Daryl Spektorov, Lakshmi Rao, IV
Pathfinder Institute, Alexander Graham Bell Orbital
"You know," Spektorov forked ice into the lunar quartz glasses, "I always thought the FBI would come through that door someday to grill me about something. You know, taxes; large overseas transactions; links to the wrong people. I never thought they'd come in here and accuse me of making weapons of mass destruction."
"They didn't accuse you of anything," Daryl accepted the whiskey.
"No, but we know what that was all about. How does the UN even have pull with the FBI?"
"I don't think pull had anything to do with it. If Shetty told them everything, they have grounds to start investigating."
"But we're not developing Von Neumann technology, period."
"No," he sat on the couch, "but we are very much ready to start."
"I was perfectly honest about that."
"Which was a good move, they weren't expecting that."
"So we should let them inspect everything?"
"Yes, we have nothing to hide. We should act like any other good, law-abiding, organization, because we are one."
"It's going to make a lot of people nervous."
"Let them be nervous. As long as we're not breaking any laws, there's nothing anyone can do about it. If anyone tries, I'll tear them apart. That's what you pay me for."
Spektorov nodded. "Alright, I'm not going to worry about the FBI then. Let's just focus on Plan B."
"We did ask nicely," Snyder shrugged.
"It was a good deal, they should have taken it. I called Sandra Pinto this morning and told her we'd fund her documentary."
"Was hers the one about the drowned Bangladeshi town? The one they could have saved for 1% the cost of the orbital, that they built them instead?"
"No, this is the one about visiting refugee camps and interviewing women, children, and old people."
"That one? She doesn't play up the stupidity enough, and she makes the UNHCR seem evil."
"They are evil. They take resources away from the solution, and block people who are actually trying to come up with one. For an NGO, does it get worse than that?"
"They're incompetent. There's a difference."
"Tell that to the people paying for it. I also had a long and productive chat with Herrera, about E8."
Snyder frowned. "I can't see the Congressman going after the UNHCR."
"He's not, he's going after Mars. E8 could be set up as an Aldrin Cycler, orbiting between Earth and Mars."
"We already have cyclers between Earth and Mars."
"Not ones that can house two thousand people. E8 would be more than easy Mars access; it would be a permanent outpost - the gateway to Mars. History will remember it, like Jericho, or Rome."
"Using E8 as a cycler isn't what we talked about. We should stick with our plan, Daryl."
"Herrera brought it up, not me. But we should get behind it."
"Everything planned if the UN wouldn't play ball - and did you really think they would? - Is about getting policymakers to retask E8 as a permanent, Martian, space station. We invest in politicians, blogs, and news networks till we win. Till we win. The government retasks E8. We then make our money back on the contracts Sun Star will win, to work on that. If the program somehow succeeds, we go on to buy most of Mars. If the program is cancelled - I suggest we hedge that it will - who cares? All we need is for the engram candidates to take their training seriously, and to make back whatever is spent on all this."
"It's not a huge deal to pitch E8 as a cycler. It requires very minor changes, still pushes for Martian settlement, and hurts none of our goals. A strong cycler program makes a lot of sense for a permanent return to Mars. It's a more compelling offer. It's what we would say if we were serious."
"You seem serious."
"I am actually. What's wrong with that?"
"What's wrong with that? May I remind you," Snyder pointed at Spectorov, "That this is all just a means to an end? Frankly, one that isn't worth all this time!"
"Sam, we have to be true to ourselves."
"Daryl, getting a bunch of idiots to do what we want, for free, is keeping very true to ourselves.
'Plan B' has 950 million earmarked in campaign donations, alone. We're buying 19 senators! Don't make this anymore complicated than it needs to be."
"I meant being true to ourselves, as Pathfinder. Pathfinder's mission is to go to settle another star. How is settling another world not something that resonates with that?"
"Breathing air, resonates with our mission. Look, training engrams really isn't worth all this. Once the ship leaves, we have Forty-plus years to solve this. By then, won't we have the data we need? Can't we just beam it to Alpha Centauri? And do settlement-ready engrams really matter?"
"What do you mean?"
"They'll be loaded into machine bodies. They can try and fail all they like over there, it doesn't matter. After a few years, they'll have learned everything they need to, in any case. On their own dime, as it were."
"You want to send colonists, unprepared?"
"No, I want to send engrams, who can learn as they go. That way we can focus better on actually sending them. Only once the mission starts printing out flesh-and-blood humans, do we have real stakes in the game. The engrams decide when that happens. After all, that's exactly what they'll do. Once the ship leaves we have no control over them."
Spektorov's reply was to stare out the window. On Earth's night side, cities lit up like a luminescent cancer culture.
"I think you've suddenly fallen in love with an idea," said Snyder slowly, "and will find whatever reason you can, so you can justify seeing it through. Now, you already have an idea you've fallen in love with. You've committed a lot of time and resources to it. You have to see it through, and you can't let side projects distract you. You need to do a cost benefit analysis. Once E8 costs more than it's worth - you must give up on "settlement-ready" engrams."
Finally, slowly, Spektorov nodded.
"You're right. Let's work out at what point we should walk away from Mars."
"And you need to commit to it."
"I will." he finished his drink, and sat down across from Snyder. "Thanks for helping me keep on track."
"You're welcome. But I know what you're like, we'll have this exact argument again this evening. Then again tomorrow. I find this takes about a week with you."
"No one else does this with me."
"No one else dares to." Snyder got up. "Another drink?"
Spektorov he handed him the glass. In the low gravity the whiskey poured as slow as honey.
"I think I know why I'm so keen on Mars," said Spektorov.
"Because this is all a big game for you, and Mars is a toy you can live to reach?"
"Because it distracts us from what we really need to be doing."
"Oh great. What have you convinced yourself that is?"
"Von Neumann technology."
"What? You just had two federal agents in here."
"But it's what we need. Without it, there's no mission. Period. This will all be for nothing."
"Look, let's not think about it right now."
"I think I'm only going to think about it now."
The ballroom was packed.
Wait staff in penguin colors served foreign wine and locally sourced starters. Suited men greeted each other and laughed at weak jokes. Women brought color through evening dresses, but not diversity.
Have you read his new paper yet?
She's running for Congress next year.
The share went up, which is better than I had hoped.
Those poor people in Florida.
