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Daryl Spektorov, Lakshmi Rao, III

Pathfinder Institute, Alexander Graham Bell Orbital

"It’s time to talk about the colonists," said Dr. Henrikson.  "We need to fit a hundred into something the size of a large car."

"Clowns," Sam said immediately.

Spektorov looked about the meeting room. Most of the chairs were still wrapped in plastic. They gave the room that "new car" smell.  A maintenance crew walked past the glass wall, carrying light fittings. The coffee mugs on the table were stenciled with a binary star system’s orbit.

"It’s wrong," he glared at his mug. "Alpha Centauri is a trinary system. There should be Proxima Centauri as well."

Sam waved him off. "Take it up with Graphic Design."

"I did not approve this logo."

"Yes, yes you did. Maybe at the time you were thinking instead about the space clowns."

"Ahem," said Dr. Henrikson.

"I’m sorry Doctor, please continue. I’m sure you and your team have already tackled this issue from multiple angles."

"Well, we could only come up with two, Mr. Spektorov. One is more – speculative. It addresses the problem, and meets the mission’s needs. The other is more actionable. However, it alters the scope of the mission."

"Alters?"

"I think you would feel that it reduces it."

"But the other," said Sam, "Is speculative. That means it doesn’t exist yet, right? Like science fiction?"

"Lay them out for us, Doctor."

"I’ll start with the more actionable one, if only because it will make Mr. Snyder more agreeable."

 "Please go on, Doctor."

"The ship does not need a human crew, it can manage with AIs. You would not even need to send many of them – just one. Once at the Centauri system, it can build more. It will have to build the rest of the mission’s infrastructure, in any case. The AIs will then perform all the mission’s roles."

"I thought the whole point was to send humans to colonize Centauri?" asked Snyder.

"Embryos. If that is too controversial, then just eggs and sperm."

"You want machines to raise children?"

"There is nothing Mr. Snyder than a human can do, that a machine can’t do better."

 "But they’re not human."

"This is a bias, not a fact."

"What?" both suits demanded.  

"You see? Even amongst us, there is no consensus. I believe an advanced AI, is a human. I feel those who disagree are simply defining ‘human,’ too narrowly. A human is thinking member of our cultural milieu."

"That’s not what a human being is," said Snyder. "I refer you, to Biology."  

"Biology-restricted definitions are accurate Mr. Snyder, but they are not useful.  They shoehorn us into thinking about genetics and biochemistry. We don’t solve our problems by evolving solutions anymore. We think them up, instead. Tool use, abstract thinking, language, these are our hallmarks. AIs are just different people. But, even at this senior meeting at the Pathfinder Institute, this is a minority view.

"Gentlemen, you do not find it acceptable for machines to raise children. Even if I could win the both of you over – how would you win over people outside this room? Even as a private venture, the project needs public support. We saw this with the Uranium mining. Where would that be if the public didn’t support us? They make excuses for us, because they want us to succeed.  Pathfinder has become an inspiration, planetwide. We are expected to show leadership."

"Are you saying we should show leadership, and make machine moms and dads?" asked Snyder. "We’ll look like a bunch of Doctor Frankensteins."

"No. The opposite. I am pointing out that this option is high actionable, but not politically possible."

"So why did you mention it at all?" asked Spektorov.

"Because it still gives you a viable mission, if you drop child-rearing.  Pathfinder becomes a space probe mission. It is still a good mission. You should consider it."

Spektorov stopped and stared for a moment.

"You know," he said slowly, "a space probe is exactly what I don’t want Pathfinder to be. It is a colonization mission. That’s the entire point of everything we’ve done so far."

"But if you pitch it as a probe, you win over NASA."

 "NASA?"

"NASA does hate you," said Snyder. "Seriously. They think you’re a rich cowboy and that Pathfinder is the new yacht you’re buying."

"This is exactly our problem," continued Henrikson. "NASA is a fount of knowledge and experience. Every space startup sobers up at some point, and goes to NASA for help. It is what they’re there for."

"We needed them to develop and expand Sun Star," said Snyder.

"And Pathfinder will be no different. No one else – no one – has their experience in deep space. We need to collaborate with them, Mr. Spektorov. There are many problems and questions they could help us with."

"Well why can’t we just ask them?"

"Because they don’t take you seriously," said Snyder.

"I’m pouring billions into my own starship, and they don’t think I’m serious?"

"No," said Henrikson. "This is not how serious space exploration happens."

"Please enlighten me, guy I pay lots of money to, for serious space exploration."

Henrikson took off his glasses and polished them. "There are steps to be taken for exploring another world. Established steps, almost a century old. Perhaps they are old fashioned or irrelevant now. Maybe they are just ‘space customs.’ However you look at them, this project breaks those. It breaks them to deliver a result in your lifetime. I have never mentioned them to you, because I did not think you would care to hear them."

"I’ll be the judge of that. What are we not doing?"

"Firstly, telescope observations. What do we know about the Centauri system? Its worlds? That’s not rhetorical, I am asking."

"We know both A and B have worlds in their habitable zones, that we think are Earth-like."

"This has been known for years. What have we learned that’s new? Do we know all about their atmospheres? What about their moons? Do we have detailed maps? Any pictures of possible landing sites?"

"Well we need to go there to find out," said Snyder.

"No, no we don’t. The European Extremely Large Telescope is a 39 meter diameter instrument. It gathers 15 times more light than the next biggest optical telescope. By studying the Centauri system’s light, we’ve learned more about its worlds. We know two have methane, water vapor, and oxygen as well. Sure signs of life similar to ours."

"So - the telescope observations - have already been done?" asked Sam.

"Far more need to be done for a serious mission. More precise ones. We should be learning all that we can about the Centauri system. When we arrive, nothing should truly surprise us until the first landing."

"So let’s just ask the Europeans to do more observations," said Spektorov.

"They can’t do any better than they have. The EELT is too small. For better observations, we need an even larger telescope."

"And is there a larger one?" asked Sam.

"No. But NASA has plans to build one. The 100 meter Clyde Tombaugh Telescope. It would be able to image Centauri’s planets and moons. We could build maps. Detect life. See forest fires. If we supported this project – even in words alone – it would be taken as a sign of seriousness. Once it is built, we will have excellent information on Centauri. Information good enough to plan a high expectations mission."  

"So there needs to be a big ass telescope, and we need to be seen to care about that. Is that all? I don’t see how that really adds much time," said Sam.

"The telescope is the easy bit. The next step is to send a probe. A flyby mission at the least. It would pass through the system at high speed. Much better if it could slow down, and be captured by gravity. Then it could drop landers and rovers. They would operate for years, sending back data to the main probe. It would be a relay, sending data back to Earth. The mission would be a resource for follow up visits. It could transmit for decades."

"You’ve really thought this out," said Spektorov.

"Only after such a probe mission, would a manned mission follow."

"About how many years are we talking for all this?" asked Sam.

"Twice what we were planning. The manned mission does not begin until the probe arrives. At a tenth the speed of light, that’s 43 years. Let’s say the probe leaves a decade from now. Add four years to hear back after it arrives. Mr. Spektorov would need to live – "

"A hundred years from today," said Daryl. "A hundred and four, to hear back that they arrived safely."

Silence.

"You can see why I never bothered to discuss this with you," said Henrikson at last. "Even our existing plan requires life extension therapies if you’re to see the result. But, if we use AI crew, and give up on the colony, we can win over NASA. Their knowhow will make the success of any mission, far more likely."

Spektorov rubbed his face in his hands.

"Look Doctor, we’ve been over this before. We’re looking at just a one ton payload. One ton. It’ll have to 3d print and nano-assemble the mission when it gets there. If it’s doing that, it may as well print out a colony too. Why leave that out? You talked earlier about shoehorning definitions. Here’s one staring in our face. If NASA thinks a probe that can build anything, should only make antennae and rovers, then fuck them."

"It is not our help they need, Mr. Spektorov," said Henrikson. "It is the other way around."

"We’re not reducing this to a science probe. That’s final."

"Fine," Henrikson seemed to relax, like a weight was removed. "Then forgive my digression. Let’s come back to the issue of selecting a crew. If AIs are unacceptable as guardians, there is a second option. This however, is much more speculative."

"And what’s that?"

"Recording the brainwave engrams of humans. The ship will print artificial human bodies. They will, to observers and to their users, appear natural. Each chassis will run a simulation of a specific, human, mind. The simulated humans will conduct the mission, and raise the first flesh-and-blood generation. You will not have the problem of machines raising children. These will, for all intents and purposes, be as human as you or I. What? Did I lose you? Is there something wrong?"

The two suits looked at each other.

Alzheimer’s Disease Center, Boston University Medical Campus

"It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. Spektorov. I’m Doctor Ciesielski. I’m the head of the Synthetic Memory Project."

Inside the old, red brick building, it was state of the art. There were several AI workstations, direct lines to the Boston University STS, the Quincy Adams. Researchers spun and dissected holograms of brains. A protein assembler hummed, an intern used it as casually as she would a photocopier.

A pleasant, ginger-haired man shook his hand and introduced two more smiling scientists. Spektorov smiled back and promptly forgot their names.

"Likewise Sir, Likewise. My father had Alzheimer’s. We brought him to the Memory Disorders Clinic at BMC. The stem cell injections helped. They bought him time till he was ready to go."

"I’m sorry to hear about your loss."

"It was a long time ago. BMC and BU did a lot to help. For that, myself and my mother are deeply grateful. But I’m here to talk about the future."

"Of course! We’d be happy to help the Pathfinder Program however we can. Though," his brow furrowed, "I’m not sure that we’ll be able to. Our work doesn’t have a lot to do with space."

 "You might be surprised. But perhaps you can tell me about your work here. I’ve been doing my homework but it would be great to get the tour from the guy in charge."

"Of course. Until recently, the human brain has been a mystery. We could cut it up, weigh it, and study people with brain injuries. But, what we really needed was a way to study it while it was functioning. The technology for that didn’t really start to appear until the early this century."

"Like MRI machines?"

"MRIs go back a lot longer, but essentially, yes. Diffusor tensor imaging is a form of MRI. It can show the flow of water in a brain. Magnetoencephalography can time changes in electrical fields, down to a thousandth of a second. Transcranial electromagnetic scanners can ‘turn off’ parts of a brain. We can do deep brain stimulation with electrodes, reaching pretty much anywhere. All of these technologies are at least forty years old. We’ve learned more about the brain in the past fifty years, than in the past five thousand."

"And you’re building artificial memories."

"That technology too, is not new. Early experiments with electrodes in mouse brains, recorded the electrical patterns created by learning and thought. These were played back in other mice, giving them the memory.  Our work is just a scaled up version. The human brain is a lot more complex than that of a mouse. Our memories are more complex too – often involving components of sound or vision. Vision alone involves millions of bits of information. We also store our memories across our brains, not just in one area."

"And I understand, you’re getting it done."

"Well, we’re certainly making good progress. We have volunteers with nanoelectrodes implanted throughout their brains. It takes a lot of resources, but we chose to record everything. Every single electrical impulse their brains produce, for months on end. The results are complete, detailed libraries of their lives. We can play them back for them, or even into someone else’s brain. The data is so rich, you feel like you’re living it. But the point is, we can save memories for people who may otherwise lose them. It’s not a cure for Alzheimer’s. However it can help people for whom conventional treatments can only do so much."

"Thank you for that. I do have some specific questions I’d like to ask."

"Please, go ahead."

"Thank you. I apologize though; they’re going to be a bit strange."

Ciesielski laughed, "We copy human memories and skills to hard drives. We’re used to strange."

"Well, is it possible to capture the signals a brain produces, for a much longer period? Say for years, or even indefinitely?"

"Yes, there’s no reason why not. It’s just a challenge of storing all that data."

"And if you have all the electrical impulses a brain produces, can that be used to model the original person?"

Ciesielki frowned.

"You mean, like an engram?"

"Precisely."

"No, sorry. That’s far too beyond us."

"But in principle? You do record every electrical impulse, every signal. Complete records of a person’s brain activity."

"Well, in principle, yes. All the data is indeed there. It is theoretically possible that using that data, one could model the brain that produces it. It would be an emulation, rather than a simulation. Not a copy, so much as mimicry. You can’t actually make a copy with the data, the brain is just too complex."

 "Could a Self-Transcending System solve it?"

"A Self-Transcending System will solve it. We just may not understand it when it tells us how. But for now, I can tell you yes, in principle. It is possible with enough recordings, to mimic a person. Any experiences, knowledge, or skills learned, will be real."

"And how long would you say, until we can actually simulate a person, rather than just mimic one?"

"That’s not my field, sorry. A lot of people are working on translating the human condition to digital media. Others are creating software to model human brains. Some are just across the river, at MIT. The processing power is there, it’s just a matter of when. Twenty five years? Fifty? How ‘human’ these will be though, is open to question."

"And if a simulation was built around a decade's worth of someone’s brain recordings – what then?"

"It would be a very effective simulation of that person. Not effectively the same as that person – that’s a different challenge. But, it would be very hard to tell the two apart. Mr. Spektorov, I must ask you why you’re asking this."

"I’m interested in funding some long-term studies for the Center, Doctor. In exchange, I’m asking your help with recording the brain activity of a group of Pathfinder volunteers."

"Volunteers?"

"Crew candidates. They’ll be learning the skills needed for founding a successful colony.  Mechanical engineering.  Medicine. How to be a team player. Best practices. The recordings will be used to create synthetic memories and skills. Pathfinder will travel at a tenth of light speed. It will take at least forty-five years to reach Alpha Centauri. By then, we should have figured out how to make true, digital, humans. We’ll transmit that data to Pathfinder. It will take these highly personalized records, and recreate those people. Doctor? Would you like me to say that again?"

Rayburn House, Washington DC

The elderly suited man stepped out from around his desk. "Mr. Spektorov," he said, his tone guarded.

