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Are You a Christian?

2051, Indonesia, Central Kalimantan

"Come in," she said in Bahasa, her accent Australian. "Don’t stand there in the rain!"

On the benches, children coughed like TB patients. They clung to bored mothers in brightly colored headscarves. An ancient, shoeless, Malay brushed mud from his feet and checked his phone apps. Mounted on a wall bracket, a Three Vee ran the Faith Network. Smiling Anglo commentators said that their Lord loved them, and was coming soon. All the patients discerned was that white people had amazing teeth.

"Please sit down and take a number," said the girl again. He noticed that her teeth were perfect. "Is this your first time in the clinic?"

"Yes," the man stepped into the waiting room, water dripping from his rain coat. It was hardly more than a large plastic sheet. "Are all the doctors here?"

"Here," Teeth handed him a crisp paper tag, "just wait till it lights up. Then it will be your turn to see the doctor. Since this is your first time, we’d like to ask you a few questions. It will help the doctor give you better care." She swiped her tablet and opened a new file. He noticed the gold crucifix around her neck.

"Are both the doctors here?"

"Yes, but you won’t need both of them, at least I hope not! Are you in any pain?"

He sat down on a bench. A little girl stared at him, too young for tact. Headscarves started gossiping about an absent neighbor.

"I’m fine. Can I answer the questions later?"

"That’s fine. If you need anything, just let me or the assistant know."

The Australian disappeared into one of the treatment rooms. The little girl came over to him.

"Hello. What’s your name?" he asked.

"Kumala."

"Kumala, I’m Sukarno. Have you been here before?"

She nodded.

"Do you know if they get medicine from somewhere, or if they make it here?"

"They make it. In the machine."

"Do you know where the machine is?"

She pointed to a door.

"Good girl. Are you a Christian, Kumala?"

"No."

"That’s good."

"We have a new patient tonight, a walk in," said Abigail. "Do you want him or shall I give him to Andrew?"

Elena looked up from rinsing her arms in a bucket of disinfectant.  "No that’s alright, I’ll take him. Did you do an assessment?"

"No. He seemed uncomfortable."

"No worries, we’ll just assess him when he comes in."  

Loud male voices suddenly came through the door.

"You said it was one new patient, right?"

Abigail frowned. "Yes. There was only one other man."

"Well there’s more now. You better go check. This better not be another sterilization fight."

Abigail stepped back out, closing the door.

And screamed.

Elena threw open the door. There were six masked men standing in the waiting room. They carried 3d-printed rifles and cast iron machetes.  Two aimed at her, she quickly raised her hands.  The others studied the terrified patients. Children howled.

"Oi!" a tall man with thinning hair stepped out of the second examination room. Beside him was a short Indonesian woman wearing scrubs.  "This is a free clinic," he said in English. "We don’t have any money, and we're just here to help these people. We’ll help you too, if you need medical care. We won’t report you to the government." The woman translated into Bahasa.

They shot them both.

"Everyone, get on the ground!"  One gunman yelled above the screaming. "Get on the ground or we will kill you!"

Everyone scrambled for the cut cement floor. Abigail got down, the smell of antiseptic welled from the floor. She looked about – the new patient wasn’t there. Then the door to the pharmacy opened, and he walked out. In his arms was a white box the size of a large microwave. He spoke to the gunmen.

"What are they saying?" hissed Elena.

"I don’t know. They’re talking in Banjar now."

"Is that it?" asked one of the masks.

"Yes, it’s the pharma maker," Sukarno handed it carefully to another gunman. "With this we can produce every drug that GlaxoSmithKline makes."

"So what do we do?" asked another mask. "You have spoken and acted plainly, without your mask, brother."

He bent down over Abigail and took the tablet from her hands.

"They have kept records on the patients. With this," he brandished the tablet and looked about the room. "If anyone says anything to the government," he said loudly in Bahasa, "We will come to your home." He motioned to the old Malay. "He looks Chinese. Take him outside, ask him some questions. If he is Chinese, then kill him."

"What about the two women?" asked the mask. "Can we teach these Christian bitches a lesson?"

"Teach them a lesson. Then bring them outside, and we can behead them."

Evan Stockwell, I

FBI, Directorate of Intelligence, Washington DC

"Sir?  You wanted to see me?"

The brown office desk was made from real wood. It wasn't such a luxury at this level, especially if it was handed down from someone else’s tenure.  On one side was a computer,  on the other, a name bar that said SPECIAL AGENT LIKAVEC. It politely propped a picture of a smiling family, missing a divorced member.

At the desk was an older man in a business suit.  Sitting before it was a tall woman Stockwell had not seen before.

"Come in and take a seat, Agent," said Likavec. "This is Agent Pirello, she’s with Strategic Information and Operations."

"Evan Stockwell," he held out his hand to her. "Anti-technology militancy in Flooded and Still-Third World nations. If you want to know about insurgent recruitment in oil-dry, Arab kingdoms, I’m your guy."