"Our next speaker," the tuxedoed host's smile could be seen from space, "is on our board of advisors, and has been a generous supporter to the Mars Pioneers Society. He's been called the man who unlocked the treasure house of space. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the CEO of the Pathfinder Institute, Mr. Daryl Spektorov!"
He walked on stage. Camera flashes noted his smile, the hand shake, his stance at the podium. Against the podium was a logo - a blue Conestoga wagon on a rising red crescent.
"Thank you all for being here, it's great to see all of you. If this country's privileged elites can make time for space exploration, why can't everybody else?"
Polite laughter.
"No really, thank you for making the time, and the honor you do me by letting me speak.
"Members and friends, Mars was good to our country. It gave us pride in ourselves at a time when we were learning to be ashamed of our parents. The world looked back to us for leadership: something we lost when we forgot leadership is only by example, not by lecturing and threatening. The technology unlocked to leave footprints and take selfies, has improved life for millions.
"There are great benefits to a society that sets itself difficult engineering goals. To one that chooses to invest in Science and exploration. We remember the Egyptian pyramid builders, but does anyone remember the Sea People? No, but the Egyptians mentioned them in a footnote. That's how we know about them.
"Today, we look more and more like the Sea People must have. We've lost our purpose in space, and it shows. We went to Mars because we had a clear mission. We then developed the hardware to make that happen. Then, we executed. It was the same formula we used to go to the Moon.
"Now, what do we have? A cislunar space station that no one wants to go to. A superheavy lift rocket for high orbit traffic, which just takes elevators to low orbit, instead. AI probes that complain they're not being used intelligently."
More polite laughing.
"We're in the same doldrums we were, after Apollo. NASA's science programs are struggling, doing what they can with an ever-shrinking budget. Meanwhile the private sector is out there, mining, building, and settling in Earth orbit. But what is our government doing?
"Orbitals. It spends its resources making safe spaces for climate refugees. They cost hundreds of times more resources than camps here on Earth. They cost thousands of times more, in energy. Earth is the greatest place in the Universe to live, yet we send our desperate away. Most of them would rather stay down here, in the lands of their ancestors. Can someone go over to Congress with a loudspeaker and yell this for me? 'Anything you do on Earth, is cheaper than doing it in space!'"
Applause.
"But Ronald Reagan shipyard is a military facility. It builds orbitals as an exercise in preventing the militarization of space. This is an important and honorable goal - but how has it worked? We have the Global Fire Support system. Russia, India, and China are developing their own. We use space to park and drop drones - soon, so will everyone else.
"The United Nations overinflates its achievements. It does this to get people to put assets towards its orbitals. Our government plays into that. Folks, the Big Five don't need huge shipyards to meet their objectives in space. They are also assets that were built without a clear purpose. The UN's costly orbitals give a justification for those shipyards. They give politicians big prestige projects that they can brag about. They're doing all this, rather than small, local solutions. Solutions to give people free solar energy, clean water, and turn their deserts back into fields."
Applause: more, and longer.
"Let's urge our government to use Ronald Reagan, for something else. It'll force the UN and its sponsors to get serious about helping people. None of whom they seem accountable to, by the way. So, let us hold them accountable! We can start by taking away these orbital placebos, using them instead for something good.
"You all know what I mean. The E8 orbital we're building could be used as an Aldrin Cycler. We have two - which we don't use - but they're small, old, relics. They were built to support just three astronauts at a time. To go back to Mars, we're going to need much greater support. E8 can carry two thousand. We could have labs. A hospital.Workshops. A park. Every four years it can drop off new arrivals and cargo, and take some people back. It's designed to be settled, and we should it keep it that way. Revolving door politicians can cancel a program, but they don't dare cancel a city!"
More applause, some cheers.
"That's a city we should build. A city of and for pioneers, American technology building a port between worlds. It won't be the only one, either. Other nations will follow - maybe the Russians, with E9. Cyclers work better if they're paired - two would mean Mars access every two years. Can you imagine what's possible if the Big Five, each built one?"
More applause and cheering.
"E8 is being built as the UN's eighth, space, refugee camp. Instead let's make it America's first interplanetary city."
"That was quite a speech," Herrera smiled and nodded. "Maybe you should have been a politician."
"Who says that I'm not?" Spektorov sipped from his flute. "It was easy, it was what they wanted to hear."
"Well you certainly made more friends than enemies today, at least in this room. But you've just set yourself up against some pretty powerful people in Congress and in industry. But I suppose that's nothing new for you eh?"
"It's not them I'm worried about," he shook his head. "It's the FBI I'm worried about."
Herrera frowned. "What have you done?"
"It's what I have not done. Von Neumann research. The FBI Weapons of Mass Destruction Directorate has begun investigating the program."
Herrera facepalmed, his good mood coming away in his fingers. "Christ. Is this public?"
"It's bullshit, it's all politics. Can you help me get them off my back?"
"I don't have that kind of power, but I can speak up for you wherever it will help. As long as you can prove you're not actually building the damn things, I'm happy to make my support public and put the public relations staff of my office, at your disposal." He raised an eyebrow, "You aren't making von Neumann machines, are you?"
"Currently, no I'm not."
"Currently? What the hell does that mean?"
"It means ‘currently.’ We have to build these things, Congressman. It has to happen."
Herrera stared at him for a few moments.
"There is no way on Earth," he began slowly, "that that's going to happen. No way on Earth."
"Who mentioned Earth?"
Ronald Reagan Shipyard, High Earth Orbit
"What people just don't realize, even today, is that every job created in space means more dollars spent on Earth."
Like his three fellows, the senator wasn’t wearing a suit today. Not a business suit, at least. On one shoulder was a patch marked "visitor." On the other was the American flag. He did have a podium though - which may even have been of real wood (unlikely though). He gripped it gently, the air currents in the hangar were enough to cause embarrassment.
"When this shipyard opened for business, there were eight air force engineers here," he continued. There were no chairs for all the attending jumpsuits and shirt sleeves. Chairs didn’t matter up here. "Now there are over four hundred personnel, both military and civilian. You build satellites that help farmers know when to plant their crops. You launch laser-equipped probes that steer asteroids away from the Earth. You make systems that help and protect our troops on the ground and those of our allies. Space is the most dangerous posting there is, and your service here helps us down there, breathe easier. For this, from myself and my fellow senators here today, I say thank you."