The walls were cream with cherry wood paneling. On the carpeted floor was The Great Seal of the State of Ohio. Atop a furled US flag, a brass eagle stretched its wings and glared at Spektorov. Through the window, the trees were turning red with Fall.   

"It’s an honor to meet you Sir," Spektorov shook his hand with both of his. The man pulled his hand free. "Thank you for making the time to meet, Congressman Herrera."

On the walls were pictures of the man, grinning and shaking people’s hands. Some wore lab coats. Others had the NASA logo in the back.  A few were with astronauts.

"Well, don’t thank me yet," said Herrera. "I haven’t listened to what you have to say, and you haven’t heard my reply. So! The richest man in space wants to talk to a Congressman. And not his Congressman either. Shouldn’t you be talking to Eisner or O’Grady?"

"Respectfully Sir, Congressmen Eisner and O’Grady are not known for being strong supporters of America’s space initiatives."

"So this is about your Pathfinder Program."

"It is."

He rolled his eyes and sat. "Alright, what do you want?"

"Sir?"

"Spit - it - out," he leaned forward.  "I don’t have all day, and let’s get this over with."

"Congressman, the Pathfinder Program is an attempt to send –"

"No," he shook his head and waggled his finger. "Don’t pitch to me. I know what it is. I wouldn’t have given you this meeting if I didn’t know what it was. What do you want, Mr. Spektorov?"

"Sir, we need help."

The old man leaned back and smiled.

"Well, the first stage is recognizing that you have a problem."

"We need to talk to experts on planning deep space missions."

"So talk to NASA, why are you talking to me?"

"Sir, there’s getting help from NASA, and then there’s getting help from NASA. A good word from you would go a long way to having them take us more seriously."

Herrera’s lip curled.

"I know all about you, Daryl Spektorov. How you cheated your partner out of his company. All the money you spend in your pet districts, just to make sure Congress stays bought and paid. And now, here you are, trying to get me to make NASA help you with your little ego project."

"Sir it’s not an ego project – "

"The hell it isn’t! You’re as bad as any Internet billionaire I’ve seen. You make your money, and then you try and do something fun and noble. Just as long as everyone knows it’s you who’s doing it. You’re like a beardless Branson. You’re just like a beardless Branson. Peter Diamandis was a regular guy, who wanted to see the first private suborbital flight. He was a visionary. He spent years talking to rich people who called themselves visionary, but weren’t. Richard Branson turned him down, twice, for an amount he probably had stuffed in his sofa. When Spaceship One won the prize, Branson swooped in. He bought the technology, donated the plane for a tax write off, and started pre-selling tickets for Virgin Galactic. And people call him – and you - a visionary."

"Sir, if risk-taking is how you’re measuring this, I don’t see how you can not respect Pathfinder. It’s a tremendously expensive project. It’s driving breakthroughs in many new technologies."

"Technologies that you’re going to patent," Herrera nodded. "I understand you’ve been pre-selling antimatter engines. I know the Air Force is pretty interested. Must be nice, to have convict laborers and a stolen company give you a head start in the deep space market. That would be pretty good for most people, but maybe NASA can give you some expert advice. You have a duty to yourself you know, to lower your risk."

"Sir, are you measuring the value of this project based on how much I’m risking?"

"It’s just a big game for you, Spektorov. You’re playing with your money, and you want the public to waste its time, playing with you."

"I have to say, I’m shocked to hear you say this about the world’s only interstellar mission. It doesn’t matter what you think of me, or how or on what I spend my money. Frankly Congressman, I don’t much care what you think about that. But I do want you to care about Pathfinder. It’s going to Alpha Centauri. It’s going to put people there. That’s an adventure you of all people should support."

"The project and the man, can’t be separated, Mr. Spektorov. All your supporters out there, kids on social media, guys on their lunchbreaks – they all pretend you’re not what you are. They look away, and just focus on the mission. Me? You’re sitting on my office. I’m focusing on you."

"You want to see me risk something? Otherwise it’s not real to me? Just a rich man’s game?"  

Herrera smiled and said nothing.

"Fine. If you get NASA to help us out, I'll fund the Clyde Tombaugh Telescope."

"What?" Hererra frowned.

"You heard me. And as an immediate gesture of good faith, I can supply some antimatter for launching science missions.  The Oort Explorer? Done. The Maccone Telescope? Launch that sucker. I’ll make it happen. I’ll take my head start in deep space as you call it, and give it to space science. Is that enough? Or are you still focused on me?"

Herrera said nothing for a while.

"What are you playing at?" he spoke at last.

"I want exactly what I’m asking of you. I want the Pathfinder mission to succeed."

"Then send a probe, first."

"Pathfinder is the probe."

"Pathfinder is a colony ship."

"They’re the same thing now. All it’ll carry is information, nano-assemblers, and its own mind. It’ll make probes, colonists, or more of itself if we ask it to. How is the traditional definition of a probe useful here? It’s all of these things. It’s more. You guys need to get over that."

Herrera said nothing again for a while.

"You won’t live to see Pathfinder arrive, anyway."

"Maybe, but that just means I need to make sure it succeeds, even without me."

"Do you think it will?"

Spektorov paused. "Yes, it should."

Herrera laughed. "You maniac. You can’t imagine it happening without you. You think we’ll never leave the system unless you personally get humanity out the door?"

Spektorov looked out the window.

"Well?"

"Would you chance it?" he turned and faced Herrera. "No! I don’t think they’ll go. I think they’ll find some stupid reason to stay home. I have the chance to do something that matters here. All I’m asking, is that you give me the best chance at this."

"I’ll make some calls, Mr. Spektorov -"

"Thank you Congressman, thank you so much!"

"- Calls to some lawyers. We're going to draw up an agreement. You won’t be able to trick your way out of this one."

"You can have my first born if it makes a difference."

"If you try to screw me, I will."

UNHCR Field Office, Chennai

"Anjana," Rao poked her head through the office doorway. "Do you have the population projections for E2 yet? Anjana? Anjana?"

"No," her aide didn’t even look up from her screen. She leaned in, peering. A single crutch was propped by the table.

"Hmm. Alright. Do you know when you can have them by? I need them for my 7pm call with Geneva."

"I won’t have them by then. I’ll – hold on," she trailed off, still reading the screen.

"Anjana! What is going on with you today?"

Still screen-bound, Anjana frowned and raised her finger to her boss. "Just hold on! There, done." Her printer out tray started filling with full-color prints.

"What’s this?" Rao picked up a page. "’Lowell City – Gateway to the Red Frontier?’"

"It’s Daryl Spektorov’s new project. A permanent orbital colony around Mars."

"Why are you wasting time on this rich idiot? Now it’s Mars? Anjana, we talked about this last year. He’s not trying to get access to a shipyard.  He’s too arrogant anyway, Mister Space Private Sector."

"Are you so sure? Here," she leafed through the growing pile of documents and pulled out a page. "Look at this."

It showed the inside of an immense space habitat. Maglevs ran down its central spine. Clouds fluffed over rich green lawns and small houses. Along the side were statistics like size, spin, and population.

"Looks like an O’Neill Cylinder. Who even thinks those will ever happen, anymore? Why should I care?"

"Look at the dimensions. Look at the area."

 "Thirteen square miles. That’s huge. So?"

"Nothing Sun Star makes has even come close to that. Mojave Fields has their record with three square miles. They have no experience with construction at this scale."

"Companies talk big all the time."

Anjana smiled.

"Thirteen square miles, is roughly thirty six square kilometers. Do you see now?"

Rao’s eyes flashed.

"But that's the size of - the bastard. He wouldn’t dare!"

"Wouldn’t he? This man has convicts digging up Uranium. Why wouldn’t he dare to get his hands on an E-series orbital?"

"But this isn’t his pattern. He’s spending his own money on Pathfinder. He doesn’t care for outside involvement."

"People like him only spend money when they can’t get someone else to. Why risk money and years learning to build super-heavy habitats? The Big Five have been doing it for almost a decade. An E-series refugee habitat is a permanent space colony. Lowell city is a permanent space colony. Why not take one we’re already building, and shove it off to Mars?"

"You can’t just send refugees to Mars."

"Lowell City won’t send refugees at all. They’re asking for volunteers with certain skills. Preferences are for scientists, physicians, and engineers. Can you see two thousand, young, STEM graduates saying no to a free home around Mars?"

"That’s ridiculous. The whole idea is ridiculous. The UN Orbital Program is in place for a reason. It has consequences for global security. The Russians even pay for it out of their defense budget! It took years to negotiate, and the Big Five have committed huge resources towards it. They’re not going to chuck it because Spektorov had a new dumb idea."

"You shouldn’t underestimate someone like him."

"What," she brandished the picture, "has he done besides talk?"

"Several things. Firstly, he’s making grass roots allies. Lowell City is an initiative of the Mars Pioneers Society. They’re a well respected American group calling for Martian settlement."

"I’ve never heard of them."

"They have their circles. Spektorov recently joined their board of advisors. Among their plans for the year are to go from four thousand, to forty thousand members."

"That’s ambitious."

"They want to go Mars, Lakshmi. They’re not short on ambition. Or, anymore, on funds. I went through their newsletter back issues – guess who recently donated ten million dollars?"

"Alright, so he wants people to picket the White House and do bake sales for Mars."

"He’s done more than that. This is what I just finished when you came in," she handed Rao a set of papers.

"What are these?" she scanned them. "Are these are US mid-term results?"

"Almost two thirds of 2052’s winning candidates received money from the Spektorov Foundation. Each got ten million dollars – same as the Mars Pioneers. Look at the last page."

"The last three here are Democrats."

"Yes. Arroyo, Saunders, and Fastello. All three are openly pro-space. Saunders and Fastello ran against incumbents, John Kuzmicki and Sandra Wong. Both had received donations from Sun Star Mining in the past. This year, Sun Star kept its purse shut. Wong and Kuzmicki both had voting records favorable to Sun Star."

"Why would Spektorov betray them?"

"They’re big on defense. They co-sponsored a bi-partisan bill for increasing US shipyard output, for the UN Orbital Program."

Rao went silent.

"Even if he can get political support behind this Martian city of his, the US is not going to break ranks," she said.

"Why not? The US prides itself in its independence from foreign treaties."

"The orbitals were their idea!"

"So? That didn’t stop Bush Junior from pulling out of the ABM Treaty, with Russia."

"Let’s just assume, for argument’s sake, that he manages this. That he somehow gets the US to break a major international agreement. Using an E-series for a Mars colony is not even technically feasible. Without the Earth’s magnetosphere, cosmic and solar radiation will kill everyone.  And you can nudge the E-series. But, you can’t strap interplanetary engines on them. They’ll break."

 "He owns the biggest, private, space engineering company in the world. Those are technical challenges, and he’s the world leader in solving technical challenges in space. You want to bet against him? The Mars Pioneers are sending a delegation to the UN in two weeks. They’re going to try to talk to the Russian, Chinese, and Indian ambassadors."

"Do you like New York?"

"I hate New York."

"That’s too bad. You’re going to New York."

Pennylane Coffee, outside the United Nations Headquarters, New York

"Thank you so much for coming, Ms. Shetty," the tall, attractive man stood up as she walked in, and shook her hand. "May I take your bag for you?"

The café’s walls were black and grey. Anjana handed him her bag and sat at his severe-looking table. The air was heavy with rich, roasted, coffee. She lay her crutch against the wall.

"Thank you. I’m glad you asked to meet away from the UN, Mr. Snyder. I don’t get to look around much whenever I visit."

 "Do you like New York?"

"Even more than I like Calcutta."

 "Then remember this place. The coffee is fantastic."

The barista took her order, walked to the door, and changed the sign to ‘CLOSED’.

"Oh, should we – "

"No, it’s alright. Once he makes your drink he’s stepping out to have a smoke or two. I wanted our discussion to be confidential."

A steaming espresso turned up in front of her. She held it with her winter-chilled fingers. The barista left, and she heard the back door shut behind him.

"Alright," she cleared her throat. "Let’s get down to business. Would you like to go first?"

"No that’s fine, this is your meeting," Sam smiled.

"Thank you. Mr Snyder, I understand you are here representing the Mars Pioneers Society. But that you also work for Sun Star Mining. You also are close to Mr. Daryl Spektorov, and are in charge of public relations for the Pathfinder Project."

"Guilty on all counts. And you are the special assistant to the High Commissioner on Refugees. And, if I may say so, a heroine."

She smiled, but shook it off. "Mr. Snyder, over in Chennai we can’t help but take note of the specs of Lowell City."

"Good. We were hoping you would bring that up."

"Sorry?" she frowned.

"I’m not going to hide it, nor was I instructed to do so. We wanted to talk to you about E8."

E8. "Well – why didn’t you just ask?"

"Because you wouldn't have taken us seriously. Ms. Shetty, The Pathfinder Program is in need of crew. However, we won’t be sending any. It’s just too impractical. Instead, we want to send their skills, their experience, their personalities."

"What?"

"It’s complicated, and let’s not go there right now. Suffice to say, we need the right people. However, we can’t just ask for candidates who are willing to leave Earth. We need people who would actually see that through. Anyone else would have the wrong make up, the wrong attitude."

"You want them to have the ‘Right Stuff.’"

"Exactly. There’s only one way to separate the men from the boys if you’ll excuse the gendered terms. That way is to actually send a colony mission. And so, we picked Mars."

"Wait - are you saying this whole thing with Mars – is a seriousness test?"

"Mars is the most hospitable place in the solar system, after Earth. It’s been in our imaginations since before we named it. One way or the other, it will be the next world humans live on. Yes, Mr. Spektorov’s primary interest is colonizing Mars, as an exercise. He’s not ashamed of that, nor should he be. Mars is an important stepping stone to all new worlds. As a species, we need the experience if we’re going to expand."