"I’ve heard. Good to meet you, Agent."

"You're not actually from HR, are you? Am I getting fired?" Stockwell asked Likavec,  "’Cause you know, I'll spill all kinds of secrets to the highest bidder. Like where we keep the coffee, and who’s sleeping with who. That’s right, I listen. I'm an important man, Sir. Muy importante."

"He’s always like this."

"Well apparently, you are an important man," said Pirello. "Have you heard of the Sun Tzu?"

"You mean like, The Art of War?"

"I mean like the Chinese Self-Transcending System. It's their new, military AI. It focuses on intelligence-gathering and strategy, studies extremist groups mostly."

"Sorry, never heard of it."

"Well, it's heard of you."

"Me?"

Likavec turned his computer screen around, it showed a map of Indonesia.  One area was highlighted in red.

"Yesterday," he began, "at about twenty hundred hours local time, militants stormed a clinic in the Kalimantan uplands. The clinic was illegal, run by Australian evangelical Christians. The militants shot two of the staff, and then raped and beheaded two others."

The map was replaced by grim video captures. Masked men fired guns into the air, standing over bound corpses.  It cut to a bearded man sitting before a black flag. Rifle in hand, he spoke slowly and deliberately.

Stockwell leaned forward.

"You speak Bahasa?" asked Pirello.

"Yes.  He’s warning away all infidels.  He’s naming the Indonesian government, calling them traitors. He’s naming the Chinese; foreign and local NGOs; Australia; the United States – " he stopped suddenly, and frowned.

Likavec grinned.

"Uhuh. What else is he saying?"

"He’s not making sense."

"Isn’t he?"

"‘Pemerintahan mesin saleh,’ which can be translated as ‘the age of spiritual machines.’ He’s referencing Kurzweil!"

"Who's Kurzweil?" Asked Pirello.

"Early Transhumanist. Thought artificial intelligence was going to bring about the Singularity. Anyway, so the dude is calling on Moslems to rise up against AI. Now he’s moving on to condemning emigration. He doesn’t mean from Indonesia, though. He means from Earth."

"You know these guys?" asked Pirello.  

"I can spot the tells. The group is Jemaat Ansar, the ‘Gathering of the Helpers.’"

"Are you sure?" she frowned. "They don’t identify themselves in the video. It was posted from a hijacked account."

"Then I’m more positive. Jemaat Ansar doesn’t go after NGO-run, free clinics. Must have been too much for some of the local boys to stomach, so they got creative. Jemaat goes after technology targets."

"Technology? Like power plants and dams?"

"Anything to do with overcoming climate change. Mostly solar power and clean water. They want to keep people miserable, to support extremism."

"That’s pretty fringe."

"It is. My money is on China’s space elevator project. There’s nothing else of interest to Jemaat, there."

"The Chinese have asked for our assistance," said Likavec.

"And do we actually want to help them? Because, you know," he threw up his hands, "They’re dicks."

"The White House wants to work on its legacy. It wouldn't hurt to warm relations with Chinese in that part of the world, given its history."

"Who are we working with?"

"Ministry of State Security," said Pirello, "MSS isn’t exactly forthcoming with data, but they asked for us. For you."

"Agent Pirello is selling herself short," said Likavec. "She’s done similar missions, assisting law enforcement in Brazil and South Africa. The two of you should be a perfect fit for this."

"You should go grab your coat," she said to Stockwell.

"Where are we going?"

"Dulles. Do you have your passport here? Our flight is in three hours."

Four Hours Later, 50,000 feet

Stockwell looked up from his tablet. Pirello settled into the seat across from him, drink in hand. He raised an eyebrow.

"Just soda," she rattled the ice cubes in it. "You nervous?"

"A little. You seem pretty comfortable. So this is your third time?"

"Fifth actually."

"This is my first time in the field, that isn’t a research trip. I don't want to shit my pants, embarrass Uncle Sam."

"When was the last time you fired your gun?"

"The Academy."

"Well hopefully it’ll stay that way."

"I was hoping to at least line up some bottles on a wall."

"So you can brag to the ladies at the water cooler?"

"It’s expected. What about you? I bet you’ve shot like, a million bad dudes."

"I don’t know about a million. But when you’re instructing foreign law enforcement, you can’t lead from the rear. If you don’t impress them, they won’t take you seriously. Especially if you’re a woman."

"Do you find that leads you to taking bigger risks?"

"No. But you do worry about the example you set. You end up representing more than just the United States, you know what I mean?" She cleared her throat and raised an eyebrow. "Can I ask you a personal question?"

"It’s going to be a long flight, so no."

"Why do they call you 'Judgewell?"

"Because I like to judge people."

"Seriously?"

"No, it’s because I have faith in our value system, if nothing else."

"If nothing else? You do judge people."