Applause and some cheering. Smiles flashed and so did cameras. It was a younger crowd: the old preferred cushier assignments than High Earth Orbit. The nicest restaurant here was a Wendy’s.
"And, most important of all, you build the homes for the world’s most desperate. Those who have had to give up everything, just to survive. People who need help from our nation, to recover from the collapse of their own.
"I spoke recently with Tariq Rahman, a Bangladeshi who’s lived on a raft with his dog for the past seven years. Every night he said, he looks up to see his sister’s family passing over. They’re on E5 - Hope Orbital, built right here at Ronald Reagan," more applause. "He said to him it was like seeing a beacon lit by God to show the world He hasn’t forgotten us. If giving hope to billions isn’t God’s work, I don’t know what is." applause again, and some cheering. The other senators clapped as well.
"Now, there are some who think that this program is a waste. That our country could be doing something different. What they don't understand are the years of work that brought us here. Bipartisan negotiation at every level. Binding international agreements that keep the peace. It's not the kind of investment you throw away overnight, for a cool idea. That's not sound policy, that's not how you send a message to your allies that you can be depended on.
"And that's why my fellow senators and I on the Appropriations Subcommittee on Defense, have come here. To send all of you a message. To tell you that your jobs are safe," the loudest applause and cheering yet. "That your firms will always be welcome here, and that the United States government is a proud supporter of the United Nations Orbital program. Thank you, and God bless you."
"You gave an amazing speech today," said Rao, smiling. "Is it like that every day in the Senate?"
"Oh gosh no," said the smiling, white haired, R-Ohio. He floated like a small bird against the viewing cupola. Beyond it, Earth was a little beach ball. "The Senate is dead boring, Ms. Rao. We all try a little harder if we know we're not just going to be on C-SPAN."
"I didn't know we brought that many media with us."
"Did you notice how small they are?"
"I did. is there something to that?"
"High Earth Orbit is expensive to get to: shorter reporters cost less to fly. You want a long career as a Stringer in space? Become an amputee or a midget." He laughed at his own joke. Rao smiled politely. "Don't you worry about that Spektorov punk. Every few years his type comes along. Some incredibly rich person who thinks they can do whatever they like, and that the whole world is made for them."
"I'm not too worried," Rao shook her head. A shuttle designer-turned waiter offered them wine out of plastic bags. "But I find it best not to underestimate such people, especially if they seem somewhat mad."
"You think he's mad?"
"He's an egomaniac: there's nothing he won't do or wouldn't put others through, for his own glorification. If we were in Imperial Rome, this would have ended on the Senate floor, a long time ago."
"We don't carry daggers if that's what you're saying," he arched an eyebrow. "Though some days I wish we did."
"I think in this case a sword would be better."
He laughed. "You have quite the bloodthirsty streak in you, Madam."
"I'm Sorry, Senator. Trillionaire playboys bring out the worst in me."
Evan Stockwell, Jansen Henrikson, VI
Pathfinder Antimatter Research Facility, Paul Dirac City
"So this spaceship you're making - it's going to be what, 50 grams, 100 grams?"
It wasn't that Paul Dirac city was a shithole, thought Stockwell. It was like any other 'Tin Can' space station or mining base. It was well-lit, had plenty of nice handholds, smelled of clean plastic and lemon yellow warning labels. It was that it felt like a shithole. The inmates with their tattoos and glares were not the problem, not by themselves. The Department of Corrections robots were not pleasant, but they were rare. The radiation tags on every wall and door were ultimately something you just tuned out. But all together, it was like being in a fallout shelter, with people you'd rather not be in an elevator with.
"Yes," said Henrikson, looking up from over the console. The other scientists regarded Stockwell as if he was an annoying but dangerously large dog. They looked back down at their diagrams. "Plus or minus of course, but hopefully more minus."
"More minus? You want this to be even smaller? You trying to save on mass?"
"We are always trying to save on mass, we are building spacecraft. No one wants a heavy spacecraft."
"I'm just curious as to what you expect to be able to do with a vessel that weighs less than a dump, taken by a small cat."
"There's a lot we can do with that."
" Uhuh? With perhaps nanomachines?"
Henrikson stiffened. "Yes, with nanomachines. We just don't have the fuel we need to send anything heavier."
"So how many of these cat-shit spaceships do you plan on sending? You're probably going to need quite a few to do anything interesting. You know, all the way at Alpha freaking Centauri."
"My job is not to think about that, Agent Stockwell. My job is to work out how to get there with what we have. Others decide what mission is possible, within those parameters."
"Sounds nice and compartmentalized."
"No," he shook his head. "Just division of labor. Nothing more."
"Uhuh. Division of labor, right. That's why you just happen to be designing a spaceship so bullshit small, that it only makes sense if its cargo is self-replicating machines. Of death."
Earth, Four Days Earlier, FBI, Directorate of Intelligence, Washington DC
"Daryl Spektorov Is making weapons of mass destruction? I fucking knew it. He even looks and sounds like a comic book villain."
Special agent Likavec motioned to the seat before his desk. Through the window behind him, the leaves were all turning yellow. Trainees jogged paths along the lawn, Drones at the checkpoint let a Tesla in.
"Spektorov hasn't built any Von Neumann weapons yet, at least as far as we know. But he's a man who likes to do whatever he wants, and is not known for letting things like the law hold him up for very long. He's going to try and find a loophole, and he has the lawyers to do it. I want you to catch him before he does. He's going to slip up, his people are going to slip up. And if they don't, just having you there snooping around and asking questions - "
" I object to the word snoop, Sir."
" - having you snoop around may be just what they need to stop a great American philanthropist with many smart minds around him, from doing something that's going to have them all in orange jumpsuits for the next 20 years of their lives. Do you think you're up for it?"
" Oh hell yes, I'm up for it."
" You sure? I have other people I can go to with this. I just thought you'd like first crack."
" Sir? Why wouldn't I be up for it?"
"Well, this soon after Colombo. I thought you might want to take a couple of days off."
Stockwell shook his head vigorously. "Nah, I am so over Colombo. I can't even find it on a map no more."
Likavec pursed his lips and nodded. "I've made several complaints, and so has the head of the department. State has complained as well, through the proper channels. The Chinese won't even acknowledge that they did something wrong."