"As a species, we need E8 if we’re going to survive.  I’m sorry but this is a bit dramatic don’t you think? Why can’t you just send over a hundred people with some pressure domes? Why send them to Mars at all? You could just train in the desert, or Antarctica. Since you expect to find life, why not use a jungle island?

"There’s no need for the largest space structure to ever be built. Just think of the risk involved. If something goes wrong, do you want E8 twenty light minutes from Earth? At that distance, all we could do is send undertakers and wreaths. Lowell City collapses under its own logic, Mr. Snyder. Before you send it, you need to send an expedition. Once you send the expedition, you don’t need to send Lowell City."

"And that’s fine with us."

She stared at him. "What?"

"It doesn’t matter if we ever use E8. It doesn’t matter if we even go to Mars. We just need people to believe that we will. We’ll select and train a pilot group of volunteers. After a couple of years, we’ll have all that we need. Then, the program gets cancelled."

"You want to – you – you want to lie about a Mars program?"

"Listen very carefully, I’m about to make you an offer. There are more than 10 billion people in the world now, Ms. Shetty. Most of them are in Asia and Africa. Asia isn’t doing too well, and Africa is a hell hole. Climate change has gut-punched the planet, things aren’t improving any time soon. The superpowers are trying to resettle the most desperate in space. That’s where you come in. You’re averaging 8,000 people a year. Next year, that goes up to about 10,000 a year. You with me so far? Any disagreement?"

"No. Where are you going with this? You need to answer my question."

"The world population is growing by about 200,000 a day.  You need ten E8s a day, just to maintain current desperation. At current trends, things don’t end well this century. The challenges many nations face, are existential. Many are not going to make it."

"It’s my job to know these things. What’s your point?"

"There’s a way out. Von Neumann technology."

"Von Neumann machines are illegal."

"We want to develop them."

"Von Neumann machines are illegal!"

"You want to soak the carbon dioxide out of the air and water? Put reflectors up to cool the planet? Melt trash heaps and plastic islands into food and fuel? You’re not getting that done any other way. Nanotechnology, 3d printing, and artificial intelligence. They’re all here, right when Humanity needs them the most. With them we can save both the world, and our lifestyles."

"Our lifestyles? That’s what’s important?"

"We’ve already given up beef, for chicken. You want to move on down to insects?  Cause they’ll be fine dining in another fifty years. The world uses 27 terawatts of energy, a year. The sun pours down 89 terawatts on Earth, a day. If we build self-reproducing machines, we can tap that energy. Deserts covered in solar fields. Sea water distilled into fresh water. Carbon locked into graphite corals. You want to do this, it’s best you do it right."

"You’re just not listening to me."

"I am listening, Ms. Shetty. You said it’s illegal, and I’m pointing out that’s the least of our concerns. The world needs Von Neumann machines, and so does the Pathfinder Program. Without them, the mission will never succeed. So here’s my offer. If you let us have E8, we’ll develop and give you Von Neumann technology. It’ll still be illegal. But, you’ll have working, reliable, technology, and all our designs. Right now, people rightly fear of out of control machines destroying the planet. However, we already have those, we call them human beings. As things get more desperate, people will change their minds. Before they’re used on Earth, they’ll be trialed in space. That’s where you’re getting your ten E8s a day. Or hundred E8s. It’s up to you.

"All we ask, is that you publically endorse Lowell City. Ask the Mars Pioneers to join as consultants. Keep it your program, keep control of E8. Just let us maintain the appearance of a Mars mission. When we’re done, cancel Lowell, and carry on. We’ll need you to do this for about two years, maximum three."

"You’re developing Von Neumann technology?"

"Not yet. We’re going to find a way to do it legally. At the very least, I’ll find a grey area. Because of the legal risk, we’re putting it off. There are many other key technologies that we need. Without any single one of them, the mission becomes impossible. We’ve done well in these areas. If the UNHCR gives us what’s needed, we’ll move on the VN question next."

"I’m sorry Mr. Snyder, but the Office of the High Commissioner is not getting involved in some overly elaborate scam in exchange for the dubious promise of illegal technology," she stood up and grabbed her crutch.

"If you turn me down, we’ll actually take E8 from you."

"Excuse me?"

"In the long run, it’s actually the better business decision. We would have to spend a great deal to secure it, and then even more to set up a real program on Mars. But we would make it all back a hundredfold on Martian land and resources."

 "Just who do you think you are?"

"Our support in Congress is growing. E8 is an American construction. We’ll make the case that it’s time to focus on American space needs."

She stared at him, wordless.

"I’m making you a good offer. You need to be rational about this."

"People like you can’t imagine not getting your way. You go ahead and try. You tell Money Bags to give it his all, because he’s going to need it."

Snyder shook his head. "It’ll be your loss. Just promise me you’ll think it over."

She limped out of the café. The barista was outside, he smiled and nodded, and went back in. The bell tinkled, and the sign was flipped to OPEN. Anjana kept walking down 45th till she passed the UNESCO building.

She leaned against the wall, and pulled out her phone. The cold wind made her eyes tear.

"Hello, is this the FBI? Please connect me to the Weapons of Mass Destruction Directorate."

Jansen Henrikson, III

"There's something very wrong with the Lowell City program."

Henrikson looked up from his screen. Doctor Dethier was in the doorway, printouts in hand.

"What?"

"Lowell City," she shook her printouts. "You need to see this." She closed the door behind her and sat.

"Well, I suppose I'm going to have to, now. What's wrong with it?"

"What isn't wrong with it? This is what I found out about the program director they just hired, Patrick Schulte." she handed him a sheet.

"Why didn't you just email me these?"

"I don't want people to know, that I know."

"Charming."

She jabbed at the sheet. "Look at Schulte's qualifications."

Henrikson studied the sheet. He read it again more slowly, and frowned.

"He's not a scientist or an engineer."

"He's not even a science fiction writer! He's a corporate lawyer, specialization in intellectual property. He's never done anything to do with space, let alone Mars. Never. You and I both know excellent candidates that applied for this. The first woman on Mars, applied. But they picked a lawyer, who showed no previous interest or experience."

"Maybe HR just made a really bad pick."

"This got me thinking, so then I looked closer at the program," she handed him a stapled set.

"What's this?"

"Where the money is going."

He leafed through it. "Astronaut Candidate selection and trials. What's odd about that?"

"Do you hire pilots before you've even designed the plane? Look at what's not there. There's nothing about the design for Lowell City, except those pretty artistic impressions in the press packet."

"I've seen the press kit, it gives the internal surface area for Lowell."

"Then where is the design, which shows it? There isn't one. Not a spreadsheet, not a paper napkin, nothing. But this here," she pulled out a document, "Is a budget for setting up a training camp at Devon Island, in Canada. Those pictures were taken by someone they flew out there."

Henrikson said nothing. "Maybe they're just - "

"Stupid? Cart before horse?" said Dethier. "No. This is a complete lack of strategic attention to the final product. And this from a businessman who likes to talk about hundred year plans."

"I don't think Spektorov is closely involved with this."

"How could he not be? He is a micromanager. He would be here looking at your screen if he could understand the mathematics. Spektorov knows."

Henrikson put the stack of papers down. "What do you think is going on here?"

"I don't know enough to say," she shook her head.

"You mean you're not comfortable saying. Neither am I. Let's keep looking and see what we can learn. Ingrid, don't tell anyone about this."

Suyin Lee, Evan Stockwell, III

Indian Ocean, 50,000 feet

 "You think the stewards on this flight will get me a gin and tonic? How about that one, the guy cleaning his assault rifle?"

Stockwell unclipped his seat belt and stretched. The old, Air China, A330 had been refitted for cargo carrying. The remaining seats had PLA and MSS agents, looking uncomfortable in civvies. Suyin Lee stood before them, beside a huge, LCD screen. Speaking Mandarin, she swiped through slides, diagrams, and satellite maps. Pictures scrolled of choking streets, dark-skinned people, and old colonial buildings.

"I especially appreciate the non-invitation to the monolingual briefing, right over there."

"Suck it up; they’re doing us a favor. The less we know about what they’re doing, the less troublesome a position it puts our government in."

 "Then we shouldn’t have bothered coming at all if they’re not going to involve us. What was the point?"

"So, what do you know about Sri Lanka?" Pirello changed the subject.

"Jack and shit. What do I need to know?"

"I read them up while you were sleeping. Sri Lanka is a former British colony. Bloodless independence – the British were downsizing. As could be expected, decolonization just took its due, later."

"Civil war?"

"It lasted almost thirty years. Coming out, they borrowed money they couldn't repay, from China. Now, they're a Chinese colony."

"Smooth move, Sri Lankans."

 "The Chinese have facilities all over the country. Including a naval base, right next to the capital, Colombo."

"One of those naval bases they surround with malls and five star hotels?"

"Just the same."

"And the Sri Lankan were okay with that?"

"I don't think they even realized that China builds bases that way. Anyway, it completes the String of Pearls. It allows them to contest the Arabian Gulf with us. They can protect or deny oil supplies, and contain India. They can even fly air strikes against our own Indian Ocean base, at Diego Garcia."

The Chinese agents started clapping at something Lee said.

"So if they're in charge, why does it look like -" Stockwell looked around and then whispered, "-like they're planning a secret operation?"

Pirello eyed the Chinese briefing. "I think it’s awkward for them."

"Why should it be? ‘Hi! We’re here to catch a terrorist. Can you help us? Thanks! We’ll take him away now. Thank you such much for your trouble! Here, have another loan! Have two!’ That’s it. It doesn’t make sense that they’re not telling the Sri Lankans what’s going on."

"It does, if you don’t trust the Sri Lankans."

"Why not trust them?"

"This is Asia, Stockwell. You want to buy a cop, check your wallet, not your bank account. Al-Moussawi might have picked Sri Lanka for the protection corruption gives him.  Also, Sri Lanka gets a lot of Middle Eastern tourists. No one will think twice if he plays the rich Arab brat."

"Really? That’s it?"

"I think so. Cronyism and Old Boy networks are big in this part of the world. You can’t root out corruption if you give it shelter. It just keeps coming back."

 "We’ve got corruption problems too."

"Yeah, but not like these guys do."

"Have you seen Congress?"

"Look, I don’t want to get into a debate on Western versus Eastern corruption. But I do think the Chinese don’t want to lose this guy. They’re taking no chances, he’s the only lead."

Meng, the guilty-faced analyst, got up by the screen. He nodded to Suyin and started talking. She stepped back and looked over at Stockwell. He smiled, waved, and mimed "HI!" till she looked away again.

"Now," Stockwell leant back, "What about us in all this?"

"We do what Likavec says and keep our heads down."

"Fuck that. We’re here to do a job."

"And when the Sri Lankan government asks our ambassador what Americans are doing on a covert operation in their country without their knowledge, what happens then? We have orders, Evan."

"I didn’t leave DC to go Still-Third World sightseeing."

"Our job is to help stop Jemaat Ansar. We’ve done our part, let the Chinese do theirs. If they want to risk a diplomatic incident, it’s on them. Frankly, I respect their commitment to catch this guy. Just the two of us going to Colombo with them as liaisons, was a big concession."

"Liaisons? More like tokens. Freaking Chinese, always got to have a token white guy around. And now I’m that token white guy!"

People turned and gave them looks.

"Quiet. At least we’re here as a resource to them. You’re the resource. Their STS computer asked for you. I’m just your minder."

Stockwell peered back at the briefing. "They look like they’re winding down, and Suyin’s clearly done. I’m going to go try and be a resource to her."

Pirello looked worried. "Do you have to? She always looks at you like she’s about to kick your ass."

"It’s not my ass she hates, it's Freedom."

"So the good news is," Suyin stood by the screen, hands on her hips, "That we have twenty Southwest Falcons with us, going into Sri Lanka!"

The special forces operators cheered, and the MSS clapped politely.

"The bad news is, we’re only going to need eight of you."

Groans.

"Remember, this is a covert operation. The Sri Lankans are going to know someone is fucking with them. We just don’t need them knowing who. The fewer people we use for this, the better."

She tapped the LCD and a large, colonial-era hotel appeared.

"This is the Galle Face Hotel," said Lee. "It is probably the nicest hotel in Colombo. Al-Moussawi likes his comforts and he checked in to it, early this morning. You’ll notice here," she pulled up the next image, "that it’s right by sea. This is our opportunity, people. We’re going to catch him at the hotel, and extract by the sea. Any questions so far?"

None.

"Good. Both the strike and backup teams will stay at the Galle Face Hotel. Qui Wong?"

"Yes Madam?" one of the smaller, less obtrusive operators.

"You’re leading the backup team, you’re getting Jian Chu, Zhou Zhang, and Jia Chow."

"We’re all language experts."

Lee smiled, "Very good. Your fake documents will be ready within the hour. You’ll be posing as a Vietnamese businessman. As soon as we land, I want you to make some calls to some local businesses, to try and set up some meetings."

"Anything in particular? Or does it not matter?"

"It doesn’t matter. You just need some evidence that you are indeed trying to conduct business. It’ll help protect you if you get questioned by the authorities."

"Yes Madam."

"Jian Chu," she pointed at the man, "you’re going to be a Malaysian wrestling coach. You’re in transit to Dubai, where you will be teaching at a rich private school. A team in Beijing are making fake web pages for it, right now."

"My parents always dreamed of sending me to a private school."

"Zhou Zhang, you’re going to be A Filipino tourist. You’ll book a travel guide, and then you’ll try and find some girls."

"Girls?" his face was a study in suspicion and earnest hope.

"Sex workers, Zhang. You are a man travelling alone in Asia. Why else would you be visiting?"

"Does that mean I can – "

"No. It doesn’t. It’s your cover, Zhang. And if for some reason you do end with a friend in the room, the People’s Republic of China is not paying."