"We can do better, that’s all. Whenever someone says we're the greatest country on Earth, I like to bring them back down to Earth, and remind them of this."

"So like what, free healthcare?"

"No, we’re never getting free healthcare. I mean how we talk a big game about freedom and democracy, but we torture foreign suspects and spy on our own citizens. Then we attack the whistle blowers and call them traitors. Calling someone un-American, is pretty un-American."

"But you say you have faith in our value system."

"I do."

"What does that mean?"

"Do you believe we're the greatest country in the world?"

Pirello said nothing.

"Exactly, but it doesn’t matter that we fail to live up to our ideals. It only matters that we have them, and that we try to live up to them. They give us something to aim for. That is where American Exceptionalism lies."

"So you think we’re a real mess, is that it?"

"We're trying to survive and reverse climate change. We're trying to help First World nations not become Third World ones. We're holding on to Still-Third World ones, to keep them from becoming failed states. This is the darkest the world has been since World War Two."

"You don't think we can win?"

"I think we can, but I want it to still be us who wins. Democracy, freedom, human dignity. That needs to be how we save the world, and ourselves. Not control, fear, and surveillance."

"You want to leave those to the Chinese?"

"No. I want to take those away from them, and their mushrooming allies. We're coming out of this century with a free planet, or a controlled one."

Three Hours Later

"Sleeping Beauty awakes."

Stockwell opened his eyes and yawned.

"What are you reading?" he asked.

"Country report for Indonesia. Chinese influence. Agreements with Australia. The movers and shakers in the Junta."

"Anything that stand outs?"

"They were doing well, once. It was a rich country, but with a booming population. Successive governments exploited them.  Fast forward a few decades and you have a typical, Still-Third World, country.  A large, poor, illiterate, and bitter population. Now apply climate change."

"You think they should be a bigger mess?"

"The obvious choice as things got worse, would have been to de-secularize. Indonesia has over three hundred ethnic groups. However, they’re almost entirely Moslem."

"So, they did?"

"They tried. The military intervened."

"That only encourages extremism."

"Yes, but no one wants a failed state of three hundred million, next door. Australia and Singapore give the Junta lots of tech and military aid. China though, is the biggest sponsor."

"Because of the space elevator."

"Partly.  The PLA currently has over twenty thousand ‘advisors’ in Central Kalimantan province. That’s expected to go up. There’s a growing civilian presence as well. Contractors, construction workers, middle men, prison laborers."

"Makes sense that the MSS would have people on the ground."

"No," she shook her head, "Check your mail, Likavec wrote us, while you were asleep. MSS is not involved anymore."

"Who is?"

"The People’s Liberation Army Military Intelligence. And it doesn’t sound like they want us."

Daryl Spektorov, I

2011 AD, Brookline, Massachusetts

"Daryl, what are you doing climbing all over the couch?"

The boy, toy shuttle in both hands, looked at his father in the doorway.

"I’m making my last flight to the ISS!"

"Really? Your last?" Mr. Spektorov pulled off his tie. "Maybe you could get off your Mom’s cushions before she sends me on my last flight, too."

Daryl jumped down, and ran to his father.

"It’s all 'cause of stinky Congress," he confided. "They’re cancelling the space shuttles because they don’t want me to go to Mars."

"Maybe Congress is on to something, thought about that?" he scratched his son’s head. "There are a lot of problems on Earth. Many of them will get a lot worse, once you’ve grown up. Maybe you want to think about solving those?"

"Nuh Uh!" he shook his head vigorously. "When I’m big, I’m going to space! I’m going to go to the stars! Just like in Avatar!"

"Did you do your homework, Mister Astronaut?"

"Yes."

"Did you do your extra homework?"

He looked down and fidgeted. "Yeees?"

"Come on. Let’s go do it."

"But I don’t wanna!" his shoulder’s drooped and he pouted. "It’s so boring. Why can’t we just play with my spaceships?"

"Daryl, we can play with your spaceships, all you like. But first, you need to work on the lemonade stand. The world is going to be a meaner place when you grow up. The most important thing you can learn is how to make money, and keep it."

"Mom says you’re too serious about money."

"Mom’s family’s rich. She’s used to money. She thinks it's always going to be there. You, you’re going to learn the same way I did. Now come on. Put down your space shuttle, and let’s work on your lemonade business."

2040 AD, the Muddy Charles Pub, 265 Smoots from Harvard Bridge

"So, what you’re saying Damien, is the Space Elevator is what? Bullshit?"

It was a weeknight, and sparse inside the dimly lit pub.  A few African grad students sat about drinking beer and talking French. On the TV, the Pats were taking on the Miami Dolphins.

Damien Flores, MIT aerospace engineer, shook his head. "No Daryl. It’s not bullshit. But it’s poorly understood and being misrepresented. Everyone thinks of the Space Elevator, like some railroad into space. But when you talk about costs, it’s presented in terms of airline travel."

