SpaceCorp (25 page)

“There you go twisting the words of the Constitution again. Promoting the general welfare does not mean handouts for the indolent. Welfare… the
general
welfare is building infrastructure, available to all. Welfare is maintaining a level playing field where all may compete and barriers to entry are minimized. Welfare is providing a safety net so that the unfortunate need not die miserable and alone in the street. And I might add that that same safety net encourages those of an entrepreneurial spirit to take risks for the betterment of all without fear of ruination. That, Mr. Senator from the free and independent state of Mississippi, is quite a different thing than a welfare
state
. You tell that to your people, Senator. You
tell
them that because we both know they can’t
read
it.”

The senator started to speak but no words came out. He appeared unable to find breath. Finally, he clutched his hand to his chest and leaned back in the couch.

The president stood and took a step toward the reclining senator and leaned over him shouting. “Welfare state. Pah! You fix your own damned house, Senator! And when you’ve done that, then you can come tell me how to run mine!”

The secretary of defense went to the president’s side and took his arm, pulling him away. “Stand down, Mr. President. Stand down. I think he may be having a heart attack.” He looked closely at the senator who now appeared to be breathing, albeit labored. Then he knelt beside the senator. “Senator, are you all right? Are you having chest pains?”

The senator looked at him with dull eyes. “I need my heart pills. My aide, Oswald has them. You bastards wouldn’t let him in here. Go get me my Oswald.”

*   *   *

The secretary of state knew better than to send the secret service agent. The agent would let the building collapse on top of him before he would depart from the president’s side. So he opened the door that separated the anteroom from the elevator access. Flanking the door on the outside were two more secret service who were startled to see someone emerging from the anteroom without having buzzed their intentions over the intercom first. “Oswald, give me the senator’s heart pills.”

Oswald turned white and remained frozen in place, his mouth unable to form words.

“Dammit, man! Get me the senator’s heart pills! Do you have them or not?” Secretary of State Foster Adams had commanded an aircraft carrier before leaving the Navy for the State Department and was not used to his orders being met with stupefaction.

Oswald began fumbling with his briefcase, causing one of the secret service agents to draw his 10mm Glock 29 pistol concealed under his coat.

The secretary raised the man’s arm folding it across his chest and pushing the agent against the wall. His free arm was lodged under the agent’s chin pressing against his larynx. Foster Adams was not a small man. A former defensive tackle for Navy, he kept himself fit to this day. “At ease, sailor! The senator’s aide is going to hand me a bottle of pills and then go back to his seat. You are going to stand your post and try not to shoot anybody while we see to the senator’s heart attack. Copy?”

“Yes, sir.”

Secretary Foster released the agent and walked over to Oswald who had by now found the pills.

“Is he going to be all right?” Oswald asked.

The secretary took the pills and returned to the anteroom without answering.

*   *   *

The senator was still lying on the couch. Someone had loosened his tie and helped him out of his jacket.

The secretary held up the bottle to squint at the label, “Glyceryl trinitrate… nitroglycerin?”

“Yeah, lemme have a couple.”

The secretary opened the bottle and dumped two tablets into the senator’s sweaty palm, whereupon the senator placed both tablets under his tongue.

“I’ve sent for my doctor,” the president said.

“I don’t need no damn doctor, ‘specially not one of yours,” the senator said. “What I need is for you to deliver a state of the union address in front of the people where they can see you.”

“What’s the matter with doing it on television?”

“What’s the matter with doing it on the West Steps of the Capitol Building?”

“Bullets. Big ones. Lots of them. Same kind as took out my predecessor. Remember? Twenty-one years ago? I believe you were there.”

“Yeah, I was there. And I’ll be there again right beside you, my family included if it will make your cowardly Yankee ass feel any damn better.” His breathing was more normal, no longer coming in short raspy breaths.

The anteroom door opened and a man carrying a surgeon’s bag walked in. Behind him followed a paramedic lugging a portable defibrillator. Without hesitation he took the president’s arm, “Would you sit down and raise your shirt, sir?”

