The Hundred Gram Mission (10 page)

Three rounds in the chest blew her back against a stove. The other women screamed even louder. Elsewhere in the building, gunfire had broken out.

"That’s Tiger Two, engaging," said Lee. "Keep moving!"

The next door lead to hallway of heavy, thick, doors. Slits had been made for food trays and peering guards. Each had heavy metal bolts across them.

"Two heat patterns," said the point man, pointing at specific doors. "Possibly the hostages."

The doors swung open, blocking the hallway. Bullets tore through the food tray slits. The point man was knocked back, clutching his arm. The others dragged him back and returned fire. The rounds embedded and the doors held firm.

"Nanotube reinforced," said Tiger One’s leader. "We can’t shoot through them. This is a prepared position."

One of the soldiers pulled out a grenade.

"No," Lee held out her hand. "You can’t get a good angle unless you enter the hallway again," she tapped her helmet. "I need a fire mission."

"UAV Two standing by, over."

"Two targets, I’m tagging them now on the infra red live map, over."

"Fire mission confirmed. Stand by Tiger Leader."

Something tore into the cell block, blasting through walls and shredding doors. Wood dust and pulverized concrete showered the crouching soldiers. Lee got to her feet, her ears ringing. Tilt-rotors passed overhead.

"Good shooting, Two. Tiger One, let’s go!"

They exited the cell blocks into a large courtyard. In the center some AV equipment had been knocked over. Some gunmen lay shot dead, a third was partly incinerated.

"I will kill him! One more step, any of you, and he dies!"

The gore-covered man had one arm around the scientist’s neck. The other held a pistol to his head.

"Don’t come any closer!" he looked back and forth between the two converging assault teams.

"Don’t shoot him," Lee held up her arms. "He lives, you live."

The gunman regarded her with venom.

"You Chinese whore! You killed my men! You and you’re whole cursed country will pay for this! We will wash your streets with Chinese blood!"

The world went nuclear white. Her optic implants opaqued, and hot air blasted past her. The hostage screamed. She blinked as her eyes teared up, and slowly depolarized. 

The gunman fell backwards, his body burning. His head had splashed across the courtyard.

"Target eliminated," said Yaogan 211. "Capacitors recharging."

One hour later

"Alright. What do we know? What have we learned?"

The wrecked house swarmed with PLA green uniforms. They moved about with face masks and surgical gloves, taking pictures and bagging evidence. Stepping between them with rolled up sleeves and dress shoes, were the FBI.

Suyin Lee gave him a strange look. She made a point of finishing her call, before facing him.

"Which one are you?" 

"Evan Stockwell, Intelligence Analyst, Ma'am," he smiled broadly. "It's a pleasure to be working with you people."

"You’re the one the Sun Tzu asked for." She folded her arms and frowned.

"So I hear," he held out his hand. She stared at him till he lowered it.

"They had a Faraday cage to help hide their computer use," said Pirello. "And they were running an anonymity network, onion routing server. They were using an industrial grade, 3d printer to make weapons. The pharma maker is the one stolen from the clinic. It’s been printing painkillers and psychoactives, standard fare for insurgent self-financing. I think this is the main cell."

"No," Stockwell shook his head. "An important cell, but not the main one. These are the wrong people."

"Excuse me?" Lee frowned.

"Look at them. Except for one unidentified, these are all Indonesian Muslims."

"So?"

"There are plenty of homegrown, anti-Chinese movements here. They're message is simple: 'get the Chinese out'. Why would they confuse that message, with weird, anti-technology ideas? Jamaat Ansar is all about weird, anti-technology, ideas. They're terrorism for nerds."

"So, you don't think the bodies look nerdy enough?"

"Look at their personal effects, their clothing."

"There's nothing special about those."

"Exactly! They're just a bunch of shit-farmers. It doesn't make sense for Jemaat to be a peasant movement. A stronger profile for Jemaat would be educated, international travelers. Maybe people with experience living in the West. These guys just don't match."

"So, you don’t think that the
evidence
that they’ve been attacking our Space Elevator project, is enough to suggest that they
do
match?"

"Oh, they’re Jemaat. They’re just not the
main
cell. This is an offshoot. The main group is probably not even in this part of the world."

"Agent Stockwell, there were twenty four insurgents here, not counting women, children, and slaves. They held two
Tianguo De Jieti
engineers here. DNA sequencing has identified the leader as Rizki Sukarno. He was shot from space by a laser battle satellite. This group is finished now. They fought to the death."

"I know, too bad, right? If we’d got here sooner, we could have suggested flashbangs and stun weapons. Survivors mean intel."

Lee took a step towards him. "You flew all the way from the US, to
question
my operation?"

"No, no, no, no!" he held up his his hands, "I'm not here to insult you, I'm sorry that's not what I meant. I'm here because the Sun Tzu, Self-Transcending System, wants me to contribute. As such, I want you to consider that these were not your primary target."

"Oh, I'll consider it, alright."

"Look, if I’m wrong, it’s wasted time and resources. But if I’m right, it’ll save lives. So what’s the harm?"

Pirello’s hand-held beeped. She pulled it and read it.

"Hey, we got a hit on the international’s DNA. "He's Nijad Al-Rawi. A Dubai national."

"That's what I'm talking about! I'll contact Emirati intelligence and see what they can tell us." Stockwell turned back to face Lee. "See? That was totally worth my plane ticket."

"We have," Lee began slowly, "our own resources. We’ll look for this Al-Rawi, as well."

"You have the full cooperation of the FBI. Anything we find, we’ll tell you. Jemaat are some nasty shits. If they go out of business, everyone’s wins."

She nodded but said nothing.

"I have to go set up in our rooms and make a call to Likavec," said Pirello. "Stockwell, you want to stay here and poke around some more?"

"Totally. I love poking around."

Pirello left. Stockwell turned to Lee, and smiled and winked.

"Well, I guess you’re stuck with me then!"

She turned very deliberately, and walked away.

Propulsion

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."