"As cheap as flying on a plane," said the ratty-faced man across from Damien.  Elijah Newman wore a Tom Baker-era, Doctor Who scarf. "Let’s say you want to build a skyscraper. You want to airfreight all the cement? All the rebar? The sand? A thousand times cheaper than a rocket, is still too expensive for a big project."

"For serious space construction, materials have to be as cheap as they are on Earth. The Elevator won’t do to that, but it doesn’t need to. Everything you need to take to space is already there in abundance."

"You mean energy?" asked Darly Spektorov. The venture capitalist looked like he’d been born wearing a sports jacket.

"I mean sand, water ice, iron. Everything," said Damien. "There are thousands of Near Earth Asteroids. We’re used to seeing them as a threat, but they’re also an opportunity. The closer they come to Earth, the lower the cost of reaching them."

"And these mass drivers ," Daryl said the words slowly as if they were foreign, "they can bring them in, safely?"

"The mass drivers are just electrified rails," said Elijah. "They’re loaded with buckets, full of rocks from the asteroid. The buckets are accelerated and the rocks flung out into space. The asteroid receives a small nudge. A few nudges at the right points, and you can change their orbits."

"Is there something here that can be patented?" asked Daryl. "'Cause that's what you need. Patents, proprietary control, anything that keeps out copycats."

"You can't patent asteroid mining, sorry," said Damien, "It's just an idea. People have been working towards it, for decades. Several companies are focusing on collecting Water Ice.  We may as well cede that to them.

"But, there are two barriers to copycats. One is proprietary. It's clear cut, but not a tremendous barrier to competitors. The other is property. That would make it an absolute barrier. However, it is on shakier legal ground."

"Property, but on shaky legal ground? You're really selling me here, kid. Let's talk about the first one. That's your catalog, right? The one with the best asteroid candidates?"

"Yes," said Damien. "Two years of data, sifting through every known NEA and working out their density.  It's very crude, but we’ve identified the candidates with the most metals.  Some are so dense they must contain particularly heavy metals, like lead. Radioactive ores are not impossible."

"And you two, Sun Star Prospecting, own this catalog, one hundred percent?"

"Yes," said Elijah. "The problem though, is that anyone else can put together their own one. The information needed is publicly available. It’s a fair amount of work though; it will take them some time. Unless they hire an astronomer or mathematician, they’ll likely fuck it up, too."

"Like I said, it’s not a considerable barrier," said Damien. "And, if you want data good enough to start mining, you'll still need to send probes to do proper prospecting. The catalog just buys you time. A competitor needs to do that research to have as good an idea as we do on what's out there."

"You're right, it's not great."

"The property barrier though," Damien, "That would be absolute."

"I like absolutes. Let's talk about that one."

"There’s not a whole lot of space real estate laws. The 1967 Outer Space Treaty is what most space law is based on. It forbids state ownership, but doesn’t say anything about private ownership."

"Now this I know about," said Daryl. "The ASTEROIDS Act allows ownership."

"Actually, it only allows ownership of resources obtained from an asteroid. It doesn’t say that the asteroid itself can be owned."

"Or what happens if the entire asteroid is ‘obtained’," said Elijah. "Legislation is going to lag until ownership and occupation become real issues. When the lawyers join in, they'll argue that simply claiming land is not enough. There needs to be demonstration of intent to occupy."

"Are you going to ask me to sign a Non-Disclosure Agreement?" Daryl asked. "Cause it sounds like you're about to tell me something I can't unhear."

The scientists looked blank.

"Well, maybe next time," said Damien. "It doesn’t really matter, it’s just an idea. It’ll take a lot more than just an idea for this project to work. However, you will want to keep this to yourself."

"Okay, spit it out."

"We pick an Earth orbiting NEA with an elliptical orbit. Something that goes as far out as possible," said Elijah. "We fly over at its closest approach, and set up mass drivers."

"So you can change its orbit and park it over the Earth?" asked Stockwell.

"Yes, but that's actually secondary. If there's a problem and we can't do it, it doesn't really matter."

"This I have to hear."

"There are easier ways to steer an asteroid," Damien picked up. "If they have ice, you can use focused sunlight to superheat it, to steam. It can give you higher impulse than hydrogen burning rocket."

"So why not just do that? Why bother with mass drivers?"

"They’re space launchers. We can use them to deliver payloads to anywhere else in the inner solar system. That's why we need something with an elliptical orbit. It'll take us further out, and cross more orbits. We'll set up the mass drivers and leave. From Earth, we'll direct the mass drivers where and when to aim. Launch windows will open to the most lucrative asteroid prospects. The mass drivers will send instrument packages to them."

"Instrument packages? What kind?"

"Nothing fancy. Simple, cheap devices like transponders, cubesats, and pocket rovers. They’ll study the asteroids and do some simple prospecting."

"You demonstrate intent to occupy!"

"Exactly. Capturing the asteroid in the first place, is secondary. Perhaps it's useful for demonstrating intent, proof that we can actually do it."