“Not me, Mike. The sicko is over there pretending he’s got angina or something.”

The senator did not look up but grunted something that sounded like ‘fuck you.’

“See?” the president said to the doctor, “He’s fine. Somebody help him get his jacket back on so he can return to his ignorant minions.”

The doctor turned to the senator, “Why don’t you step into the clinic and let me run some tests? Just to be safe.”

“I don’t need none of your damn tests.”

“But—”

“Let him go, Doc. He’s afraid if he allows you to care for him, it will make him a slave to the socialist nanny state!”

At the doorway, the senator stopped and turned to face the president. “Fuck you and fuck your nanny state. But you be on the West Steps on September 2
^nd
or I’ll give my own damn speech and I’ll tell the Great American Public that you really are dead and I’m taking over.”

“September? The speech isn’t until February.”

“Yeah, well we’re doing it early this year. We wait till February, there may not be a Union left for you to make up some bullshit state of.”

“That’s not a lot of time.”

“You gonna be there?”

“I’ll think about it.”

The senator scowled looking like he was going to say something. Instead he just turned and walked out of the anteroom.

“Foster, I assume you are going to have that pill you pinched submitted to the labs?”

“I am, but why would you assume so, if I may ask?”

“Because if that pill is anything but sugar, I’ll eat it myself.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-
T
HREE

July 2071

Iranian Space Agency (SA) Launch Site, Shahrud, Iran

The mockup of the Iranian space station was only 1/8
^th
scale and only showed a quarter section of the ring plus one spoke and a cutaway of the central hub. Even so it was over fifty meters long and towered over the viewers at thirty meters high. The spoke had one side completely cut away to show internally-mounted payload mockups of instruments and communications gear.

“What did you make this of?” Dr. Gupta of the Indian Space Research Organization (ISRO) asked.

“You mean the material?” Dr. Farshad Rahmani asked. “It’s just plywood. The actual station will be assembled in space just as the Americans did. To prepare for that we need something to give us a sense of scale… you know… how big to make the various pieces, how to move them around for assembly… that sort of thing.”

“And how big will those pieces be?” Dr. Junlong of the China National Space Administration (CNSA) asked. “As I recall, Iran has very limited launch capability.”

“That is correct, Dr. Junlong,” Dr. Rahmani said. “We initiated a separate launch vehicle development effort just last year. It’s a bit hush-hush, you understand, but I can tell you its payload to LEO will be well beyond of 100,000 kg.”

“When will it be operational?” Dr. Junlong asked.

“As I said, the whole program is classified, but I assure you it will be ready for duty when we are ready to start placing space station segments in orbit.”

“And that will be when?” Dr. Gupta asked.

“Three years.”

“So we would not see an operational space station for… five years after that?” Dr. Junlong said. “The Americans generally require five years and even then that’s after their design was fully mature and they had placed several stations in orbit!”

“We’re not Americans,” Minister Hashem Shirazi said.

“Are you going to tell us Allah will be helping you?” Dr. Junlong said, a faint sneer in his voice.

“I certainly hope so, Dr. Junlong. But the real reason is that we have been studying this problem for over thirty years, ever since the Americans first offered the world berths for its payloads for SpaceCorps’ exorbitant fees. Though we do not have much hardware to show you yet, I assure you we know what we are doing. Besides the Supreme Leader has hinted to us that we must succeed.”

“How so?” Dr. Junlong asked.

“He gathered the three of us in his chambers—General Farahavi, Minister Shirazi, and myself. Mind you, he did not tell us the subject of our meeting, just ordered our attendance. We deduced the topic had to do with space, but he never actually used the word. Instead he began reciting a story from the invasion of Greece in 480 BC. If you have studied history you will know that King Xerxes needed to get his vast army across the Hellespont, so he commissioned two bridges be built. Alas, the bridges were destroyed in a storm. Xerxes ordered new bridges be built by a different commander. The new commander upon being informed of his promotion was presented with the severed head of his predecessor. Thus motivated, the new bridges were successful. That’s all he said. Then he turned away and we knew we were dismissed.”