"Hey, whatever. At least now we know the sons of bitches are a bunch of unreliable backstabbers. Let's see what happens the next time they get into a problem and need us to try and bail them out."
"Well they certainly won't be getting any help from this department, or if I can help it, anyone else in the FBI. You have my word on that."
"I appreciate that Sir. Can we get green tea off the menu at the canteen though? It gives me the shakes, like an old veteran." He grinned at his own joke.
"The bureau will be sending you off-planet for this. You ever been off-planet?"
"Does the Hayden Planetarium count? I went to Mexico City Disneyland, once. Once is enough, you know what I mean?"
"Spectorov has researchers on three different orbitals, and a facility on Earth. But, the place we really need you to take a look at, is an asteroid they towed into High Earth Orbit. It's where they're doing their high-energy physics experiments to create antimatter. In bulk."
"You know, forget about the Von Neumann machines. if you want to be afraid of a terrorist using high technology, it's the crazy trillionaire who's making antimatter where no one can touch him."
"The antimatter research is all kosher, he's working closely with the military. He's a businessman first and foremost, the USAF will buy all the antimatter he can sell them, and the engines to use it."
"So you think, being the good businessman that he is, he has a client lined up for his Von Neumann machines that he's not supposed to have?"
"He is not the most ethical man in the world. It's not a chance we're comfortable taking."
"Hey, if he's dealing, I'll bust him."
"That's the spirit. Dempsey will arrange the travel details for you, you'll take the space elevator to Low Earth Orbit, and then a rocket to Paul Dirac City."
Pathfinder Antimatter Research Facility, Paul Dirac City
"You're not going to murder me or something are you?"
Stockwell squeezed into the back seat of the asteroid hopper. It was more a bubble spaceship with huge crash-roll-landing pads. A microgravity altimeter figured out which way to spin the cabin. Henrikson was already strapped into the front seat.
"Agent Stockwell, are you uncomfortable being around a European scientists at a secretive, distant, science facility, that may be building a weapon to threaten the entire world?"
"Do you expect me to talk?"
"No, Mr Bond. I expect you to speak more freely here, as I am fairly confident that there is no way we are being overheard now."
The hopper kicked away on puffs of compressed gas. They left frozen scorch marks as they froze on the landing pad. The garage door opened above and the stars peeked in at them.
"This thing is going to come back down, right? We haven't achieved escape velocity?"
More puffs, and the hopper began arcing forward. Below them were the slag mounds and mines of the expanding base. LED safety lights dotted the terrain in a neat grid.
"Alright," said Stockwell, "So let's talk. And yes, I can get you immunity if that's what you need."
"Well there won't be any need for that, as exciting as it sounds," Henrikson looked out the cockpit and then back at his flight path. "Because they really are not developing Von Neumann machines here. At least, not at this point."
"So they plan to?"
"They most certainly do, but of this, I have as much evidence as you do. They are being very careful not to do anything illegal in this regard, and while I fully expect them to move forward, it is not going to happen until they know they have legal cover."
"Then they'll be waiting a long time," said Stockwell.
"Well, there's something they don't seem to be waiting on at all, which is what I wanted to talk to you about. But first, a token of good faith."
"You're going to throw a minion I can't stand, into the Shark Tank?"
"Do you see that down there?"
"Looks like a flagpole."
"It is."
"What the hell kind of flag is that?"
"That's what I wanted to show you."
The hopper landed so very slowly, more like a spacecraft, docking. Suddenly it fired pitons that drilled themselves in, deeper. The hopper reeled itself to the surface, dust puffing up from under it. The two men climbed out, tethered to bright orange safety lines.
"The American flag was up here, and had been so since the facility was opened. One week ago, some people came from the Pathfinder Institute - security staff. They didn't stay for very long, but one thing they took the time to do, was to come out here and take down the flag."
"This new one, it's got your logo on it."
"It looks very similar, yes. But it is still quite distinct. I took the liberty of trying to match it against any other logos, corporate or otherwise. It matches nothing, Agent Stockwell. If it's for another one of my patron’s companies, it is one that has never been registered."
"You don't think it's your new flag and no one has told you yet?"
"Oh it's certainly our new flag, but I don't think it's for the program. Flags are powerful things. We are far away from Earth, Agent. A flag could mean all kinds of things. I thought you would like to see this."
"Thank you, I very much do."
"How closely have you looked at Lowell City?"
"Lowell City? The Mars program you guys are adding on to your to-do list?"
"That's the one. It's a very ambitious vision, Tops as ambitious if not more so than going to Alpha Centauri."
"So what concerns you about it?"
"It doesn't add up."
"The accounting?"
"Any of it. The program director was less qualified than any other candidate applying for the position. Yet, he asked for significantly more compensation than any of them. He is not a scientist, he is a lawyer. A lawyer with direct links to the head of Sun Star Legal, Mr. Snyder."
"Go on."
"I have gone over every document produced concerning the Lowell City program. There is a great deal concerning exercises at Devon Island, in Canada."
"Devon Island?"
"It's a desert island, that's freezing cold. It has been used for decades In connection with Mars settlement exercises and experiments. It's where the first Martian astronauts were trained. Equipment for colonist candidate training has already been purchased. They've begun building the first facilities for observation and research. Candidate interviews are being conducted as we speak."
"Sounds pretty serious," said Stockwell.
"That part is serious, yes. But you would think that all the parts would be serious, as well. In particular anything that would suggest that the people involved are actually interested in going to Mars."
"I don't get you."
"Agent, there is nothing, not a position paper - not a vision statement - not a poem scribbled into a margin - that suggest that anyone involved with Lowell City, is actually interested in Mars. They only seem interested in exercises that could apply to the colonization of any world. Agent, I believe the entire program is insincere."
"Look that's not my bailiwick, but a little birdie walked into the FBI and told us just the same thing."
"Who?"
Not sure that I can say. But if I could say, I would say Anjana Shetty of the UNHCR is someone you should talk to." He looked about the walls and clear canopy of the hopper. "And you definitely want to make sure no one is listening in on that conversation."
"Dr. Henrikson? What can I do for you? Not every day I get a call from Paul Dirac City."
Snyder sat up in bed, The large wall-mounted screen had turned video relay. Framed within it at 8K resolution Was an unsmiling scientist.
"Thank you for taking my call," he cleared his throat. " There's something I very much need to talk to you about."