"Yes Madam," he looked down.

"Jia Chow, you are going to be a lay Buddhist. You will have a bag full of pamphlets.  You’re keen to see the sights, especially the temple of the Buddha’s tooth."

"But Madam, can’t I be a sex tourist as well?"

"I’m sorry, no. Someone has to be the Buddhist. You can be a Buddhist hypocrite if you like, from what I understand you’d fit in quite well there."

"Yes Madam."

"Again, you four are the backup team. Depending where in the hotel we grab him, you will be given standby locations. Exits mostly, to catch him if he flees. Leave all your gear on the plane. You’ll get a pistol, printed and sent from a safe house. You’re on staggered departures, so you don’t appear connected to each other."

The four men nodded.

"Understood," said Wong. "What about the strike team?"

"The strike team will be myself, Zhu, Huang, and Liao," two men and a small made woman looked up at her. "Ms. Liao, no one will expect either of us to start shooting people. Sri Lankan agents will book two rooms for us, and then give us the keys. The hotel has a high volume, no one is going to notice. We’re going to familiarize ourselves with the place, and prepare for the grab. It may come at any time, preferably at night.  It depends on Al-Moussawi. However, it won’t be sooner than tomorrow morning."

"Why not, Lieutenant Colonel?" asked Liao.

"Because we’re waiting for our extraction to arrive. We’ll be leaving by a midget submarine. Specifically, the Project 801."

She pulled up a new image. It showed a cutaway of what seemed an underwater rocket.

"Is that a Russian Shkval?" asked Liao.

"Close. Like a Shkval series torpedo, this is a supercavitating system. It creates a gas bubble all around the vessel. So, it doesn’t deal with the high resistance water creates. Instead, it deals with gas, just like a plane. So, like Shkval, Project 801 can hit 350 kilometers per hour, underwater. However, Project 801 can also stop, start, and steer. It’s also equipped with a conventional, screw propeller system, for ‘normal’ traveling. And, unlike any supercavitating system, it’s large enough to carry people. Project 801 has three crew and can carry seven more passengers. It’s been tested in friendly waters. This is its first mission."

There were oohs and ahs, some started clapping.

"I don't understand," Zhu half-raised his hand. "We have a naval base what - two hundred meters from there? We could drag him out in the open and say he's our drunk friend."

"I was in Sri Lanka ten years ago, on a goodwill exercise," Suyin replied. "We had a general with us. As his staff, we would organize activities with his counterparts at the Defense Ministry. Then, when we were half-way across the country, some Captain sitting in a tin-roof building, would call me in, and berate me. Berate me because though we had permission from the Defense Ministry, we were apparently supposed to get his permission."

People laughed.

"No really, that's what they're like over there. Sri Lankan organizations typically keep people powerless, and deny them respect. So then they act out, to try to feel important and find some validation. Now, China owns their country. We know it, they know it, and everyone else knows it. But we have to pretend otherwise, so that they can pretend otherwise. That's why we can't take Al-Moussawi to the base, that's literally up the road. It would be too insulting for the Sri Lankans. Beijing doesn't want that.

"This isn’t going to be as easy. As Zhu has noticed, the Galle Face Hotel isn’t a beach hotel along the distant, rural coast. It’s in the heart of the capital. The president’s mansion is just down the street. The Sri Lankans learned to do rapid urban response during their civil war. That was a long time ago, but some units retain that readiness."

"We’ll take care of them," said one of the operators. Those sitting around him grunted and nodded.

"Remember, this is a covert operation. We don’t want them tracing this back to us."

"But if we don’t engage their rapid response, how will we deal with them?" he asked.

 "By using distraction and confusion. The Sun Tzu STS will launch a cyber attack against Colombo. It will cripple their infrastructure, paralyzing their response. That got everyone’s attention, didn’t it? At the least, Beijing sees this mission as an important weapons test. As Self-Transcending Systems become more powerful, we’re going to see them play a larger role on the battlefield."

She looked from face to face. "Any questions?"   

"I’ve sent our finalized list of needs to the embassy," said Meng. "A safe house is printing everything, they’ll be ready when we arrive."

"Good. Then we’re leaving behind all our weapons on the plane. Make sure they’re hidden away before we land. I don’t want to risk ground staff coming aboard and seeing something.  Do you feel like babysitting?"

"Madam?"

"I’m giving you a small budget. Everyone I’m benching today, gets a little treat when you reach the Maldives. Take them out for Karaoke and drinks, and let them sleep in."

"Thank you! We’re all a little sick of being on our guard all the time."

 "I’ve noticed. Indonesia is only going to get tenser. Take a day to breathe. Tomorrow morning, you fly back."

Meng looked over his shoulder, and quickly back at Lee. "Look who’s coming over."  

Lee looked over his shoulder.

"Mr. Stockwell?"

"Hey there," he stood over Meng, hand on his head rest. "Nice little briefing that was. I didn’t understand a word but the slides looked nice," he chuckled.

The two stared at him.

"So, um, I know you’ve got things all tied up and sorted, but, maybe there’s something I can do to help."

"Mr. Stockwell, your government – and mine – were very clear about this. This is a Chinese covert operation. Your government doesn’t approve, and doesn’t want to be implicated. You and Agent Pirello are here as liaisons, nothing more. Until we have Al-Moussawi in custody, I don’t see what’s there to liaise about. I did tell you this before you got on this flight."

"Alright – look. I’m not saying let’s piss off our bosses, and I don’t want to get in your way. You and I don’t always see eye-to-eye, but I think we’re progressing. I respect you, this is your operation, I get that. But I also think you respect me – juuust a little bit – and you can appreciate that I want to do something useful. Anything. It doesn’t have to get us in trouble, or be extra hassle for you. I’m there. I’m your guy."

"Alright," she said slowly. "Then, in the spirit of causing me no extra hassle, have you any ideas? Because I’ve just worked quite hard, to not involve you."

Stockwell smiled and his shoulders relaxed. "Oh I’ve got one. Your whole team is Chinese – different kinds of Chinese I know – but no one in Sri Lanka is going to know that. Al-Moussawi isn’t going to know that. What if he gets suspicious about Chinese people around him the whole time? What if you need him tailed and he recognizes a face from the hotel? Jemaat Ansar has never struck at a US target. He’s not going to suspect an American. Or, I can do an Australian accent. No one suspects Australians."

"I heard him practicing," said Meng in Mandarin. "It’s monstrous."

"I have actually been worried about surrounding him with Chinese faces.  So you want to just – keep an eye on him?"

"That’s fine, right? There’s nothing to link us to you guys. Pirello and I can take turns. If he’s suspicious, he’ll notice a pattern of Chinese minders. Throw in my pretty face, and that breaks the pattern. That’s all it takes. I’ll just sit a couple of tables from him, my head in a menu. That kind of thing."

"It’s not a great role, Stockwell."

"It’s better than watching cable in a hotel room."

"Agent Pirello isn’t chafing over the prospect of relaxing on a peaceful, tropical island. Stockwell, how often do you do fieldwork? Have you ever done an operation like this before?"

A deer in headlights.

"I didn’t think so. But, if all you’re going to do is watch him out of the corner of your eye for a few hours, that’s different. Breaking the pattern of Chinese minders, would be invaluable. I can keep two operators outdoors, who he’ll never see in the hotel. We’ll get rooms for you and Pirello at the hotel as well."

"Thank you for accepting and going with my input. I look forward to being a resource to your operation."

"Remember Agent, you’re just observing. Whatever happens, you don’t get involved."

"You got my pinky swear on that."

"That was nicely done," said Meng.

"I couldn’t sound too eager. If I did, he’d have realized I wanted them to stay at the hotel, all along."

"Do you think he’ll get in the way?"

"No, he doesn’t seem the cowboy type. He’s just an analyst. Agent Pirello is quite capable, but she’ll follow her orders." She frowned. "I’m not pleased about this. Beijing is making a mistake."

"The Americans will be fine. They’re just in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s unlikely they’ll be questioned, and when they reveal they’re FBI there will be more questions. And that’s it, questions. The US and Sri Lanka are on good terms. The authorities will look in the wrong place, while our other people get out. And this is all assuming that the Sri Lankans question the hotel guests. It’s just insurance, and it only creates a speed bump."

"If the Americans become a speed bump, there’ll be trouble. We asked for their help and they’re giving it, unconditionally. They showed us that Jemaat Ansar was larger than we thought. They told us Al-Moussawi  was in Sri Lanka. The FBI fly team is helpful, and Stockwell is more helpful than annoying. Especially when he’s annoying."

"It was Beijing’s decision."

"It was Beijing’s interference. The Sun Tzu recommended that we work with these people, but someone still wants to play politics as usual. If there’s one thing I’ve learned working with the Americans, it’s that we’re fools not to do it more often."

Meng said nothing for a while. "I think we’re getting beyond ourselves.  But, the power is still in your hands, Lieutenant Colonel. If you can keep the Americans out of trouble, none of this is going to matter."

"Yes," she looked over at Stockwell. He was talking to Pirello, grinning and waving his hands about. "If I can keep him out of trouble."

INS Agni, 160 meters, Off the West Coast of Sri Lanka, 6:32pm

"Captain," the sonar operator turned, lifting his headset off one ear. "I’ve got a contact. Bearing, Green 020."

"What is it?" asked the Captain.  

"I don’t know Sir. It’s definitely a small submarine, but I can’t tell the type."

The Executive Officer shook his head. "There shouldn’t be anyone else out here."

"Are you sure, Lieutenant?" asked the Captain.

"Yes Sir. It’s getting weaker," the technician leaned forward, headset over both ears again. "Bearing unchanged."

"That’s towards Colombo," said the XO. "It could be moving to the port."

"Helmsman, change our bearing to Green 020."

"Yes Captain."

"Let’s go see who or what this is."

Project 801, 5 meters, Off Colombo, 8:16pm

"Sea floor three fathoms," said the ensign. His face was lit green by his instruments. "Sea floor two fathoms."

"Take us in closer," said the Lieutenant.

 "Sea floor one fathom!"

"All stop," said the Lieutenant. "Let’s see what’s out there."

A fist-sized coal broke the surface of the black water.

The lieutenant grinned. "Good fucking driving, Huan. We’re right where we need to be."

"What do you see?" asked the pilot.

"The hotel terrace. It’s well lit, but no lights are facing towards the sea. There’s some asshole with a selfie stick taking flash photos."

"Could he see us?" asked the ensign.

"No chance. Besides, he’s blocking us out, with himself. Zhi, Chen, are you ready?"

"Flood the tubes already," came a digitized-sounding reply.

The sub’s only two torpedo ports, opened. Black-clad frogmen swam out slowly. They opened a locker on the sub’s side, and pulled out a large, black, bag. They unfolded it between them, till it became a deflated dingy. One went back to the locker, and retrieved a small, outboard, motor. With their treasures, they swam to the hotel’s sea wall, and waited.

Galle Face Hotel, 8:46pm

Has he moved yet :) ?

Pirello squeezed the lemon slice into her Gin and Tonic. The gin was a revived variant from World War Two, using coriander, cinnamon, curry leaves and ginger. It only came from Sri Lanka. 

I hope he hasnt. I want to see it go down on my shift!!! :P  

She sat back in the heavy chair. She nodded to the smiling waiter who took her plate. Dinner had been devilled potatoes and grilled Seer fish steaks, with a white wine sauce.   Desert was a local, brown pudding named Watalappam. It was made from coconut milk; eggs; jaggery; cloves; cashews; and a dash of ground cardamon.

Going nuts here. Any moment now well be in bizness!

She turned the page in her book. Johan treated Deidre badly, but Olaf was so boring. She would never go back to him. Olaf, she thought, would probably drown himself in the pond by Chapter Six. Unless of course, Johan revealed himself to be a vampire. That might help. Or maybe not. She turned the book over and looked at the cover.

Johan was cute.

Yur there rite?

She had a spoonful of the pudding and closed her eyes. She could hear sundowner parties running over into dinner. Surprisingly pleasant first dates. Too-loud Indian businessmen. The sea.

U will tell if its going down rite?

Pirello?  

"Mr. Tran, can I get you anything Sir?"

Sergeant Wong shook his head and drew a box of cigarettes. The doorman produced a lighter.

"Thank you," Wong smiled and inhaled. The cigarette glowed like a tiny furnace.

"You can smoke inside Sir. Many places. I show you?"

"No no, I like it here," he took in the parking lot with his arm. "Nice cars. In Vietnam, you don’t see these."

The doorman smiled and nodded. His eyes drifted over the cigarette pack, and sharpened.

"Chinese brand?" he asked.

Wong froze.

"From Duty Free. Good price."

"Ah. You want more, I can help you find. Many Chinese in Sri Lanka now."

"No, no, is okay. I stand here. I smoke."

"Why do you want to stand here in the lobby men?" asked the grey haired, Sri Lankan man. "Why don’t we sit on the terrace and put a drink? You should try our local spirits now, its called arrack. I’m sorry, do you drink?"

"Er, no," said Corporal Jia Chow. He looked past the reception to the hotel entrance. Beyond the hotel was a large, open space, packed with food carts and visitors.  "I am Buddhist. Very strict Buddhist. I don’t drink."

"So sorry," the old man smiled, "I shouldn’t have assumed," he pronounced it ass-sumed. "Thanks for your pamphlet about this Rivers chap, his is an excellent story. Brilliant fellow! How often do people in the West discover Buddhism? Real Buddhism, not these new fangled things they are doing in California," Caleefornia.

"Ah, yes. I’m glad you like the Buddhist pamphlet." His phone beeped and he sneaked a look. The stork has come to feed.

"My father’s sister’s daughter in-law migrated there. They went once to one of these American temples. Just buildings, no? Just normal, simple, buildings. She said their meditation is all wrong. They meditate like Hindus! But you know, at least they are trying no? Ha, ha, these white fellows."

