islamic state. A true, great, pan-Islamic state, free from the pressure of Western power. This chance is entirely fuelled by human misery."

"I think about that every day."

"You have taken up the cause, Wahlid. You contribute to that misery."

"I think about that too."

"All that suffering is for nothing if we do not win. Of those before us, under European colonials. Those who died against the Americans, when this war started. New technologies will take root, the masses will be bribed, and this chance may never come again. We are committed now Wahlid, we must see this through to the end."

"And we are the ones who decide this?"

"Yes. People like you and me. We have decided it, and it’s done."

Wahlid threw up his hands. "Let’s get back to talking about Hisham."

Kareem sighed. "I had hoped you were paying attention. Forget Hisham. Stop thinking short term. Trying to achieve A, B, and C in a given time is how our enemies think."

"Can we just get back to Hisham?"

"Just listen to yourself. Aren’t you impatient and upset over Sudan?"

"Yes!"

"Exactly. It is the same for our enemies. They set themselves schedules, budgets, time tables. These are all limits on what they’re willing to expend. When things go wrong, they become impatient, they feel they have failed. They become discouraged, their publics want their troops to come home from the war they ‘cannot win.’

"We don’t set limits. That’s how you win against a superpower, you keep fighting till it’s done. Do you follow? Please tell me you follow. You are my son, how can I lead when people can see my own son disagrees with me?"

"If you want me to agree, you can start by explaining to me why Hisham is being rewarded."

"He is not being rewarded. Making contacts with groups is what he does, boy.  Sri Lanka is a perfect meeting place. It is next to India. It’s tourist-focused and welcomes visitors, especially from the Middle East. The Sri Lankan police are underpaid and undertrained. He will assess the Indians. If he feels they are worthy, he will discuss targets."

"Targets? You mean Lakshmi Rao?"

"Not just her. Her wounded assistant is doing talk shows now. They are using this to make a case for more orbitals and resources. Sympathetic policy makers are also coming forward and making statements. Many are Indian."

"You want to kill everyone who wants to send refugees to space?"

"Not everyone. Just enough to make it look like we want to. Remember, the whole point of this exercise is to throw off the AI now studying us. To throw them off the trail of Black Fire."

"Can I go too?"

"What?"

"Can – can I go too?"

"Wahlid! This is not a holiday!"

"You want me to think long term? Then there is no point my training with Faisal and the others. I can shoot, I can clear rooms, I can make bombs. But I don’t know how to find and cut deals with allies. If that’s how things should be done, then I want to learn. Send me with Hisham."

"I’m sorry, everything is already prepared. Hisham will be going alone – you can go next time."

"Are you sure? I’m happy to do all the extra prep work myself."

"I’m sure, Wahlid. I want you here, working with Faisal. I want you liaising with the cell on the E2 Orbital."

"I can contact them from anywhere in the world. I can do it from India."

"And I would rather you focus on bigger, more important things. Remember, our real work is Black Fire. Work you have a part in."

"They are just Internet wankers."

"I know it is not very exciting work, but it is what you should be doing, all the same."

"Faisal made contact with them, shouldn't he be managing them?"

"Faisal is too old, he needs your help with them. You connect well with other young people. Now, how is it coming along with the Internet wankers?"

"They want to declare a Caliphate, in space."

Kareem frowned. "Are they serious?"

"Somewhat."

"Steer them away from this."

"It's just nonsense."

"No actually, it isn't.  Black Fire doesn't need that kind of distraction. Have you got them to the point that they would accept something from you? Something you post them?"

"Yes. But I think we should send it through one of their family members on Earth. A parcel will stand out though. I doubt mail to space will be cheap."

"Our Chechen friend Zakayev has perfected a dust-like delivery mechanism."

"Dust?"

"Just send them a card. We can dust it. Nothing will show up on an X-ray."

"How will they activate Black Fire without special equipment?"

"Zakayev is working on it. In any case, I need to be able to trigger activation, from here on Earth. "

"I thought you wanted the cell members to activate it."

"Yes, they will of course have that control."

"Shouldn't it be under their control, entirely? Us having control from down here, puts them at risk. How could we ever know when it would be safe to activate? It makes no sense, Father."