Daryl sat back and frowned. "But this isn't new. Asteroid prospecting companies have been sending probes out, for decades."

"Yes, but their approach is very limited," said Damien. "They confine themselves to what they can most easily reach."

"That seems reasonable."

"It's very reasonable. They launch them from rockets on Earth, or push them out of space stations. But, this confines them to the volume of space immediately around Earth. It's a small volume, and fewer NEAs pass that close. Certainly not most of the ones in our catalog."

"That smaller volume still gets plenty of asteroids," said Elijah. "But they tend to be small. Small ones aren't detected till it's too late to do anything about them. You'll have a launch window of days, or even hours. And what's your return on that readiness? Something twenty meters across? Who cares?"

Spektorov nodded and said nothing for a while.

"You have a business plan?"

"We do," said Damien.

"Can I see it? I just want to see the mission cost estimate."

Damien texted the file to him. Spektorov swiped through it on his device, frowning.

"The cost is much lower that I expected."

"We plan to use off the shelf components," said Damien. "Bigelow modules and a SpaceX engine. And a lot of money is saved by the crew. It’s just me and Elijah, we both have pilot’s licenses with instrument ratings.  We’ll fly without pay, but instead a corresponding share of the new equity. All Spektorov Investment would have to do, is pay for the parts and the launch."

"If it goes well, you’ll part own a company with the single biggest reserve of high grade ores in the inner solar system," said Elijah. "And if it goes very well, all the best reserves in the inner solar system."

Daryl beamed and looked between the two, nodding.

"Gentleman, this has been a great meeting. Thank you for taking the time to explain the specifics of your business plan.   I’d like to fund your venture. You’ll have the contract in the morning. Please look it over and let me know if its agreeable to you."

He turned around and waved at the bartender.

"Another round for us, on me. We’re going to take over the world!"

The bartender smiled. It wasn’t the first time someone had said that in the Muddy Charles, and meant it.

"Dude!" Damien bounced along the street, "We are in. We’re so fucking in!"  

Elijah shook his head and raised an eyebrow. It was drizzling in Harvard Square. People hopped under awnings or clustered around store entrances. A street performer juggled on, undaunted.   

"What?" Damien stopped, his expression fell. "He said yes!"

"I don’t know, Man."

"What’s not to know? He’s the first VC we’ve spoken to who even knows what an asteroid, is. He gets it! He gets the whole business model!"

"You don’t think that’s a bit suspicious?"

"Suspicious?! What is wrong with you? He’s a venture capitalist who isn’t some old geezer who only understands nano-bio, and you want to find a problem with that?"

Elijah shrugged. "Look, we’ve had to jump through a lot of hoops just to get the dignity of kinda-sorta- rejections.  He touched on our numbers, but that was it. He didn’t talk about safety. He didn’t talk nearly enough about the legal issues."

"So? He was excited! He wants this to happen. Why are you raining on our parade here? We’ve finally got a VC who wants to do business with us! Shit, he’s sending us a contract."

"Yeah. I guess you’re right. I just can’t really believe it’s finally happening, and so quickly."

Damien patted his arm.

"Sun-Star Prospecting is going places, Mr. Newman. We’re fucking going to space, and we’re going to fucking own it!"

One day later, Somerville, Massachusetts

"God, I hate Somerville."

The man next to Damien snorted, and poured him more beer. The two toasted, and sat back in their lawn chairs. It was getting late, and the party was getting worse. Ageing hipsters drank PBR and gave them dirty looks through oversized, plastic-framed, glasses. It was a warm night; snooty groups dotted the yard. The barbecue still smelled of tofu dogs.  

"I got the feeling you don’t know too many people here," said the other man. He wore a sports jacket and real leather shoes.  He’d already been told off that evening by a pair of vegans.

 "Oh hell no. I’m here because of Elijah, my business partner. These are his girlfriend’s friends. He has to go, but he can’t stand them. So he asked me to come be his wingman at this party."

Sports Jacket looked around.

"Well where is he?"

He rolled his eyes. "Having a fight with his girlfriend, upstairs. Been half an hour and they’re still not done. They’re either still fighting, or they’ve started fucking. Either way, I’m stuck out here with Gentrification’s finest."

"Well, we’re both stuck out here."

"What about you?" Damien asked. "What brought you here?"

"Just meeting up with some friends from Tufts. They wanted to come for this party, so here we are. They’re busy hitting on random women who aren’t interested, so here I am, drinking in a corner."

"Did you go to Tufts?"

"Yeah, Fletcher School. I focused on venture capital contracts. A big investor wants to screw you and steal your business? I’m the guy who reads the small print he’ll try and use."

Damien sat up, eyes wide.  

"No way? Hey, I’ve a contract that I need to go over, one with a venture capitalist."

"Seriously?" Sports Jacket grinned. "It’s a small world. Have you got someone who’ll take a look at it for you?"