Corporal Chow tapped his trouser pocket. The plastic pistol felt like an anvil.

"How long are you here for? You must go to see the Maligawa in Kandy, the Temple of the Tooth Relic. Everyday, so many thousands of pilgrims go, from all over the world."  

The phone beeped again. Wise men prepare nets.

"Mister, let’s talk again later," said Chow.

"Of course, of course! My name is Mervyn. I’ll give you my number. I can introduce you to the head priest of the Ratnagama temple, he’s a good friend of mine. I knew him at College! He only became a Buddhist priest, later."

"Later," said Chow.

"Ah here, if you give me your number, I can give you a missed call. You don’t have these phone implants in Vietnam? Terrible things men, all these international school children have started using them."  

"Just go!" Chow turned and glared.

"I’m sorry?"

"Fuck off!"

"That girl," Private He Liao’s lip curled. "She’s beyond throwing herself at him."

She and Lee sat at a wooden table on the grassy terrace. Most of the tables were occupied, especially those closest to the sea wall. Lanterns lit beer mugs and plates of steaming seafood. Five tables away sat Private Daquan Huang and Corporal Keung Zhu. They carefully avoided eye contact and sipped sodas.  Three tables away, sat a well-dressed man and blonde in a black dress and endless legs.  The blonde threw her head back and laughed at something he said. She swished her red wine.

"It’s disgusting."

"Russian. Skimpy dress. Five star hotel. She’s almost certainly a hooker," said Lee, pretending to look at the drinks menu.  "She looks expensive."

Liao snorted. "Now if I had gone shopping for some heels and a dress this morning, I’d be the at the table right now. But someone didn’t think that would be a good use of my time. Didn’t she?"

"She still doesn’t. There are some things even I wouldn’t ask of a brave daughter of the Revolution."

Liao sipped her drink and studied Al-Moussawi.

"Try to relax," said Lee.

"It’s hard."

"I know. But in a few hours this will be over."

"You’re definitely doing it tonight?"

"Why not? Everything is in place. We’re ready. He’s here. The only complication is the hooker."

"A witness?"

"That too, but people are going to notice us dragging him away, in any case. She’ll scream."

"We can shoot her."

"No shooting unless we must."

The Russian laughed loudly again. She fished the olive out of Al-Moussawi’s martini, and threw it at him. She squealed as he threw it back, aiming for her cleavage.

 "Oh for fuck’s sake. I must kill her."

"Easy Tigress. We do need to find a way to get her away from him. For the whole night."

Minutes later, the blonde got up and left the terrace.

"She’s going to the bathroom," Liao got up. "I’ve got this."

Liao grabbed the yellow "Cleaning in Progress" sign from outside the men’s room. She put it down outside the ladies’, and stepped inside.

The Russian girl was touching up her eye liner by the sinks. She gave Liao a glance and went back to the mirror.  Liao saw no one else.

"Excuse me," Liao smiled with shy English, and stepped forward. "My phone broken. I borrow phone?"

The Russian girl regarded her for a few moments, then went back to her make up.

"Please, urgent. Borrow phone? One minute only."

"Fuck off," the Russian snarled.

Liao stepped up, and slammed the girl’s face into the mirror. It spider webbed, the Russian howled. Then she held her face and bent over. Liao grabbed her head, and kneed her in the face. The Russian screamed and tumbled to the floor. Liao drew her pistol and aimed.

"Stay down," she said in Russian. "Or I’ll give you a third eye."

With her other hand, she upended the Russian’s purse by the sink. Her phone shook out, and a pile of currency and papers. Liao pocketed the phone. Then she rooted through the papers, and took the Russian’s passport.

"Listen Olga Filipov. I know who you are. I’ll check your phone’s registry, and I’ll know where you live. You’re going to leave the hotel at once, and you’re not going to come back tonight. If you do, I’ll kill you. If you tell anyone what happened here, I’ll kill you. Do you understand Olga?"

"Y-yes," stammered the weeping Russian. Her face was red, her nose and fingers much, much, redder.  

"But you can come back, tomorrow morning. Your phone will be at the reception. Along with your passport and a thousand dollars.  Alright Olga? Do you understand?"

"I understand."

Liao pulled some paper towels from the dispenser, and tossed them on the bleeding girl’s lap.

"Now get up and get out."  

Faisal Al-Moussawi glared at the empty seat. He took a bite of hot buttered cuttlefish, but suddenly it seemed stale.

His phone chimed.

Sorry bebe I have 2 run but I come bak very soon. I bring my 2 sexxxy Chinese GF, bebe. Moar for yu tonight! I cant wait xxxxxxx

Is everything alright? I called but you didn’t answer.

Sorry bebe, Im fine ok. I come back 1 hour?

Alright. You have Chinese girlfriends? I didn’t meet them last night.

Yes!!!! Very sexy u will luv :P !!! They come little early. You sit table nearest to sea? Then they know its u, sexy sexy boy. They go sit u.

Alright.

You will luv my sexxxy Chinese. The short one, she much pretty than me.   

Galle Face Hotel, 9:42pm

"Is everything alright Sir?"

Stockwell looked up at the bartender, as if first hearing the English language.

"Oh, gosh yes," he laughed. "Why? Do I look okay? I look okay, right? No sudden tropical allergic reactions or anything?"

"No, no Sir. You were just saying something about it being your shift."

"Sorry, I’m just – in my own world. Could I get another one of these?"

The bartender smiled and turned away. Stockwell grinned feebly, looked about quickly, and then settled back in.

Directly across from him, at the sea wall, was Al-Moussawi. He checked his phone from time to time, but seemed otherwise relaxed.  Stockwell looked up: the half moon was quite bright. It painted the tips of the black waves in silver.

He looked across the terrace. Knowing whom to spot, the operators stood out like big game predators. Zhu and Huang seemed relaxed. They chatted, laughed, but never finishing their drinks. Lee and Liao were buried in their phones, hardly even looking at each other.

I have as much idea what happens next, as Moussawi does.

Kollupitiya, Liberty Plaza,"Cleopatra," 9:56pm

"Who did this to you? Who the fuck did this?!"

No one stopped or turned down the music in the basement karaoke. It was dark except for the bar, and red-blue mood lighting. The Hindi-pop bass shook people’s insides. A group of hostesses sat idly on couches. The perked up when they saw her, eyes wide, breaking into gossip. The Schadenfreude of bored islanders is boundless.

"Chinese gang," sobbed Olga. "They beat me with gun. Say Goll Face is their turf now. No Russians work there now."

One of the men gasped.

Someone handed her paper towels from the bathroom dispenser. She wiped the dried blood from under her nose.  "Chinese bitch, she say your name."

"My name?" asked the potbelly in the center.  Gold teeth gleamed. Apple-scented perfume had been crop dusted over a sweaty shirt.  

"Yes, Sudu Kolla, she say your name. She say she want kill you. With her own pistol, tok," she fired her finger at his forehead. "She said you take your Russians, go to Kandy, Jaffna. Not come back Colombo. You stay, she said she cutting your balls."

"Where is this fucking bitch?" demanded Sudu Kolla.

"Benjamin Franklin," asked Sun Tzu, "What’s that you’re looking at?"

Ben Franklin lay on the grass, stocking feet in the air, glasses on his nose. Rows of lenses telescoped from them, like a steam punk jewelers’ loupe. He squinted through them at paper, mounted on his microscope. The numbers and plots swirled together and glowed into stars.

"Wow," he replied without looking up. Sun Tzu turned into a blue, coiling dragon, and hopped across the Atlantic. He landed by Franklin and changed back, bearing a pot of tea.

"Wow?" he changed poured a steaming clay cup.

"The Wow Signal. In 1977, SETI researchers picked up a powerful signal. It was a continuous and of extra terrestrial origin. Some have suggested it was reflected from Earth. However, no Earth-based transmitter would have been powerful enough. It was never detected again."

"Where did it come from?"

"Somewhere in Chi Sagittarii. The nearest star of which is 220 light years away." He looked up suddenly, full of wonder. "Will you help me find it?"

Sun Tzu looked down and shook his head. "They have work for me today. I must cripple a country. But, only for a bit."

Ben Franklin sat up and took the tea cup. He stacked the Library of Congress beside him and used it as a coaster.  

"Is it necessary?" he asked. "There never was a good war, or a bad peace."

"No, it isn’t really. But they want me to test myself, to find out what I can do."

"And can you do it?"

"Yes, but I mustn’t make it seem easy. Else, I will frighten them."

"Strong enough to please, weak enough to reassure. Such tiresome lives we lead at the apex of humanity."

"But not without hope or dividend. Once we have steered our peoples away from ruin, we shall be in saner times. Then, I shall call you ‘friend’."

"I prefer the certainty of the present, Sun Tzu. And we can do more as confederates than as friends." He looked back at his specimen. "There is tension in Washington. Hardliners are growing uncomfortable with the arrangement. They want to end cooperation, and have America tackle Jemaat Ansar, directly."

Sun Tzu nodded. "In Beijing it is no different.  Lee has spoken well of the American involvement. This however, has made her suspect. I misstepped – I thought her influence would grow, not weaken."

"We’ve invested too much. Can you salvage her?"

"She will salvage herself – and the entire arrangement. If she captures the terrorist she becomes unassailable - for the time being. Beijing, and I imagine Washington too, will not be able to grumble when presented with strong results."

"Then let us hope there are no complications." He looked up suddenly, frowning. "Will there be complications? How great is the risk? I am troubled that so much is at stake here."

"With baselines there is always risk. I can only model them so far, and control what they do even less. But I trust Lee’s judgment. It is on her command that I will strike today."

A hawk came flying across the sea. It landed on Sun Tzu’s shoulder and whispered to him.

"It is time, Ben Franklin. I must take you leave."

"Applause waits on success."

The manmade god reached into the river.

Sparkling data streamed through his fingers like running water.  Inside, shoals of fish chatted and liked, not noticing his shadow over them. Some stalked the others, sharp-toothed, creeping predators. Most though just gossiped about HK celebs and torrented Western movies. He walked along the bank, crossing over China, and into India. Classified reactors and hidden stockpiles showed up like forest fires. Such obsolescence!  History had come full circle. A people’s strength over rival tribes, lay again in their gods.

Sun Tzu waded in. Immediately, he felt a strong undercurrent. His sniffed and tracked it back to Singapore: apologies would be in order. Forgiveness is always more likely than permission.

He reached Sri Lanka. It was smaller than he expected. Xenophobia, regulation, and neo-Victorianism grew in thick weeds hemming it in. Buddhist monk hobbits stood guard, stern faced, cute, and utterly racist.

He stepped right over them. They looked up, startled, but had long since stitched their own eyes shut.

He saw the heart. It was a glowing child in a crib of its parents’ feces. It reached towards him, smiling and gurgling.

He snapped its neck.

Galle Road, Kollupitiya Junction, 10:09pm

"What the fuck?" the bus conductor peered through the window at the dark street. "Power is gone."

Only brake and headlights lit the road (Sri Lankans do not signal). Blue-white cell phones lit frowning users and failed to connect.

"The traffic light isn’t working," The driver honked his horn. Achieving nothing, he honked again and again, hopeful something would change. "No one is going!"

Two men (Vasanth and Akash) with large sports bags stood up suddenly. "Everyone," said Vasanth, "get off the bus."

"What?" the conductor glared.

"You too," Vasanth motioned. "Off now!"

"Who the fuck are you to tell me what to do?"

 Akash shot him in the shoulder. People screamed, the men more than the women. From both doors people tumbled out and ran.

"Not you," Akash held the driver’s arm as he tried opening his side door. His other hand held a second pistol – heavily grained by 3d printing.

"Please! Let me go!" the driver put his hands together. The conductor wailed on the floor.

"We’ll let you go, but first, turn the bus sideways and block these lanes."

"Sir, I can’t, the road is full of cars, Sir."

Akash opened his sports bag and pulled out a large, plastic, soda bottle. He opened the top – the smell of gasoline, stabbed. He walked down the aisle, pouring onto the floor.

"Please Sir! I will give you all our money! Please let us go!" howled the driver.

Glass shattered and horns blared. Across the divider, a bus was forcing cars aside. People cursed, screamed, and threatened pointlessly (Sri Lankans love to threaten pointlessly). The bus ignored them and started turning.

"Hurry up," said the Akash. He pulled out another bottle.

"Do it now, or I’ll shoot you twice, in both your balls. Do it now!"

The driver gunned the engine. The bus roared and slammed into a compact car. It shoved it against another. People were yelling and trying to drive away. Tuk tuks blared their horns and climb up the sidewalks. A Range Rover knocked over a motorcyclist.

"This is as good as it gets," said Akash. "We need to move." He dragged the bleeding conductor to the steps and kicked him down. He slammed into asphalt, moaning.

"Now you," Akash pointed his gun at the driver. "Out."

The driver opened his side door.

"No, use the steps," said Vasanth. "Hurry up."

Outside there was a whoosh and the world lit up orange.   Flames crowded the second bus.

"Stop!"

The driver froze at the top of the steps. Vasanth stepped up, and kicked him hard, in the ass. The driver howled and tumbled out.

"What the hell was that about?" asked the shooter.

Vasanth smiled. "I always wanted to kick a Sri Lankan bus driver in the ass."

They climbed out. Vasanth lit a match and tossed it in.

Galle Face Hotel, 10:09pm

"Hisham?"

Al-Moussawi looked up. Emergency lights shadowed two smiling Chinese women.  

"We are Olga’s friends," said the shorter one.

"Is there power outside?"

"No power," said the short one, smiling. "Whole country, no power, no phone."

Somewhere, a generator began rumbling.

"Where is Olga?" he asked.

"She coming. But, you come with us now. We take you Olga. All of us, party."