"Are you sure it can't wait till morning? I think it's late even in your time zone."
"Let's just do it now."
Snyder farted and scratched his nose. "Alright, what's so urgent?"
"I'd like us to talk about Lowell City."
"Oh my God," Snyder facepalmed. "Seriously? Look, you're working too hard. We can talk about this tomorrow, all you like. But right now, I need to get back to bed."
"I know about the conversation you had with Anjana Shetty."
Snyder froze.
"Oh yeah? And what would that be?"
"That Lowell City was a complete lie, and that you would cancel it as soon as you got what you wanted for Pathfinder."
Snyder said nothing.
"Well?"
"You got me, that's exactly what I said. I don't even care if you're recording this conversation. All that matters now, is what are you going to do, Doctor?"
"Excuse me?"
"Are you going to tell the world?" Snyder threw his arms open, taking in all of space and time. "Because I'm certain they would listen to you. You are after all, the lead engineer on the famous and inspiring Pathfinder program. The program which will come to an end - along with many other things - if you open your mouth."
"Are you threatening me?"
"Oh no, you're threatening yourself. How are things over at ESA? Much of a market for someone with your skills? How about the kind of work you doing - any policymakers interested in going to another star?" Snyder smirked and reached for his shirt. "No one asked you to get involved in these bits and pieces, Doctor Henrikson. You never had to get your hands dirty. Ever! But if you torpedo what we're doing, if you destroy the reputation and goodwill that Mister Spektorov has built with the Mars Community, if you embarrass our allies and supporters - well then. Do you want to be that guy?"
The face in the 8K screen said nothing.
"Go on, sleep on it. Don't rush into this. Let your morality have its day in court, in your own head. And then maybe, the rest of us can have a day in court! Or maybe we won't. The decision is up to you. Now, is there anything else?"
"You can't get away with doing this."
"You know, this ship may fly. Or maybe it won't! Maybe it will explode and some more horrible antimatter explosion. I can't really say either way, and neither can you. We'll find out. But there is one thing I can definitely say. You know what that is? I can definitely say that I'm going to get away with this. Goodnight Doctor."
He killed the screen.
Suyin Lee, IV
Type 055 Destroyer, "Nanjiao," Gulf of Aden
"Just how," said Meng through his safety mask, "is everything covered in this slime?"
He tried shaking the data drive clean, but the black slurry just clung like honey. It was all over his hazmat suit, like he had been playing in the mud. The rest of the military forensics team appeared the same. They made their way through the hangar, tablets and UV lamps in hand, between the neat rows of black-slimed artifacts. They could have been archaeologists of Pompeii-of-the-sewers.
"Have you been able to learn anything new?" Asked Suyin, her arms folded. She too wore a protective mask.
"The intel that Abdul Kareem escaped to Pakistan, is most likely correct. Whatever caustic agent was used, wasn't strong enough to destroy all biological evidence. We've been able to identify twelve different people from their DNA. Abdul Kareem is not one of them."
"Have you any idea what that stuff is?"
"The data recovery team think it might be a special kind of weapon the terrorists were developing."
"A weaponized slime?"
"The slime is what it left behind. They think it was some sort of crude, self-replicating, nano system or machine. A catabolite, an eater. Perhaps sprayed as a liquid or gas. They might have used it to help knock out the drones once those entered the base. That, or just to destroy evidence."
"Nanomachines did this? Isn't that - "
"WMD? In principle, but it has a long way to go to earn that title. We’re still recovering data, but it may be connected with a cell of Xinjiang Moslems. Up in the UNHCR orbital, E2."
"E2? What are they working on there?"
"We think a slime weapons test."
"Let me know as soon as you can confirm that. E2 has a lot of troublesome elements, I hunted down a cell there, once. I know a few good informants. If Jemaat is active on E2, I’ll go and shut them down myself."
"Yes Madam," Meng set aside the data drive. "There's something else we learned. They are after Lakshmi Rao, head of the UNHCR. It was them who attacked her convoy in Sudan."
"My brother was in that attack. Why do they want to kill Rao?"
"We don't know yet, maybe we’ll recover than info, too. Hiding out in Pakistan will certainly help them finish the job."
Suyin nodded. "We'll have to tell the Indians."
"Don't you mean, the ISI?"
"We can't delegate this to a third party, even the Americans didn’t finish the job. And we especially can’t delegate this to the ISI."
"Maybe the Americans rewarded us for leaving Agent Stockwell behind in Colombo."
Lee darkened.
"My apologies, Lieutentant Colonel. I meant no disrespect."
"No, that’s alright Meng. I’m not proud of what happened there. And I am never abandoning a comrade, again."
"Yes Madam. Why can’t we work with the ISI though? We’re allied with Pakistan."
"That doesn’t mean anything to them. The US was allied with Pakistan, and the ISI put up Bin Laden in a mansion. If Jemaat Ansar presents as anti-Indian, the ISI will help them. They may also encourage Jemaat Ansar’s little WMD program."
"Was that a pun?"
"We’ll have to go to Pakistan."
"Of course Madam," Meng replied. "Until the job is done."
"Don’t you have family there?"
"Yes Madam, a brother. He owns a restaurant in Karachi."
"My own brother just transferred there."
"The one who fought in Sudan?"
"The same."
"Maybe you can have a family reunion in my brother’s restaurant," Meng beamed at the idea.
"Yes, maybe. Or more likely, a minefield."
Abdul Kareem Al-Rashid, IV
Outside Quetta, Pakistan
"You have survived, and with most of your people. You did very well."
The old man sat on a stool outside the mud hut. He drank strong red tea, the glass looked thick enough to survive a firefight. On his head was a woolen Pakol hat, so popular next door in Afghanistan. His face showed as much geography and weathering as the mountains to the East.
Kareem's eyes teared in the cold. The mud huts were stale leftovers compared to the air-conditioned complex in Yemen. Solar panel plots were side-by-side with potatoes. They fed ancient, rust-stained water tanks on concrete stilts: potential energy batteries. The morning smelled of baking bread and biodiesel. Children walked back from fog collector sheets, buckets sloshing. Two sentries shared a cigarette, their rifles slung.
"I don't feel like I did well. We lost a lot of people. A lot of equipment, and especially notes. It is very difficult to pick up and restart after something like that. Some of my engineers say they will have to wait months before they have everything they need again."