"I haven’t asked anyone yet. Just got it today."

"Here," he reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. "I’d be happy to take a look at it for you, on Monday."

Damien read the card. "Sam Snyder. Good to meet you, Sam Snyder," the two shook hands. "I hate to be crass but how much would that set me back?"

"You stick around and babysit me till my useless friends crash and burn, and we’ll call it covered."

"It’s a deal," he held up his party cup. "To highly convenient coincidences!"

They toasted.  

One Year Later, Asteroid 2034 AT 43

"I got nothing on number Seven."

The Bigelow Work Module was large and brightly lit. Equipment was tucked in plastic bags, Velcroed to the walls. Touch consoles docked in handy ports, with ergonomic sliding trays. In a corner was a (vintage) poster of what to do during a zombie holocaust. Elijah had taped a roll-up display screen on a table. Green dots lit up on his wire diagram map. One dot was red.

"Nothing?" asked Damien.

"Nothing. I can’t get a ping, and I’m not picking up the transponder."

"It is still drawing power?"

"That it is."

"Thank God," Damien untensed. "We can’t lose another mass driver."

"Can you check if there was a microquake there? Even if it’s still drawing power, it could still be damaged or knocked out of alignment."

Seismographs sprung into the air above Damien’s tablet.

"Yeah, we had a one point six near there."

"It’s that fucking hydrocarbon ice. We’re too close to the sun; the alcohols boil every rotation." He took off his baseball cap and got up slowly.

"What are you doing?"

"We need Seven back online," Elijah said over his shoulder. "I’m going to suit up and head over there."

"There’s not enough time," said Damien. "Sun’s coming up in an hour. It’s not safe with the ice melting."

"We have to get Seven back up."

"It can wait."

"What about the 0740 firing?"

"We can make adjustments to fire without Seven."

"What are you, nuts?" Elijah’s smile was threadbare. "That’ll throw all the calculations. We’ll have to rework every single firing, and then get FAA approval. You want to do all that before 0740? What if the FAA says no? Damien, we’ll lose the whole mission."

The engineer said nothing for moment.

"Well," he said slowly, "we’d both better go."

"No, you should stay and monitor Seven," Elijah climbed into his pressure suit. "We don’t know what the problem is, and we might get control back. Also, you should start reworking all the firings. If I can’t get Seven working, it’ll be our only option."

"It’s not safe, Elijah," his arms were folded.

"Sure, if we waste the rotation, arguing. I have to get done and be out by sun up. Now are you going to help me with this suit, or not?"

Elijah Newman clipped himself to the safety line, and hopped across the ground.

2034 AT 43’s surface was a grey with patchy black intervals. Mica and quartz dusts reflected his suit lights, like peeking buried diamonds. He floated for meters, his weight barely a percent of its Earth value. A hundred meters away, a green light flashed from a steel piling. The first waypoint on his trip around the world.

He looked up, the stars filled his helmet and tried to get in.

Focus on the mass driver, focus on the mass driver, he told himself. Getting distracted can wait till 0740.

He remembered Joey Yen, an engineering student from Guangzhou he’d had classes with. Yen had borrowed money to buy luxury properties in Burma, betting on the Chinese tech bubble. He’d been right, and now lived in Monaco with his three (possibly four) girlfriends. But it had been a near thing. Joey had been ready to jump from a tower he said, if he’d bet wrong.

He reached the first piling, a monolith rising out of a slag hill. Its green lamp spun, pulsing like a lighthouse.  There would be flights and landings on AT 43. A body large as a naval anchorage needed hazard lights.  

"Reached the first beacon," he spoke into his helmet radio. "It’s pretty dark out here, would have been nice if we had some floods. I can see the second beacon, its working fine."

He looked down. An ancient collision cracked and fissured AT 43, putting a valley between him and the second beacon. The safety line flew across it, disappearing in the darkness.

Be ready to jump from the tower.

He pushed off again, a human dirigible.

It was 4.56 billion years old, leftover packaging from the birth of the solar system. It had failed the gravitational draft of the protoplanets. Except for pity-taps of gravity, it was all alone. After eons even the inner solar system becomes a small town, though. Sooner or later, it would run into the Earth.

Halfway across the ravine, Elijah was still rising. He looked down and saw only darkness.  In that darkness was palladium, iron, even water ice. It was a miner’s buffet table, and it would allow truly obese constructions.

"How are those calculations coming along?"

"If I’d known we’d be running them all again, I’d have written a damn program."

"We should write that program anyway. That’s at least five frours work." He pronounced it frowers.

"Five frours, easy. Seven or eight if we made it user-friendly."

Mental work and puzzles passed time. This mattered when basically sealed in a small room for a month. They had become very good at finding problems to frown over, for hours. A frowning hour was a ‘frower.’  A frowning day though, was a ‘whole fucking day.’