"I will do nothing that endangers them."

Wahlid frowned.

"Wahlid, I will not allow them to come to harm. You have my word."

Evan Stockwell, Suyin Lee, II

Indonesia, Central Kalimantan

 "So Stockwell, do you get the feeling that they don't really want us around?"

Evan Stockwell looked up from his steaming bowl of noodles. It was Ramen Night in the PLA cafeteria. Every night was Ramen Night.  At nearby tables officers laughed and talked loudly in Mandarin. The civilian engineers were more discrete, all wearing their ID badges. Stockwell and Pirello sat alone. They wore visitor badges that read Tianguo De Jieti, "Heaven’s Ladder."  

"I’ve felt that way since we stepped off the plane," he replied. "I really couldn’t care less, I just wish they’d let us do our jobs. Or at least let me do my job."

Pirello sipped her canned soybean drink. "You’d think they’d at least quid pro quo after we IDed the dead Arab."

"We haven’t given them anything actionable. Al-Rawi kept a low profile and shows up in just a few airport photos.  His travel history is too thin – he probably changed his identity, at least once. He’s just a grunt: from village, to training camp, to warzone."

"Yeah but we gave them something."

"Hey," he held up a pork ball with his chopsticks, "they give us free food."

"Are you done?"

"I’ve been done. This is just stress eating."

"Come on. Let’s get back to work. Maybe you can dig out something new for the evidence wall."

"Actually, I want to make a little detour today."

"What’s that?"

"Let’s go look at their evidence wall."

"You know they won’t let us."

"Yes. But let’s see if they can stop us."

She frowned. "I don’t think Likavec will care for that. I know that Lee bitch will kick your ass. You’ll get put on a plane, maybe me too. Most likely you’ll just get into an argument and the door, and then leave in a huff. It won’t help matters, Evan. They have to come to us, when they’re ready."

"I say nuts to that. Come on, Pirello. A great, big, supercomputer thought it would be nice for us to come by. Maybe share a century’s worth of knowledge and experience fighting terrorists. That computer isn’t here right now, and we’re being sidelined. If they’re just wasting our time, put me on a plane right now. I have work to do. And I hate this food. This, this is supposed to be Chinese food? Where’s the Crab Rangoon?"

"Crab Rangoon isn’t actually Chinese."

"If I can connect the dots on this, they can damn well make it Chinese!"

"Lieutenant Colonel?"

She tapped her mike, "This is Lee, go ahead Sergeant."

"We have a problem in the command center."

"What is it?"

"The Americans have barged their way in."

"What?"

"They won’t leave. I tried to throw them out. Shall I call the Military Police?"

"No, I’ll take care of this myself."

"I’m arresting you for espionage."

The uniformed analysts in the command center had long since stopped working. They watched the interlopers instead, a keen little man and his menacing bodyguard. He asked questions in broken Mandarin they weren’t allowed to answer. He produced a thumb drive just as Lee was storming in.

"Well before you do that, what’s this?" He pointed to large hologram. It showed computer generated heads of several men. A man standing beside it looked at her, his eyes wide.

"Meng! Did you tell him anything?"

"No Lieutenant Colonel! Not a thing!"

"Then why are you acting like you did?"

"See, now I know this is important, ‘cause you’re talking in Mandarin. These guys," he wagged a finger at the hologram. "These are the terrorists you just took out, yes? And this one here, that’s Sukarno, the guy who lost his head? These DNA facial reconstructions are very nice by the way. I thought only ours were this good."

"Only ours are this good," said Pirello.

"Damn you Meng!"

"I didn’t tell them the technology was stolen!"

"With a face as guilty as yours, you didn’t need to!"

"Look, I’m not the counter espionage police. I don’t really care how you got this tech. And to be fair, if you’ve stolen it from us, we probably already know you did."

"We do," said Pirello.

"But what I need Lieutenant Colonel, is for you to let me have these reconstructions."

"Why would I do that?"

Stockwell opened his mouth, but then checked himself.  

"You want to do that," he started again, "Because then I can have our people take a look. I notice you have a lot of pictures of some of these guys, especially Sukarno. Some really strange angles here, by the way. Especially that one," he pointed. "No way that was taken from a CCTV. Hey you want to spy on the Indonesians with thousands of microbot drones, you go ahead. That’s not my business. I don’t care how you got these photos, but I need them too."