"You think it is a failure because you have seen so little. I have been fighting since I was twelve years old. I have seen failure, and you do not look like it."
Kareem studied the horizon.
"It is strange, being in Pakistan."
"Strange to be right where the fight is?" The old man smiled. "Did you think it was one big war zone?"
"Not really. But it seems that way sometimes, from what we would hear."
"This has been a war zone for 75 years. Children grow up. People get married. They grow old and die. In my father's time, the wrecks we played in were Russian tanks. My sons played in American ones. The new wrecks are all Chinese."
"How you Pashtuns have managed is incredible."
"The gadgets your group gave ours have always been a big help. The medical printers, the solar-powered water condensers, the self-guiding bullet designs." He cleared his throat. "I am sorry for how it happened, but it is good for you and for your group to be out here. To be really fighting. Not making gadgets underground and answering emails."
Kareem frowned. "You didn’t think we were fighting?"
"No."
The two said nothing for a while, and watched the sunrise over the sand gray mountains.
"What will you do now?" Asked the old Jihadi.
"Up there," Kareem pointed at the sky. "We have a weapon. On the orbital station, E2."
"A bomb?"
"In a sense. More like a plague."
"Plagues are messy."
"That's why we don't want to unleash it down here. We used a simpler version in Yemen to help destroy the American drones. What we have in space can do so much more."
"You are going to trigger it?"
"Yes, I will. It is an important weapons test, and retaliation for America's attack on us. It will also be good for my people’s morale when we to take responsibility. The Americans will think twice about attacking us again, for fear we'll use it on them."
"It sounds like it is a quite a big bomb."
"It is, but it starts from the smallest of sand grains. Then it grows, making more and more of itself."
"Sand grains," he shook his head. "You do not want to look at your enemy’s face when you shoot him?"
"The Americans don't look at ours when they drop their bombs."
The Jihadi seemed to accept that.
"You and your people are always welcome here, stay as long as you like."
"Thank you. We may need to be here for some time."
"It will be good for your people, we can teach you a lot. How to fight. Different from how you have been doing all this time."
"Not like sitting underground and sending emails?"
"Yes, different from that."
"Today, I am going to be sending an email. Just one. Tomorrow, let us see what you have to say about how we fight."
Suyin Lee, V
"Glavnaya,"UNHCR Orbital E2, High Earth Orbit
"It’s like we're on a giant hamster wheel, with glass panes glued on either side. Wow. Why is there so much glass? I never got used to that, the last time."
Her boots crushed daisies with each step. She could not feel the spin, but she could see it. Outside through the hamlet-sized window, the Earth was spinning. Through the window opposite, the sun burned as hard as summer.
"The spinning still bothers me," She pointed at the Earth.
"So don't look," said Meng. Behind him were gengineered wheat fields. They surrounded rustic houses made from asteroid brick. Microgravity-fattened birds dipped down to sieve the reservoir for food. Old men sat in fishing boats, smoking, bare chested, and bored. Children screamed and splashed on a shore younger than them.
"Just try to focus elsewhere. You'll get used to it."
"I can’t stop. Did you know that the glass is two meters thick?"
"Two meters thick where it connects with the hull. Towards the center," he pointed, "It goes down to just a meter."
"That's still quite thick. It’s graphene reinforced, So I don't understand why."
"It needs to be thick. That's leaded glass, it's keeping out the radiation. At High Earth Orbit you can't rely on the magnetosphere."
The Call to Prayer came from the mosque. It was right across the wheeled space station - half a kilometer by air. Diamondoid struts spanned the station's spokes on the giant wheel. People walked them like rope ladders across canyons.
"It seems silly to me. Why not just cover the station in regolith?" Suyin persisted. "Then they could have just mounted solar panels outside, and put artificial lights, inside. Easier - and cheaper. Isn't that the whole point with these refugee stations? They don't need to be nice, they need to be cost effective. Take that lake for instance. I love it, it's the nicest lake I've ever swam in. But why did they build a freaking lake?"
"It's not just to look pretty," said Meng. "The water serves as a heat sink, It helps to keep the interior from quickly becoming too hot or too cold. And underneath is an emergency radiation shelter. The water acts as additional shielding. Those giant windows," he pointed, "Are a much easier solution than converting sunlight into electricity and then back into light. Which, by the way, is actually incredibly inefficient."
"Do you study this stuff for fun?"
"Actually, it was in the tourist brochure."
Suyin scowled at him. Meng shrugged.
"Let's get on with the mission," she started walking back to the path. Their ride was a Russian golf cart with a BBC English accent. It would not start until they both had their seatbelts on.
"Get me to the Constabulary," Suyin told it.
Presently, an annoyed looking Russian man appeared on the golf cart’s main screen.
"Yes?"
"I am sorry to disturb you Mr. Sukhov, but do you have any news on our request for surveillance approval?"
"It still has to go through Geneva. The UNHCR has jurisdiction. They will probably want to run it through Interpol. Then it will need to go to a judge."
"But shouldn't this be a Russian decision? E2 is Russian built and Russian property. That's how it was five years ago."
"That was five years ago. Madam, the UNHCR has jurisdiction. It's only 3am over there right now. You will have to wait."
"Well, then - "
The screen went dead.
"How very rude!"
"Government workers," said Meng.
"Fuck it. There's only a thousand people on this station, We can learn whatever we need to, the old-fashioned way."
"Hitting people?" Meng looked uncomfortable.
"No, asking them!"
"This is a small town and we are outsiders. They're Uighers, They definitely won't want to talk to us."
"I worked with some informants when I was here last. There's one I can still go back to."
"He’s still reliable?"
"She."
The farmer went rolling onto the gravel. He groaned and tried to get up, then slumped back down.
"That's right," A gray-haired woman in an apron dusted her hands, scowling at him. "You want to drink here? You learn how to behave."
The farmer swore, got to his feet, and limped away. In the open verandah tea house, men turned back to their drinks and dice.
Meng and Suyin exchanged looks. The short old lady shifted her scowl to Suyin.
"Hello Arzu," Suyin smiled broadly.
"Hmph! You again," The old lady turned and went back inside.
"Are you sure about this?" asked Meng.
"Of course. Let’s have some tea."
They sat down at an open table. People stared at them, none of their expressions were friendly.