“Do you really believe he would have you beheaded if you fail to get a space station into orbit in so short a time?” Dr. Junlong asked.

“My dear doctor,” Shirazi said with a faint smile. “This is
modern
Persia—beheadings are relics of an ancient past.”

The group continued the tour, the Indian and Chinese visitors asking questions now and again. Neither showed any signs of skepticism about the design of the space station save the initial incredulity that the ISA could pull it off in eight years, especially without an operational fleet of heavy lift launch vehicles.

“And finally we arrive at the central hub where the ion drive is housed for station keeping,” Dr. Rahmani said.

“How many newtons of thrust will it produce?” Dr. Junlong asked.

“We calculate five thousand should be adequate to keep the station in position,” Dr. Rahmani said.

Dr. Junlong and Dr. Gupta smiled, but said nothing. Several seconds passed with no one speaking.

“So, pretty advanced, don’t you think?” Minister Shirazi said.

Dr. Junlong and Dr. Gupta still smiled and still said nothing. 

“Come, gentlemen, this is no time to stand on formalities,” Minister Shirazi said. “Tell us what you think—be honest.”

“I apologize for my bluntness, but your design is primitive in almost every aspect compared to the Americans,” Dr. Junlong said.

“Primitive?” Dr. Rahmani said. “How so?”

“You have solar panels for power,” Dr. Gupta said. “They use nuclear.”

“Yes, and they no longer use ion drives,” Dr. Junlong said. “They use nuclear thermal rockets—four up and four down, up to a million newtons in either direction. They peel nuclear energy for ship operations from the rocket reactors when they are not busy thrusting. But when they do need to thrust, they can accelerate at almost 0.1 g.”

“A tenth of a g?” Dr. Rahmani asked. “But how do they hold together structurally? The aluminum spokes are sure to buckle.”

“There is no aluminum in the entire ship,” Dr. Junlong said. “It is made entirely of nanocellulose—stronger than steel and lighter than aluminum. Outer ring walls are six meters thick made of nanocellulose honeycomb filled with nanocellulose foam—self-sealing. And the spokes are bigger than yours as well—a hundred fifty meters deep by fifty wide. They store LOX and LH
₂
in cryo tanks in the hub in between the rocket arrays where they are most protected from incoming debris. This space station can survive a severe impact and make repairs
in situ
with onboard algae farms producing nanocellulose.”

Again, several seconds passed with no one speaking. Minister Shirazi broke the awkward silence, “Well, we promised you oil for honesty and we are as good as our word. Thank you, gentlemen.”

*   *   *

After the Indian and Chinese guests had departed in their helicopter, General Farahavi, Minister Shirazi, and Dr. Rahmani were sitting on a large balcony several stories up and facing the setting sun. A breeze blew in from the Caspian Sea fifty miles to the northwest. It was faint but a welcome respite to the midsummer heat. That, combined with Sharud’s 1345-meter elevation, made for a pleasant dusk. An orderly prepared tea while the three men relaxed around a table.

“You’re quite the story teller,” Farahavi said. “I felt my own collar getting tight when you fed them the line about the Supreme Leader and Xerxes.”

“Yes, that was almost Shakespearean,” Shirazi said. “A story within a story.”

“I did improvisational theater during my undergrad years—it’s a vestigial itch that I enjoy scratching to this day.” The orderly gone, Rahmani looked at his tea for a bit not bothering to add honey to it as was his custom. “Would you fellows like something stronger? I have some good gin and there is ice. I make a pretty good martini.”

Shirazi and Farahavi looked at each other with sheepish grins. Rahmani strode over to a hidden closet that opened into a wet bar. “The drinking light is on!”

A few minutes later Farahavi took a sip of his drink and asked, “So, gentlemen, what did we learn from all that?”

“A great deal,” Rahmani said. “I must confess I was skeptical that their new station would be all that different. But this has turned out to be a gold mine! SpaceCorp must have had this in the works for decades! A multi-generational improvement in technology!”