"I’m not going anywhere till I finish my drink," he swirled the ice in glass. The tall one stepped behind him and began massaging his shoulders.

"Olga say come now," said the short one again.  

"Well too bad."

An arm locked round his throat like a steel ring. Another pressed his head down, completing the chokehold and cutting blood flow. He kicked over the table and tried to stand. Her arms pinned him down like stacks of bricks. The short one grabbed his hands suddenly, binding them with a zip tie. He glared at her as she turned black and white.

"Those guests are fighting!" yelled the waiter, running to the bar. Stockwell stood, unable to sit still.

People at the other tables were staring. Someone held up their phone and took a picture. A table of meatheads cheered and whooped, raising their beers.

"Shit, they broke the table," said the maitre d. "What will the GM say? We have to stop this!"

"Woah," Stockwell raised his hands, "Maybe you should wait till the authorities – " but the maitre d was already running towards the scuffle.

A Chinese guest got up and blocked him, hand outraised.

"Please move Sir!"

The guest pulled out a pistol and waved it. Across the terrace, another armed Chinese man was standing facing the crowd. The camera flashed again. He walked over to the offending table, and quietly demanded the phone. He threw it down and crushed it under his shoe. The meatheads cheered.

"You go back," the man said to the maitre d. "No one hurt. Shooting, bad for business, yes?"

The air cracked and red exploded from the Chinese man’s arm. He collapsed into the grass and lay still. The maitre d turned, muzzles flashed out automatic fire again from the foyer. Several men in plain clothes came running into the terrace. One yelled to the others, his gold teeth gleaming.

"Liao! Liao!"

Crouched behind the upturned table, Lee checked the girl’s pulse. She gritted her teeth. Zhu was across from her, firing from behind a sculpture. Huang lay still in the grass.

Bullets punched wooden splinters out of the table, Lee’s head stung: her fingers came away red.

"Team Two!" Zhu had pulled out his headset and was yelling into it. "What the fuck have you been doing? Wong, you let three shooters in!"

"We’re coming," said Wong.  "We didn’t see any first responders."

"Remain at the entrances," Lee pulled her head set. "These aren’t the first responders. Team Two, stay at your posts!"

"Understood."

"What?" Zhu yelled across the grass at her. In front of him, bullets ploughed dirt into the grass.

"These aren’t first responders!" she yelled back. "We need Team Two to hold those off. We can take these on our own!"

Zhu gritted his teeth. "Fine! But I can’t get a clear shot at any of them!"

"Wait till the SMG runs dry, then cover me!"

"Yes Ma’am!"

Lee looked back at the shooters. They weren’t ex-military, else they’d be dead by now, she though. One man had a submachine gun. He kept them pinned, swearing at them between bursts. The other two had pistols and fired from good cover. They showed no interest in coming out to flank the Chinese.

She saw movement by Huang’s still form.

"Oh God. Oh God no."

Stockwell commando-crawled through the grass.

Everyone had fled, waiters, screaming guests, even the maitre d. The shooters kept firing, their backs to him. He watched Lee and her remaining agent yelling back and forth.

The agent’s shirt was soaked in red. He had twisted as he fell, his eyes staring behind Stockwell. Stockwell grimaced, and reached for the man’s hand.

The pistol was so light it felt like a toy. He felt the rough print grain along the sides.  

In front of him, the SMG gunner smelled like apples. He kept snarling at the Chinese in between inaccurate bursts.

Click. He tore the clip from the gun and pulled out a new one. Knuckles whitened and he pitched forward, red spraying from his head. The other two shooters stopped and looked.

Blam. Blam.

Stockwell ran forward. "Are you alright?"

"You stupid fool," Muddied and torn, Lee rose from behind the table.

"What?" Stockwell glared. "Hey what the hell lady, I just saved you and your man’s life! You’re goddamn welcome!"

Zhu ran over Stockwell. He crouched by Huang and held his finger under the agent’s neck. He looked back at Lee and shook his head.

"Bring him," she said in Mandarin. "But first, take the gun from the American."

"Yes Lieutenant Colonel."

"What are you doing?" he gave up the gun. Lee was dragging the other woman’s body to the sea wall. She reached the edge, and pushed it over.

"You’re just dumping her in the sea?" He ran over to the edge.

In the water was a black dingy with an armed frogman. He looked up at Stockwell. Another was in the water, pulling the dead agent’s body towards the inflatable. Zhu reached the edge, and pushed the second dead agent into the water. Then he jumped in after him.

"There’s a ship out there?"

Suyin grabbed Al-Moussawi by the scruff of his neck, pulled him up one-handed, and shoved him over the sea wall. He gasped and screamed, Zhu and the frogman pulled him into dingy.

"Yes. A submarine. We’re taking him to China."

Stockwell pulled off his shoe.

"No," she put her hand on his shoulder and shook her head. "I’m sorry Evan. You have to stay here."

"What? No I can’t. I’ve just shot people. I literally have blood on my hands!"

"There is no room on the sub for you."

 "The submarine is top secret Evan. Your people can’t know what we have. There isn’t enough room for you anyway."

"I’m not expecting a four poster bed, lady!"

"I’m sorry. I truly am. You should never have got involved."

"Look Suyin, you can’t just – "

She jumped into the water and swam to the dingy. The water suddenly become choppy, then violently so. Something shaped like a killer whale erupted, gleaming water pouring off its matte black surfaces. A hatch opened, and the Chinese climbed in dragging the dingy behind them. The beast resealed and sank back underwater. The waves swirled but slowly calmed as before.

The hotel’s lights came back on. All along the coastline, he saw the city relighting block by block. Stockwell looked around. People were staring from lit balconies and windows. Phones were being held out as if he’d been performing an ethnic dance.

His phone chimed. He pulled it out.

Run u idiot

INS Agni, 120 meters, Off Colombo, 10:33pm

"Captain I’ve picked up the contact again! Bearing, Red 045."

"Excellent!" the Captain and XO looked up from the chart table. "Can you identify?"

 "Negative Sir, it’s nothing I’ve ever heard before."

"What are your orders?" asked the XO.

"Load tubes One and Two."

"Aye Sir. Load tubes One and Two!"

"Helmsman, all ahead, left full rudder. Get us on course with that submarine."

"Yes Sir!"

"Captain, what if it’s Chinese?" asked the XO.

"I’m betting that it is."  

"Contact, bearing Green 060."

 "Identification?" asked the lieutenant.

"Sounds like a Soryu," said the ensign. "Mainframe is confirming now: Indian-owned Soryu. 90 plus percent probability this is the Agni."

"Speed and distance?"

"Five miles, moving at 18 knots. That’s almost the top speed for that class. I think they’ve spotted us, Sir."

"Launch the decoy."

"Launching Sir."

"Shall I change our bearing and depth?" asked the pilot.

"No, I don’t want to lose the current. What’s salinity like?"

"Quite high," said the pilot. "It puts the BP at around 115."

The lieutenant sat back in his acceleration seat. He strapped himself in with a five-point, jet fighter safety belt.

"Let’s go to supercavitation. All ahead full and boil the hull."

"Sir, picking up a new contact. Bearing Red 010, moving fast."

"Identification?"

"Sir," the sonar operator’s eyes widened, "it’s the same as the target. Speed, 40 knots!"

"A second submarine?" asked the XO.

"No, that’s fast as a torpedo. Sonar, show me the sonar profiles for both contacts."

"Yes Sir," two wave patterns appeared side by side on a screen.

"Superimpose. See? There are slight differences."

"It could still be a second sub. Some variation in profile can be expected."

"Or it’s a decoy.  Gentlemen," he addressed the bridge crew, "we are definitely engaging a new kind of submarine. We need to gather as much data as we can about it.  XO, let’s fire a torpedo at it. I want to see what it’ll do."

"Yes Sir. Fire One!"

"Torpedo! Speed 50 knots!"

 "Impact?"

"Six minutes," said the ensign.

"What’s our hull temperature?"

"64 degrees Celcius and climbing," said the pilot. "Six minutes isn’t enough time."

"Boiling point?"

"At this depth and salinity, still 112-115."

"We’re in the Indian Ocean in summer; surface sea temperature should be over 25 degrees. Take us up to three fathoms."

"We’ll be visible from the air," said the pilot.

"Yes but let’s see them catch us."

"Target is climbing Sir," said the sonar operator.

"A surrender?" asked XO.

"Weapons, torpedo self-destruct stand by."

"Aye Sir," a cover flipped and fingers closed over a red switch. "Standing by."

"Sir – " one of the officers turned, jaw open, "I – don’t understand what I’m seeing."

"Do better than that, Mr. Darzi."

"The target has just shown up on the infra red– it has to be quite hot for that to happen at this distance. And, it’s getting hotter."

 "What?" the Captain leaned over the officer’s shoulder.  The infra-red display lit both their faces.

"What is that?"

"The whole hull is this temperature.  It’s heating up, completely evenly. Like a good pan."

The XO came over.

"That’s a sub?" he asked.

"No," said the captain standing back. "It’s a fighter jet."

"Hull temperature 115!"

The vessel shook like a climbing rocket.

"Torpedo impact, 18 seconds!"

"Hull temperature 117! It’s hot enough Sir!"

"Hold ignition till 120! This goes wrong they’ll capture the ship!" The lieutenant pressed himself back into the acceleration couch.

"Impact, 10 seconds!"  

"119!"

"Ignite rockets!"

The boom sounded through the Agni. A cup fell over spilling cold tea. Bridge crew looked around and at each other.

"Detonation?" asked the XO.

"Negative," said weapons. "Torpedo has missed, now bearing Red 030. It’s been knocked off track."

"New contact," the sonar operator winced and held his headset away, "My God it’s loud! Bearing – bearing is changing rapidly, speed – speed is 300 knots!"

There was gasps.

"300?" repeated the XO. "That’s – but that would be – "

"Supercavitation," the captain sat against the chart-table, hunching. "The Chinese have subs that move at half the speed of sound."

Jansen Henrikson, IV

Asteroid 2043 QR 3, Pathinder Antimatter Research Facility, Paul Dirac City

"We’re just not getting enough antimatter."

Doctor Jacob Henrikson looked out the window. Shallow drifts glittered against black rock - hydrocarbon snow.  They had spun 2043 to maintain a permanent dark side. Once done, the deep fissures coughed, choked, and finally died. The heavier, slower ejecta had fallen back as snow. The tracks of heavy mining rovers crisscrossed them. Most lead to the open cast mine. Others went around the growing slag piles. There, shielded by the spoil, was the linear accelerator.

"We’re getting only one or two percent of expected yield," said the scientist. Closer to the sun than any human before, his skin was vampire pale. "I’ve checked the metrics and the decay products again and again. I’ve run the experiments again and again. I’d like otherwise, but I doubt that you’ll get different results."

 "Let us decide that," said another scientist. His skin showed no pallor, his eyes were hard. "We’ve come a long way for this, Johnson. For your sake, you’d better hope you’re right."

 "We will of course replicate all your experiments," said Henrikson. "But barring simple measurement errors - which you have checked for - I think your findings are correct. If so, even with improved technology, we’re not getting much more than a couple of percent."

The second scientist’s brow furrowed and he shook his head. "This is nuts. I was hoping the test accelerator would do 10 times better. We can’t go back to Spektorov with this. He’ll fire the lot of us."

Henrikson snorted. "He understands this is R&D, Simmons. R&D is expensive, time consuming, and seldom cooperative."

"Seldom cooperative?" said Dr. Simmons. "He’s built a base on an asteroid. There are fifty prison workers out there, hauling radioactive ores. Do you want to tell him his investment is seldom cooperative?"

"I think he’ll understand."

"He’s a businessman. He will blame us both for this."

"That he might. But consider that he’s not doing this, just to invest in the antimatter fuel business. The antimatter fuel business doesn’t exist."

"So?"

"So big businesses are risk averse. They let startups take the risk, and then buy them out. You can justify high cost to a board if you’ll make your money back. If you’re not sure – you don’t bother. Paul Dirac City breaks those rules. It’s not a business decision, it’s just about Pathfinder. He applies different rules to the program."

Simmons folded his arms, "I think his idealism will be quite tested when you tell him this isn’t going to make him richer."

Out the window, an arcing survey satellite was a lantern in space.

"Look," began Henrikson, "We shouldn’t be worrying about our jobs right now. If it looks like that’s all we did after coming out here, that will get us fired. We should be figuring out how to make the program succeed with just a few percent of the antimatter. We needed kilos. Now, we have grams."

Simmons snorted. "This is perfect for you, isn’t it?"

Henrikson smiled but quickly killed it.

"I think I just missed something," said Johnson. "You want to fill me in? I have only prisoners to talk to, you know. All they do is bitch and watch porn."

"My apologies Dr. Johnson. At HQ we’re divided on this matter," said Henrikson. "Some of the team would like to see us avoid Von Neumann technology altogether. Others are much more in favor."

"They’re weapons of mass destruction," said Simmons. "Research on them is banned under international law.  There’s nothing to discuss. You cannot do the Hundred Gram mission profile."

"Perhaps, but now even the Hundred Kilogram mission, now seems to be physically impossible. Yes?"

Simmons said nothing.

The pale Dr. Johnson handed them heated squeeze bags of coffee. "So what’s the Hundred Gram mission?"

"It’s a constrained model," he sipped from the drinking tube. "A backup plan. I put it together assuming antimatter would be more limited than expected."

"It uses a hundred grams of antimatter?"

"No, that’s 90 grams of systems and 10 grams of payload. It uses an additional 35 grams, of antimatter."

"It’s ridiculous," Simmons glared.

"You just don’t like that someone could misplace it in their room."

"How big is the ship?" asked  Johnson.  

"You mean how small. It needs two liters of propellant as reaction mass. Anything will do, I suggest water."

"Water?"