"It doesn't smell like anyone’s having tea," said Meng.
"It's not tea that she brews."
The old lady returned with a pitcher and two, chipped, tea cups. She poured them each half a cup. Meng sniffed his and almost gagged.
"Too strong for you?" Arzu asked.
"No, no, just - unexpected."
She smiled with brown peg teeth.
"Won't the Constabulary shut you down?" asked Suyin sipping from her own cup. They spoke in Mandarin and drew more stares.
"Three times," she held up the fingers. "Always, I build a new still. I can always find the parts: some copper tubing, a plastic barrel, a buried line I can tap for power. Everyone wants to drink. Even some constables - they pretend not to know me whenever anyone else is around."
"You are operating openly," said Meng. "Have you set up an arrangement with the constabulary?"
"No," she shook her covered head. "They’ve given up. And if they shut me down, I will just start again, like I always do. Like in Xinjiang."
"You ran a still in Xinjiang?" asked Suyin. "I didn't know that."
"Once. It needed too much water, and I could not afford the bribes. It was better than farming though. You always had to start again in Xinjiang."
"You were a farmer?" asked Meng, the 'tea' was growing on him.
She shook her head this way and that. "I was whatever I needed to be. I worked on my parents’ field till the desert took it. Then my husband's field until the desert took that. Then some potatoes in a refugee camp. I couldn't get the water for them though. The aid workers didn't want us growing our own food."
"Why not?"
"Because then we wouldn’t need the aid workers. So instead, I starting using my tent to catch mist. I would freeze in the nights, but in the mornings I had water to sell. You always find something. You can always keep going." eyes prematurely aged, winked.
"We need your help Arzu, but I don't think we should talk here," said Suyin.
"It's all right Colonel," she replied. "Nobody cares anymore if I talk to Chinese intelligence officers."
"Are you sure about that? Don't put yourself in danger."
Arzu scowled again. "Not all Muslims are terrorists, Colonel. And there are no terrorists in this village."
"We have good reason to believe that there are."
"I would know about them. Up here, I know everything about everyone. There are only a thousand of us."
"Then maybe, they're people who don’t realize what they are getting into. Can you help us find those people?"
"Yes. But you might find that describes most people, here. Look at where we ended up."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
The madrassa was in a prefab hall next to the village mosque. All the buildings in the village center were prefabs. A grant winning, Icelandic architecture firm designed them. Legitimacy came from a focus group of bewildered but charmingly diverse natives. Their bid was selected in the end by white privilege-free, random lottery.
The self-repairing streets were clean: school children hunted and stabbed refuse with sticks. They wore reflective vests, and dragged yellow, bio-plastic, trash bags. Electric tractors bounced by, pulling trailers of produce and top soil (E2's prime exports). Their drivers stared as they passed the outsiders, unsmiling. A (somehow) stray dog slept on the steps. It looked up seeing the visitors, then stretched and wagged its tail.
"Come on Tohti," Arzu wagged her finger. "You can say more, you are the most outspoken student here. These nice people came all the way from Earth to hear what you have to say."
"There is nothing to say," said the young man, stiffly. He wore a prayer cap, his beard was long and thick. "I have not heard or seen anything. We are all good Moslems here; we don't want to create trouble. We are all very grateful to be here. No one wants to be sent back down."
"No one is going to deport you," said Suyin holding up her hand. "That's not our job, and we are here to help and protect this community. With what you know, we can help protect all of you."
"Madam, our students study the Quran. We have no extremists here."
"Anangni sikey! You are the number one extremist!"
"How dare you speak to me like that!"
"None of the girls want young, handsome, Tohti Kusen here," Arzu scorned gleefully. "Do you know why? Because he'll make them cover their heads, and lock them away where other men can't see them. To protect them, of course - "
"I like how proud you are, of how little you know about your own religion."
" - So he is on the Internet for hours and hours, talking to good, obedient, Moslem girls."
"What?" Suyin asked. She and Meng shared a look.
"So?" Tohti glared.
"These girls, do you talk to them through video, or do you just message?" she asked.
"What business is that of yours?"
"Do you do video, or do you just message?"
"I - we message."
"Only messaging?"
"And sometimes pictures. They won't do video, they are shy. I'm not some pervert - we discuss Islam and the Quran. They very educated."
"They are bots," said Meng. "Recruitment bots. Extremists use them to lure in young men - and women."
"Please. I think I can tell a bot from a person, thank you."
"No," Meng shook his head. "You can't. No one can anymore. How did you find them?"
"And do you know anyone else who - talks to girls online?" asked Suyin. "These sorts of girls?"
"I don't know. I have not heard or seen anything. We are good Moslems and -. ah! What the? You old bitch! AH!"
"Please," Meng looked away, "please stop slapping him."
Arzu held her hand like a biblical tablet, judgment ready. "Listen you selfie-taking, self-righteous, shit. You want to talk about the Quran? You've let snakes into this garden, into my garden. You're going to tell us everything you know, or I'm going to tear out your rib, and make something better than you. A woman. Do you understand?"
Tohti glared, his whole face red (some bits, redder).
"Oh yeah? You think you can take me?" The old lady beckoned, kung fu style. "Come at me Toh'."
"Maybe," Suyin stepped between them, "we should look at this a different way? If anyone you know - any friends - are being manipulated by bots, then we can be sure that whoever is running those bots has an agenda. One they can't be honest and open with, yes? Which means it can't be good for your friends, agreed?"
Tohti said nothing.
"Snotty preachy shit, not saying much now, eh?" Arzu peeked around Suyin, fists held up like a boxer's.
"Please don't slap him," said Meng.
"It's not a slap he's going to get."
"Do something about her!" Tohti yelled.
"We have no authority here," Meng shrugged. "And we're not police, anyway."
"Bitch, I'm the police!" Arzu raised her fists. "If you don't talk, a lot of angry men are going to come visit you and all your friends. Angry men who want their tea. So talk, Tohti. Either talk now, or talk later. I don't mind either way."
"There's - there's a few of us," he said at last. "We didn't do anything wrong. We never did anything wrong."
"Who? Who did you talk to?" asked Suyin.
"A mujahid. They're good people. They care about us, about all Moslems."
"You just spoke to just him? He's your contact?"
"Yes, his name is Amir."
"Has he asked your group to do anything?"