"You still haven’t said why."

"These pictures are all taken in Indonesia, correct?"

"Yes."

"So these Al-Rawi shots – you don’t have any that places him in another country?"

"No wonder they call you an analyst."

"Well he didn’t get here on a boat. He took a plane, and that plane probably connected somewhere and he took another one. We’ve been watching airports all over the world for a long time. We have a lot of partners, who send us their feeds. We can tell them who’s visiting, in real time."

"You yourself said Al-Rawi was a dead end. That we don’t know where he surfaced from."

"Well what about him?" he pointed to Sukarno. "He was a lot less careful than Al-Rawi was, I’ll tell you that much. He lost his head! Did Sukarno travel abroad to make contact with Jemaat? Are there images that show him with some of the same people we see in Al-Rawi’s images? We can’t identify those other people. Maybe from those other shots, we’ll be able to. I can’t know till we search for those images. We collect data from over 12,000 airports across the globe. Our systems look at every drunken frat party pic and angsty teen video that goes up on social media. The sooner you share these with me, the sooner I can get us searching.

"So, what’s it going to be? You going to arrest me and my partner here, and kick our butts back to the US of A, or are you going let us help you catch these sons of bitches and put a drone up their ass?"

She stood there, glaring at him.

"Give him whatever he wants." She said finally, and turned and left the room.

"Now that’s more like it! Hey, Meng, right?" he patted the man on the back and handed him the thumb drive. "Thanks for helping me out with this, Meng."

"Nicely done," Pirello shortened her stride for Stockwell to keep up. "I’ll admit it; I didn’t think things would go our way."

"Well you didn’t shoot down this dumb idea, so you get some credit, too."

 "You’re wrong about one thing," said Pirello.

"What’s that?"

"We’re not partners."

"Sure we are!" he winked.

Four hours later, the command center  

"Stockwell," Lee looked up from the computer operator’s screen. "What do you want?"

Stockwell stopped short, and looked over to Meng at his computer. Meng looked away. "You see that Meng?  That’s no way to greet someone bringing good news. Good evening, Lieutenant Colonel! Shouldn’t you be in bed by now?"

"My sleeping is none of your concern. We are very busy."

"I’m a night owl myself, but tonight," he brandished a thumb drive, "tonight I’m sleeping like a baby. You want to see this." He put it into Meng’s computer.

"We didn’t get any fresh leads on Al-Rawi, he’s kept his head down and his nose clean. The guys who get dirty don’t exactly hang out in ATM booths and shopping centers, you know? Not a lot of that in Waziristan."

"So? We already know you have nothing on Al-Rawi."

"So I ran Sukarno instead. I cross-linked images of him with everything we have on Al-Rawi, looking for patterns."

"You did all this since you were here, last?"

"Me? Nah. I’ve been watching Chinese soap operas. A fancy new computer in DC did all the work."

"It must have been the Benjamin Franklin," said Meng. "It’s a new generation of Self-Transcending System. It is a match for our own Sun Tzu."

"Hey now, I heard you talking about Ben Jay!" Stockwell winked and patted Meng on the shoulder. "That’s the one. He found this man for us," he pulled up an image. It was a well-dressed man in a coffee shop. Opposite him was Sukarno.

"Who’s he?"

"His name is Hisham Al-Moussawi. He’s an Emirati businessman who’s flown more times than I’ve sat on a shitter. For some reason he always drops by Yemen. This shot is from November two years ago. He’s meeting with Sukarno in a café in Bangkok."

He pulled up another image.

"And here he is talking to Al-Rawi in Benazir Bhutto International. This picture was taken four days before his meeting with Sukarno in Thailand. Al-Moussawi and Al-Rawi were booked on the same flights that week, all the way from Yemen. You can guess what South East Asian country they were going to."

"And Al-Rawi never left," Lee peered closer at the screen. "Do you know where Al-Moussawi is now?"

"He deplaned at Colombo six hours ago, from a direct flight from Cairo, Egypt."

"Come with me," she turned and started walking away.

"Where are we going?"

"Sri Lanka."