He reached the second beacon. Dust and sand erupted around his boots, forming a cloud. The motes glowed green with each pulse. He looked out to see the flashing of the third and final beacon.

"The third beacon isn’t working." He tugged the safety line, hard. It stayed taut. "The line is still attached to the piling, though."

"The microquake must have damaged it. If the beacon’s broken, the mass driver is certainly wrecked, too. Come on back."

"We don’t know that. If the mass driver’s been knocked out of place, it might still fire."

"It’s ten finicky meters of superconducting rail."

"Which, out here, weighs next to nothing. We could toss it out the window and it would land fine. It’s still drawing power, isn’t it?"

"Yes it is. And so is the beacon, for some reason."

"Then they’re probably just buried under some dirt. I’ll dig that shit out and be done in five minutes."

"It’s unsafe, Elijah. You could get caught in a quake, the deposit is already warm."

 "Actually no, it will have completely refrozen. Since the last rotation nothing in the hydrocarbon bed, has a high heat capacity."

"How can you know that?"

"Because it would have boiled away, billions of years ago. AT 43 boils and cools, every rotation. The volatiles boil, cause quakes, and then the whole system refreezes. Every rotation. Even when close to the sun. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be having the quakes at all."

"Look, I’m just not comfortable with this."

"Alright. How are the calculations coming?"

"They’ll be done a lot quicker if we’re both doing them."

"Then this is still our best bet. Look, I’m doing this. The science is solid. Quit worrying, and I’ll take care of this."

He leapt off the mound.

Mass Driver Seven was a silver tube, thick as a car and longer than a house. It rested on struts, angled upwards like a WWI artillery gun. Its rear disappeared into a shaft, six meters deep. Thick cables tangled around the opening, a mess of black snakes. The instrument panels on the generator glowed yellow. Powerful lights were strung from poles around the site.

Ice and snow crunched under Elijah’s boots. He could almost pretend he was on a snowy Boston road. One of the shitty ones that didn’t get ploughed often enough. The snow field stretched around him, as far as the lights could reveal.  It hadn’t been there when they had worked on the site. But then, there hadn’t been a six meter deep shaft, either.  The gas bubbles had vented through it. Slowly, but gradually building in pressure. The shaft became a snow fountain. Then, worked loose, Mass Driver Seven had climbed out as well.

The struts needed repair and more bolts went into the shaft walls. Other than that, there had been hardly any damage. Seven would survive the next few quakes, till the snowfield became an evaporatating lake. They wouldn’t need it for that long.  

He crouched down and scooped some snow into a sampler. He felt it shake as the tiny centrifuge inside started.

"You done yet?"

"Just packing up my tools and taking some samples," he replied. "It’s really pretty out here."

"Sun’s about to come up. That snow field is going to turn into a boiling cauldron."

"That will be hours from now. I should be done here in about ten minutes."

"You staying to watch sunrise?"

"Damn right. It’s our own world, Damien. You should be out here, too. We might not get another chance to see something like this."

"If Seven misfires, and we don’t have plan B ready, you’re right. We certainly won’t. I woke Spektorov up, he’s making calls to the FAA right now."

"Won’t need it," Elijah closed his drill kit.

"Let’s hope not."

The sun doesn’t rise on a body without atmosphere. It struck – in just moments, the world was lit from horizon to horizon. He flinched at the brightness, even as his helmet polarized. The ground was as bright– the snow caught the sun and threw it back in his face.

He peered about. He was on a jagged, rocky plain, dotted with elephant-sized craters. The snow stretched as far as he could see.

Condensation began to form on his helmet, on the outside. He wiped it off: it turned to slush and ice in his glove.

What the hell? That was fast, even for ethanol.

The sampler display started flashing. He looked at it.

85 percent ammonia.

"How is sunrise looking?"

All around him, the snow field was turning into mist.

"Elijah?"

"Sorry, it’s fine. Real pretty."

"Well, send me some video."

"Hang on. You’re the best chemist on this world, quick question for you," he made his way back to the safety cable. He felt the squelch of the slush through his boots. "What’s the specific heat capacity of ammonia?"

"It changes depending on the state and temperature, but it’s quite high. Even higher than water. Why?"

"Just wondering. I’d be pretty unlucky if this was an ammonia deposit, instead of alcohol."

"Yes. It would just retain more and more heat from each rotation, and become violent, faster. But you’ll be fine. Like you said, it would have boiled off millions of years ago."

"You finished the calculations yet?"

"Nearly. Another hour and I’ll be done. Why?"

"Just keep working on them."

"Are you alright?"

"I’m fine."

 Be ready to jump from the tower.

"The fuck you are. What’s wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong, Damien! Look I wouldn’t screw around over something this important."  He felt a vibration. It was the ground.

"I’m just having second thoughts about Seven. Keep at it, I’ll be over shortly."

"Are you sure?"

"Don’t worry about me. Stay focused. Just do your part, and I’ll do mine."