"Little things. Like showing support on social media, and starting our own message group. He showed us how the West and the Big Five spy on us. He taught us how to protect our privacy and stay anonymous."
"Has he had any other contact with you?"
"He sent us a card. A real, physical one. His daughter made it for us."
"Where is it?"
"At my friend's house. We have our meetings there."
"Can you take us there?"
As they began walking, Meng looked over to Arzu.
"What's wrong?" he asked. "You look quite sad."
"I was hoping he'd talk later."
The edge of the village center.
It was back to rustic houses, though data/water lines poked through brickwork. Some goats were eating paper notices off a bulletin board. An old lady sat outside her house, watching her grandchildren playing. The youngest stopped and stared; Suyin smiled and waved at her. The child giggled and waved back furiously.
"That's the house," said Tohti pointing.
"Your friend normally leaves all the lights on?" asked Suyin.
"They must have had a late night."
"It's three in the afternoon."
"Pathetic!" grouched Arzu. "The laziness of young people!"
They reached the house and Tohti knocked on the door. He cocked his head and frowned.
"The door sounds different."
Tohti knocked again, harder. Then Meng did too.
"You're right, it's like it's made of plastic," he said.
"Are you okay in there?" Tohti yelled. "I've brought - some people."
"Something is wrong." said Suyin, her hand went to her pistol. "Tohti don't - "
Tohti shoulder-rammed the door, it broke like an eggshell and he fell right through. Inside it was dark, even with the lights on. Arzu stepped in and bent over the man, Meng ran his finger over the jagged door-shell. His hand came away with black, snot-thick, slime.
"What the hell is - "
"Colonel, don't come any closer," he held up his clean hand. Arzu and Tohti stood - they were covered in the black slime. "It's the same stuff we found in Yemen."
"Disgusting!" Arzu stepped out, wiping her hands on her apron. "Everything inside is covered with it, even the walls."
"What happened? What happened to my friends?" Slimed Tohti scratched his arm. Then he scratched it again, harder. Then his back. "It's burning!"
"Some sort of chemical?" Arzu rubbed her hands together. "It does burn."
"It's still active," said Meng. He shook his hand, "fuck, it hurts."
"Just stay there, I'll get you some medical attention," she pulled out her phone.
Tohti swore, and tore his shirt off. His back and chest was red, as if badly sun burned. On the floor, his shirt started to smoke. He screamed and started clawing his face.
"Hey take it easy," said Meng. "Don't panic. Don't panic."
Smoke hissed from between his fingers. Tohti started screaming, his skin coming away on his hands. His eyeballs were bleeding.
"Don't - oh dear," then he started scratching his hand and arm. He drew blood came away under his nails.
"Meng! You - "
"Go child, go!" Arzu hands left stains on her clothes. She started tearing blood. "Run!"
"I'm not leaving!" she yelled above Tohti's screaming. "I'm not leaving anyone!"
"You have to," Meng put his arm around Arzu, the old lady started coughing but didn't stop. "Just get as far away from us as you can."
"Meng what are you doing!"
"Can't talk. Hurts."
Wincing blood, he grabbed Arzu and stepped back into the dissolving house.
"Come back! What - Meng!"
The roof of the house collapsed in. A huge cloud of black mist rose up over it, and drifted towards the village center.
"Take us! Take us!"
Suyin looked back over her shoulder. Three men and a woman had cleared the burning barricade and entered the bay. They ran towards her, their skin and clothes dripping black slime.
"Stay back!" she stepped away from the docking hatch, aimed, fired. The floor sparked before the lead runner, and they stopped.
"You have to help us!" wailed the woman, her clothes were steaming. "Take us in your ship!"
"You're infected!"
One man started running again. The others followed.
"Stop!"
The first fell forward, blood spraying out his back. The second she shot through the throat. The third took three rounds before he went down. The woman grabbed at the gun as Suyin shot her in the face.
"Shit!" Suyin looked at the black slime smeared on her left hand. "Oh you bitch!"
Beyond the bay she heard an explosion. Through the windows, the air had turned to smog. Debris smacked off the glass, spider-webbing it.
Her left hand began stinging.
"Fuck this," she put down her gun, and tore a strip off her sleeve with her good hand. "Fuck these people," she tied it skin-whitening tight, around her bad wrist. "And fuck this place!"
She picked up the pistol, pressed it into place, and shot her hand off.
"We have detached from E2 Glavnaya," said the AI. "Shall I return us to Jiuquan Satellite Launch Center? Madam? Colonel Suyin Lee, shall I return us to Jiuquan Satellite Launch Center?"
"No," Suyin managed. "Can't go to Earth. Can't risk spreading it." she glanced at her stump, then grimaced and looked away. "Where are the nearest - the nearest nanotechnologists?"
"Colonel, do you mean what facility with someone of that specialization, we can reach the soonest? In two hours I can put us on a transfer orbit to Paul Dirac City. It also currently supports the most, off-world, registered members of the International Association of Nanotechnology. We would reach there in another six hours. Shall I plan the burn?"
"Oh God," she looked at her reflection in the canopy. Her face was pale and armored in sweat. "Oh God I even look like I feel."
"Colonel Suyin Lee?"
She opened a bay and pulled out the first aid kit. She gave the blood clotting factor a good shake, and sprayed most of it over the stump. Then she squeezed rapid flesh gel over it, it felt ice cold and numb. The outside turned grey as it hardened against the air.
"Madam? Colonel Suyin Lee, shall I take us to Paul Dirac City?"
She wrapped the stump with a entire roll of gauze. It wasn't so terrible if she didn't see bone. She looked outside at E2, they were about a two hundred meters from it now. Most of the lights had gone out. Through the glass end cap she could only see black smoke.
"There seems to be some difficulty on E2 Glavnaya."
"You could say that," she opened a squeeze bag of rehydration solution and drained it in big gulps. It was glucose-sweet, the wrapper spun away as she tore open another one.
"In two hours I can put us on a transfer orbit to Paul Dirac City. We would reach there in another six hours. Shall I plan the burn?"
"Plan it," she laid her head back. "Tell Jiuquan what's going on. As - as best you can. I guess."
"Planning burn," the AI replied. The tiny shuttle begun turning about on its reaction wheels. "I do not understand what I need to relay to Jiuquan Mission Control. Can you elaborate Colonel?"
But she was already asleep.