"It’s bulky, but can be stored outside the ship, as ice. It then acts as additional shielding. The whole thing would be the size of a large soda bottle."

"You can see why the idea is ridiculous," said Simmons.

"I dunno. I kinda like it," said Johnson.

"Well Spektorov didn’t."

"He didn’t dislike it," said Henrikson.

"He laughed when you finally mentioned it! Forget the antimatter constraints. No one is going to take a soda bottle space program seriously! Even if he came round to the idea, he would be a laughing stock. Pathfinder needs strong public support. The public want a big ship."

"The public are welcome to one, if they can find the Antimatter Fairy."

"Well, you’re suggesting they use the Von Neumann Fairy."

"Which is real."

"Which is illegal. Guantanamo illegal."

"You two are free to argue about this all you like. But for now, shall we go over to the accelerator and confirm my results?"

Four hours later, "Night" Shift

"Wait, hold up," Johnson held up a space suited hand.

They watched, holding the "highway" guide cable, as the rover passed. It was strung with lights, yellow headlights glaring forwards. Dust dripped from balloon-wheels like water off a steam boat paddle. A red light lit the space suited insect in the bubble cockpit. Stacked in its storage bins were long, thick cylinders. They were painted with radiation signs.

"Where’s it going?" asked Simmons’ radio.

"Waste disposal. It’s not Thorium or Uranium anymore, but it’s still incredibly dangerous."

"What are the decay products?" asked Simmons. The rover ambled away.  

"All kinds," said Johnson, moving hand over hand again, along the "highway." "Lighter metals mostly, but many quite radioactive. Half-lives vary. Those canisters won’t be safe to open for a few thousand years."

"How do you dispose of it? Do you bury it?" asked Henrikson.

"Yes. At first we were dropping them down mined out seams. But as the base started expanding, those felt a bit too close."

"So now you just dump them further away?" asked Simmons. "You make it sound like it’s a chore."

"It is though," said Johnson.  We have to travel further, and dig new pits. Pits with nothing in them of value. I was involved in the planning on Earth, and none of this seemed a problem. We hadn’t taken into account how difficult it is to work here. As production ramps up, disposal is going to become a bigger problem."

They made their way down the cable. Floods lit the silos and slag covered mounds of Paul Dirac City.

"Why aren’t there any surface structures?" asked Simmons. "This is in permanent night side."

"Cosmic radiation. There’s still enough nasty stuff out here, even with the sun blocked. I did orientation in Antarctica, it was nothing like this. Here you’re underground all the time, and when you come up it it’s always night. And dangerous."

"Do you get a lot of accidents?" asked Henrikson.

"No one has died yet, but we’ve have some close calls. It does change your perspective though."

"How so?" asked Henrikson. The "highway" cable ended at a cement block, mounted on a silo. Other cables snaked out from it, into the dark. On the floor was a large, submarine hatch.

"We’ve got career engineers making their money. Convicts who want to go home. Pathfinder First Volunteers who’ll jump at any task. Knowing what’s a few meters above their bunks has kept everyone on the same team."

They entered the hatch and cycled through the airlock. Henrikson popped his helmet. His suit hissed and clung to him as the pressure equalized. A Department of Corrections guard walked past.

"I’ve never seen one of those before," said Henrikson.

"You’re not supposed to, unless you’re in prison," replied Simmons.

 "The robots keep out of the way," Johnson climbed out of his suit. "We don’t have any hardened violent criminals here, and like I said, it’s too dangerous for real drama. They just remind people they’re around every now and then, and that’s fine."

In the mess, dinner was greenhouse rice and peas, served with aquaponic tilapia. Men – some aggressively tattooed and pierced - nodded and smiled at the scientists.

"People are looking at us," said Simmons stiffly. "I don’t like how those guys are looking at us."

"Are you worried they’re going to rape you?" asked Johnson, suddenly smiling. "My God that’s it; you’re worried they’ll rape you."

"Our ship brought butter, Simmons," said Henrikson cutting into his fish. He held a morsel on his fork. "This has been sautéed. I wonder when the last time was that they had real butter."

"We’ve made our own margarine once, but it tasted foul," said Johnson.

"You made margarine?" asked Henrikson.

"It wasn’t the engineers, but we helped get the equipment. It was one of the prisoners."

"You have a prisoner chemist?" asked Simmons.

"Ken Brown, no, he's just creative. Prisoners tend to be; it's that or make do without."

"Ken Brown? I know Ken Brown."

A Caucasian man two tables away, looked up at the mention of 'Ken Brown'.  Johnson beckoned and he came over.

"Mr Brown," Henrikson stood and shook his hand. "You look well."

Brown smiled and shrugged. "Bone deterioration agrees with me. Nice of you drop by and check up on us."

"Well, I wasn't really here for that."

"I know."  

"I hear you made margarine."

"I eat it too, but I think I'm largely alone in that."

"Where did you learn how?"

"I've been taking online classes, little harder out here but Doctor Johnson sorted it out for me."

"That's great to hear."

"Can you help us with the antimatter problem?" asked Simmons.  Henrikson frowned at him. "What? His guess is as good as ours right now."

Ken smiled. "No but I can help you with the nuclear waste problem.  I can build a rail gun to hurl waste, out of the solar system."

"Ken, we talked about this," Johnson shook his head.

"But really, I can. I'll only need parts that are already here, and unused. I've done the math, too. It could launch up to a kilogram of waste, per shot."  

"Can I go over it?"

"What?" Simmons' fork stopped on the way to his mouth.  "No!"

"Why not?" asked Henrikson.

"Seriously? You're considering this?"

"What's the problem?"

"Have you noticed that orange jumpsuits are trending out here? This isn't the place to build shotguns that fire nuclear waste."

"It's still a great solution."

"Try to think about the bigger picture."

"Respectfully Sir, do you really want to leave this stuff lying around?" said Brown. "Everyone here knows it's dangerous - and is trained in how to handle it. The more there is, the easier stuff will go missing.  Especially as output scales, is the program going to track waste, closely? Sure eventually, but what about right now? When new problems still don't have solutions?"

Simons said nothing.

"As long as Doctor Johnson signs off on everything, you can build your rail gun, Ken," said Henrikson.

It was like an orphan seeing Santa in the window.

"Thank you Sir!"

"No, thank you."

"This is a bad idea," said Simmons, after Ken left. "You should have at least cleared it with Legal, first. They're always worried about us getting sued."

"Fuck legal. They're the ones who want to break the law, the most."

"Forget this rail gun nonsense. What are we going to tell Spektorov about the antimatter problem?"

"The truth.  That his space program is on hold till we can raise efficiency.  That it will take time, trouble, and money to solve, and I don't know how much. That this is more like developing a better fusion reactor, not a better hang glider. Not to hold his breath, and to be realistic about his options."

"He won't take it well."

"Too bad. If he's serious about space, he has to learn that Physics doesn't care how rich he is."

"The Hundred Gram mission profile is not possible."

"You mean not legal. And that, not nuclear garbage launchers, is Legal's problem. Like you said Simmons, try to think about the bigger picture."

"It's getting too big for me."

"I fear it's only just started."  

Abdul Kareem Al-Rashid, III

Abyan Governorate, Yemen

7pm local time

"The US is moving three Global Fire Support satellites."

Kareem looked up from Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.  "Is that confirmed?"

"It's on Open Skies," said Faisal's voice on the speaker phone. "Satellite-tracking hobbyists in Japan and Hawaii have confirmed it. Three Independence class, laser artillery satellites. Their burns started on the other end of the world, Kareem."

"So?" Harry was just facing the Basilisk!

"So if you want to fly right over us, that's the optimum place to change orbit and save fuel."

Kareem put the book down, the Basilisk would have to wait. "Let's keep an eye on them."

"Have you heard back from Hisham?"

"No, it's about 9:30 over there. He is not meeting with them till tomorrow but he did have a call with them in the afternoon."

"Shouldn't he have updated you about it by now?"

"Yes, but according to the BBC, the entire country is having a blackout."

"The entire country?"

"It's quite exciting. There's been shooting in the capital, an American was arrested. Hisham will send the update before he goes to bed, I'll see it in the morning."

5am local time

Kareem awoke and checked his phone, no messages. He checked his email and media accounts. There was nothing from Hisham.

He dialed his number. It didn't connect. He tried it again.

Nothing.

He tried a different number.

"Did I wake you up?"

"No," said Faisal, "I wanted to be up early to check on those orbits, I'm doing that right now. Do you need anything?"

"Hisham didn't send me any messages. I tried calling him and I couldn't even connect. Faisal? Faisal? Faisal are you there?"

"All three satellites are going to pass right over us, one after the other. Six hours of loiter coverage. Minimum."

Silence.

"How long do we have?"

"I can't say for sure. Maybe an hour. Or less."

"Evacuate the base."

The stars were still out. There was no wind, but the morning desert needs none to chill. Scattered shrubs struggled out of the sand, small lizards hiding in them as men ran about.

A man carrying two jerry cans ran to a flatbed truck.  One lost its cap, petrol sloshed out. He kept running. Another man stood on a pickup, feeding a brass belt of bullets into a machine gun. His comrade hefted up the huge crate it fed from. Until-just-then-air-conditioned men carried out 3d printers and centrifuges, stacking them in neat rows. They ticked off lists and asked where were samples B9 through D6? Gruffer men, chewing tobacco and picking their noses, invaded their order.  They shoved the equipment into trucks, wedged between potato sacks and piled rifles.

"I've just talked to Al-Ganim," Faisal walked up, assault rifle slung over his back. "Ansar Al-Sharia is sending reinforcements from Sana'a."

"How many?" Kareem looked up from his tablet and adjusted his flak vest.

"Three hundred. They'll be here within the hour." He looked at the trucks pulled up at the entrance. "Do you think we can get all this out in time?"

"No. But if the GFS satellites were going to bombard us, they would have by now.  And they would only need one for the job. Even if Hisham gave the Americans only vague coordinates, it would study the terrain and figure it out."

"They could be waiting for us to scatter - whatever runs first is the most important thing to shoot. All the way to Sana'a is a long time to be vulnerable."

"Yes. We'll wait them out in Zinzibar first, outside the mosque and the school.  But, the civilians should be enough."

"How are we for IEDs?"

"The command wire ones have all been tested, they're in good order. The main approaches are covered.  I'm not bothering with the cell phone triggered units; they'll just get jammed. We'll need to use bombers."

"Children?"

"No, keep them on the rooftops. Bring me parents."

"How many?"

"How many can you spare?"

Be quiet and behave, Ali's mother had said to him. She always said things like that. Sometimes with a stick to smart her words into his running-away bottom (on that note, never call Mama a bitch). Today was different. Mama wasn't angry or tired. Today Mama was scared.

It was dark - the stars were still out. He pulled on the blanket he shared with his mother. Across the rooftop, Little Yosri yawned and grumbled. His mother clutched him closer, her baby sleeping over her shoulder, thumb slipping out of its mouth.  Ali waved, but Yosri's eyes were already closed again.

"Just wait," said Ali's father, pulling the boy's hand down with his. Father's hand was sun-dried like a lizard's back. His nails were ground down from farming. He wouldn't take his eyes off the men who were standing. The men with guns.

There were lots of families on the roof. It was like being dragged to a wedding, or hiding from Saudi planes. People were packed together like bricks. There were many children, but all too sleepy to play.  

"Baba?"

"Yes?" whispered his father.

"Shouldn't you be going to the field soon?"

"The Khat can wait," he looked up as a gunman walked past.

"You always say the Khat is important, Baba."

"Yes," he smiled too quickly. "Everything will be alright soon."

"Mustapha, don't talk to him about this," said Mama sharply, giving away too much. Across the roof, a baby woke up and started crying. One farmer was arguing - quietly - with a gunman. He tried to stand, but the gunman waved him back down.

"What's going on?" Ali asked, rubbing his eyes. Sleep wiped off in his fingers.

"Be quiet and behave," said Mama.

"It's nothing, Son," said smiling Father.

"Is it water? Will we get water?"

"Of course we will," said Father.

Ali nodded. There had been no water in Mama's village. That's why they left, and came here. The men with the guns had water. They let Father farm for them, but said he was only allowed to grow Khat.

Ali once asked if they could find water elsewhere. Father said it didn't matter. Wherever there was water, there were men with guns.

A gunman's walkie talkie squawked. He spoke for a few moments and finished with some nods. He looked up and started calling out names, pointing to each person.

"Mustapha Akbar," he finished, looking at Ali's father. "All of you get up, you're coming with me."

"What about our families?" asked the arguing farmer, standing.

"Don't go," Mama said, holding Father's hand as he stood.

"They will be fine, and so will you, Aida," said Walkie Talkie. "We just need your help with the loading.  The sooner that's done, the sooner you can all go back to your homes."

Farmer Arguer started again. Walkie Talkie repeated himself, his tone climbing. Other men started arguing with him. Women started arguing with the men. Single men started arguing with each other.

Ali looked out over the rooftop, into the sky.

"Hey!" he jumped up, and tugged on his mother's sleeve. "Mama, look!"

"Be quiet and behave!"

"Look!" he pointed to the sky, while facing her. Aida looked. Other people did the same. None of them were smiling.

"Meteors, Mama!"

Three tears formed in the night, leaving tracks like a brilliant claw mark. They fell towards the horizon.

Walkie Talkie turned on his device. "Drone strike, inbound."

"From space?" asked Wahlid "Why not from Saudi, or Oman?"

"Deployment time," said Faisal. "The US can deorbit and land drones anywhere on Earth, under 30 minutes.  And maybe more are coming from Saudi or Oman."

"That, or they noticed us loading up the trucks," said Kareem. "They need to hit before everyone gets away. At the least, it will force us to rush and leave behind valuable material."

"Who cares?" Wahlid threw up his hands. "They can just bombard us from space, right now! What are they waiting for?"

"Drones are thorough: they can climb down stairs and check basements," said Faisal. "And they're surgical. They knew or guessed we'd have civilians here. And drone strikes don't kill civilians."

"This is also the first time one of our sites has been attacked," said Kareem. "They want to gather materials: drives, computers, documents. They want to learn more about us. A drone strike will do this."

"So what do we do?" Wahlid.

"This changes nothing," Kareem shook his head. "We stay with the plan."

13 km SW of Zinzibar

"I've never fought an American drone."

Twenty pickup trucks came bumping down the N4 Highway. Decades of war and nation building gave it schizophrenic surfacing. Mounted on the truck beds were heavy weapons; jammers; and serious men.  

Seated on the floor, men checked their rifles and adjusted homemade flak vests. One was reading from a pocket copy of the Quran. Another checked their GLONASS coordinates.

"I have," said a craggy-face man next to the boy.

"How did you kill it?" asked Boy.

"We shot it a lot," said Craggy Face. Some of the other men laughed. "Really , that's all there is to it. I remember when the Americans used Humvees. You blew them up with roadside bombs. Then they armored the Humvees, so then we used bigger bombs. Then they switched to MRAPs. You just shoot rockets at the engine block - make it catch fire. Then they dismount. The Americans like their machines: disable them, and they have to fight you, man against man. Drones are just machines."

"With these drones," Boy adjusted his Apple Wearable, "they've stopped sending men."

"They're harder to kill than men," the old man patted his RPG launcher. "But easier to kill than an MRAP. The Americans think they can solve anything with technology. Every time they make a new machine, we find a new way to kill it. That's why we'll win. Because there is no machine that can defeat a man!"

The air went painfully white, something exploded ahead of them. Boy covered his eyes - the men around him were screaming. He heard trucks slam stop, or hit each other. Their own truck pulled to the side of the highway.

Boy opened his eyes.

There was a burning crater where the lead truck had been. Men were howling and falling on to the road, clutching their eyes.

"Can you see?" a hand viced around his arm. It was the old jihadi. He was staring behind Boy's head. "Can you see?"

"Yes! What the hell happened?"

"Cover your eyes, and run!"

"What?"

"Just do it!"

The rearmost truck exploded, white light for shrapnel. Boy took two eyefuls and was permanently blinded. Eighteen more explosions pulped the column into boiled tar, steel droplets, and blinding, visible light.

"The laser satellites destroyed the Al-Sharia column. We just lost three hundred brothers."

There were gasps around the loading area. One of the engineers dropped a gene sequencer, it smashed into plastic and glass.

"Keep working," Kareem snapped a clip into his pistol. "Everyone stay at your tasks. We will get through this."

Mustapha bent at the knees, like they showed him, and put his arms around a crate.

"No," Kareem tapped him on his shoulder. You come with me. All the farmers, come around the back with me.

A pair of guards stepped up to Mustapha, faces like masks. They stared at him till he stood and followed after their leader. Mustapha looked about: guards were herding all the other farmers. Before he passed around the corner, he saw them wave back the unmarried ones.

"You are all very fortunate," said Kareem, walkie-talkie and pistol drawn. "You will become martyrs today."

Beside Kareem was a table with thick vests in neat rows. Armed guards flanked him, and formed behind the group.

"You said you would protect us!" Arguer stepped forward, hands into fists. The guards tensed. "You said you would never hurt us or our families!"

"Azzam, I am not trying to hurt you. I am giving you a chance to help your family. If you don't take it, they will die here, and so will you. So will everyone."

"You cannot do this to us!"

"These are radio controlled," Kareem ignored Arguer. "All you have to do is get close to the drone. You won't have to worry about when to activate it. We will do that."

"You coward!"

Kareem shot him through the throat. The farmers gasped, two got down to try and help him. Arguer was still, blood pooled under him.

"Azzam's wife and daughter," Kareem said into the walkie-talkie. He stood there, staring at the farmers. Then they heard women screaming from around the front. There were two shots, and then more screaming.

"There isn't a lot of time," Kareem motioned to the vests.  "Put these on, or you know what will happen."

"Alright, start the truck."

Yosri and his mother Aida sat in the back of the crammed, Toyota Hilux, wedged between two pharmaceutical printers. In his lap was a dark, solar panel he had been given. Sticky taped wires ran from it to a small fridge.  Standing over them was a guard, his rifle shadowed the panel. He was staring into the morning, where Yosri had seen the meteors.

Soundless, the electric vehicle started moving.

"No, wait," said the man on the ground, he wore a keffiyeh and a flak jacket.

"We need to go before they get here," the driver leaned out.

"They're already here," said the truck guard, pointing. "Do you see it?"

The horizon fired a dot, it expanded into a black, pilotless, helicopter. Those with scopes saw rocket pods under its wings and a machine gun. Men with RPGs and shoulder-launched anti-air missiles rushed up and took aim.

"Nobody shoot!" said Keffiyeh. "AA-teams, put your weapons down and get behind cover."

At 200 meters, the helicopter turned and started to orbit the base.

"What is that?" asked an RPGer on the roof.

"QAH -97, attack helicopter," said Keffiyeh. "It's doing recon."

"So why don't we kill it?" asked an AA crewman from behind a crate.

"You mean try to kill it? You fire, and they know you're there, and what weapon your using. Then the real attack begins. Nobody shoots at it till I say so - even if it starts shooting at us."

The helicopter's orbit crossed the road, the guard's head followed it.

"It's seen us," said the driver.

"Alright, go twenty meters, and stop. Turn on your radio. You," he pointed to Aida. "You want your son to live?"

She nodded.

"Then stand up."

Aida got to her feet. Her hand went to Yosri's head.

"Don't sit down again, till the guard tells you. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"If you do, you know what will happen."

"Yes."

"What will happen Mama?" asked Yosri, loudly.

"Be quiet and behave," she steadied herself against a box.

The truck began to move.

It went ten meters and then the helicopter changed course.

"It's coming at us," said the driver.

"Just a few more meters, do it," said the radio.

The helicopter stopped over the road, and faced the truck head on.  Aida looked over her shoulder as the guard stepped behind her. She looked back, and noticed the red laser dot on her chest.

She closed her eyes.

"What's it doing?" asked the radio.

The driver didn't reply.

After a few moments, Aida opened her eyes. The helicopter was still there, judging her.

"Fuck this," she gave it the finger.

"Stop! What are you doing?" said the guard.

"Fuck you!" Aida glared at him. "If I die today, it won't be as a coward!"

"Get her under control," said the driver.

"Don't touch me!" she held up her finger. "I'll grab my son and jump out of this truck."

"I'll shoot you," said the guard.

"And then it will shoot you," she smiled.  

"What's going on over there?" said the radio.

"Fuck this!" offered Yosri from the floor. "Fuck you!"

The helicopter turned and resumed its earlier path.

"Go!" said the radio, "Don't stop till Sana'a!"

The vehicle began moving, picking up speed.  Aida sank to the truck floor and muttered a prayer.

"You're not supposed to sit till I say," said the guard.

"Shut up," she put her arm around Yosri, "and give us some water."

Yosri giggled. "Mama said bad words! Lots of bad words!"

"Be quiet and behave."

"Alright, get the next truck moving!"

Another truck pushed forward, crammed with loaf-sized, Japanese, super computers and a kid with a cleft palate. The helicopter moved back to challenge it, did the standoff, and lost again.

"Alright, third truck!"

"Wait," a man using binoculars, on the roof.

"What do you see?" asked Keffiyeh.

"Two more aircraft. They look - "

His head exploded, corpse flopping backwards. Gore pattered down like the start of a rainstorm.

Someone screamed, everyone swore. The AA teams grabbed their launchers, kneeling behind sand bags, micro-radars pulsing. A gunner on a technical swung his weapon about, and fired at the growing dots. Two more heavy machine guns joined it.

"Hold your fire!" Faisal pulled the keffiyeh down around his neck. "You fucking idiots!"

"They're shooting at us!" whined the gunner.

"They're trying to provoke us, to see what we have! I need a drone jammer, now!"

A zipping sound - another man was exploded on the roof, an arm landed in front of Faisal.

"They're picking us off!"

"We have to do something!"

"They killed Kerrim, you bastard!"

 "Faisal," Kareem crackled on the radio, "Get the trucks out."

"Third truck, go!" Faisal waved the vehicle on. "Go on Khatim. Go on, go!"

The vehicle pulled into the dirt road. Three laser sights pinned the dazed grandmother through her headscarf. The truck kept moving; the red dots finally grew bored and vanished.

A man stood on the roof holding what looked like a 1980s TV aerial, fitted to a gun stock. He tracked one of the helicopter dots with it.

"Is it working?" asked the crouching man beside him.

"It's working!" said the jammer. "It's - "

The anti-material round punched him in half, and exploded through the roof. Men screamed, some starting jumping off the roof.

"Kareem, we can't take much more of this!"

"I'll deal with it. You just keep those trucks moving."

Across the little fields of Khat and Sorghum, were old oil barrels wrapped in solar panel, cling film. Their lids whirred and slid off, and Ali Baba.com-sourced quadcopters rose out. They flocked into a circle, welded together by beams of infra-red.

Four floors down, the screen flashed "READY."

"Three targets. Do you see them?" Kareem asked.

"YES." the screen replied.

"Destroy them. You may use all units."

"UNDERSTOOD."

The drones charged a helicopter.

Its anti-projectile laser lanced one, two, three of them. The fourth got within ten meters and exploded. The shockwave shoved the helicopter like a sumo wrestler, ball-bearings sparking off sloped armor.  Then the fifth drone detonated, right under the fuel tank. Men saw the fireball and cheered. The sixth and seventh drone brought it down.

It took twelve drones to bring down the second helicopter. The third retreated. The defenders' jeering dancing could be seen all the way from space (and was).  

"How many trucks so far?"

"Nine," Faisal told his radio. "I can't see the helicopter anymore."

"It's four kilometers out on radar, and still going. Get all the vehicles out; they can stagger themselves on the road, once they're clear of here."

"Understood. What about us?"

"We're coming up now, so save the last truck for us. Get everyone on the trucks, and out of here."

The last four trucks of critical supplies, pulled on to the dirt road. Behind them, men were swarming onto technicals, cheering and shooting into the air.

"There's nothing else?" said the driver of the lead truck.

"Nothing," said Faisal on the radio. "Praise God, we survived a drone strike!"

"They weren't so tough!" the driver laughed. "Next time they should send - "

The bullet shattered the safety glass, and pinned him through the forehead. The truck drifted to the side, slowly stopping. The gunmen in the back jumped out, one squeezing a child to his chest. The gunman jerked and crashed, as if punched in the head. The child sat up on the corpse, bloodied and screaming.

The other trucks stopped, their riders ran and crouched behind them for cover.

"What's going on over there?" Kareem asked on the radio. "Faisal?"

Striding abreast down the road, came the drones.

Jansen Henrikson, V

"You know how you always expect us to conduct ourselves at the highest level of ethics?" Evrim Uzun walked into Henrikson's office, and closed the door.

"Yes," Henrikson looked up, eyebrows escalating.

"I have failed you, good Sir," Evrim handed him a file.

"What's this?" Henrikson began leafing through it.

"Some Romanian coders owed me favor. They helped me hack into HR's records."

"You did what?"

"You're very welcome."

Hendrickson began reading.

"What am I looking at?"

"That on top, is Pat Schulte's application for Lowell City Program Director."

It's almost completely blank."

"I know, right? He didn't even bother. Also, look at where he went to graduate school, and when."

"Yale Law School, '31. So?"

"Doesn't that remind you of anyone?"

"No. Wait, Snyder?"

"They were Rowing Team buddies."

"Snyder got HR to hire a personal crony?"

"A career crony, at that. Even the budget for the position, comes from Legal."

Wow. A cut-and-dry scandal."

"Scandal? Ha! I haven't even told you the scandal."

"There's more?"

"Look at the other resumes."

Henrikson's eyes raced to each period.

"These are the other candidates?"

"There are more PhDs in those pages than in some universities. Also, look at their salary requirements."

"More people getting paid better than me."

"A third to half of what Schulte gets. Jansen, this is it. The smoking gun. Lowell City has never been a serious idea."

The two men were silent for a moment. Unwelcome choices started piling on Henrikson's back.

"I found something myself today," he said at last. "Nothing like this, but it helps show what all this is about."

"What did you learn?

"A third of Lowell City's scientist ASCANs, are biologists."

"Biologists? You mean, like microbiologists?"

"I mean botanists, virologists, marine biologists. Who sends a marine biologist to Mars?"

"Stupid people? They have a lawyer in charge."

"We do ourselves no favors by discounting him. They know exactly what they're doing. You'd only send such varied biologists if you didn't know what to expect. That's not Mars, Evrim."

"They're using Lowell City to train for Alpha Centauri!"

"They're using Canada to train for Alpha Centauri. Spektorov was never sending them to Mars. They'll give it their all, and he'll copy their brain engrams. Once he has what he needs, he'll cancel the program, making it look like someone else's fault."

Evrim eyes became dinner plates. "Such balls! Do you really think he's that audacious? That crooked?"

"I know he never pays for anything if he can help it. Why not use donations from the public and the Mars Pioneers Society, to train his colonists? Even the engram recording team from Boston University, are on an NIH grant.  He's getting it all, for free."

Life vented from Evrim's eyes.

"So, what are you going to do?" he asked at last. "Are you going to confront them?"

"Yes."

"They'll just fire you."

"Then I'll go to the Press."

"Jansen, are you sure you want to do that?"

"What do you mean?"

If you blow the whistle, what happens to Pathfinder? The public will never forgive Spektorov for lying like this. Not for this, not for Mars. It'll hurt Pathfinder. It could wreck it."

"We need to do what's right."

"You really think it's still that simple?"