Streams of liquid began jetting out Mass Driver Seven’s shaft. They spread into fountains of snow, hundreds of meters above.

The ground began to shake. He tested the safety cable, and leapt.

Six Weeks Later, Boston

"Hey Charlie!" Damien banged on the glass door. Across at the reception sat a secretary and fat security guard.  Neither smiled at him. Above their heads was a sign saying Sun Star Prospecting. "Hey Charlie, what gives?" Damien gestured to the lock. "It won’t swipe my key card."

The security guard walked over to the door, and looked at him through the glass.

"I’m sorry Mr. Flores. I’m not to let you into the building."

"What? What the fuck? Is there a fire or something? What are you guys doing in there?"

"Mr. Spektorov’s orders, Sir."

"Spektorov – " he stopped, speechless. "Charlie, open the door now."

"I’m sorry I can’t do that Mr. Flores."

"This is your boss, giving you an order Charlie. Opening the fucking door to my fucking building, now!"

"You’re not my boss anymore, Mr. Flores. You need to call Legal."

Damien shouldered the door, rattling it.

"Step away from the building, Sir! This is private property and I will call the police."

"Fuck you, Fatty! I’m going to come in there and I’m going to kick your ass!"

"Hi, a man is trying to break into our building," said the secretary into her headset.  "We’re on 14 Federal Court, behind the Taj. It’s in the Financial District. No, he doesn’t seem to be armed. We have asked him to leave, he’s a former employee. Wait, he’s just walked away."

"Is this Legal, at my own fucking company?"

Damien stood in the middle of the street. Around him, hats and gloves walked fast, noses red and eyes tearing. He blew on his freezing fingers. The morning sun was peeping between the sky scrapers. It lit, but did not warm.

"Good morning Damien," said a familiar voice on the phone.

"Do I know you? Why the fuck am I not allowed in my own building? I want Charlie fired."

"You do know me Damien, though you may not remember me. It’s been over a year. This is Sam Snyder. I’m head of legal at Spektorov Investment, and per your contract with Mr. Spektorov, I am also the legal department for Sun Star Prospecting."

"What? Sam?"

"Charlie is doing what he was told, Damien. What I told him to do."

"What the hell is going on?"

"Damien, Elijah Newman’s loss was a tragedy. However, the company needs to keep running, and we all have responsibilities. Mine is to tell you that under the contract you both signed, in the event of death, criminal prosecution, or severe and debilitating illness as determined by a physician, the affected parties shares revert to Spektorov Investments. Mr. Spektorov thereupon came to own two thirds of Sun Star Prospecting, making him the outright owner. Also, under the sixteenth clause covering incompetence and irresponsible conduct, the majority owner may strip the shares of the minority owner, for the good of the company. Mr. Spektorov has invoked this, as Mr. Newman’s death was your fault."

"You son of a bitch!"

People in the street stared but pretended not to, as they passed. A police officer gave him a dirty look.

"You were in command of that mission. You are fully responsible. You also signed an affidavit absolving Mr. Spektorov and Spektorov Investments of any responsibility, in case of accident or death, on the mission."

"I signed no such thing!"

"Oh but you have, Damien. I’d be happy to produce it for you, in court, if you’d like to see it."

"This is insane. You – you conned me! You were always his fucking lawyer!"

"There are no highly convenient coincidences, Damien. If you want to debate this matter further, I will charge you fifty dollars a minute for my time. Otherwise, you are free to attempt legal action against us. I will send you a copy of your contract in the mail, as it appears you have not read it closely. Good bye, Damien."

The line went dead.  

"How does it feel to own the best bits of the solar system?"

The waiter poured the champagne and left.  Daryl Spektorov and Sam Synder toasted.

"I’ve honestly not had a chance to sit down and think about it. I’ve been working nonstop with Chairman of the Senate Appropriations Committee. Tomorrow I’m flying to Washington to meet with the Air Force."

"The whole Air Force?"

"It feels like it, yeah."

"I thought governments couldn’t buy asteroids? The Outer Space Treaty."

"No one in 1967 said anything about a company buying an asteroid, and then the US government buying that company. I’m not going to sell them the whole asteroid, no."

"Why not?" Snyder cut into his Kobe beef steak.  "I thought that was the plan. Get asteroids, sell them."

"That was the basic plan, what we talked about with those two idiots. My plan was always a lot bigger. I never brought it up with you because it felt too 'cart before horse.'"

"Alright. How much bigger?"

"AT 43 has everything. It’s like someone carved out a little piece of the Congo, and put it in space. It opens up all kinds of construction possibilities in space. That’s what I want to get in on."

"That’s not your business model. You’re a VC. This is the best time to sell Sun Star Prospecting. Daryl, it’s worth billions!"

"Chump change," he made a face. "Why sell resources to other companies to do space construction? Those companies don’t even exist now, or they’re very small – startups."

"Two-man startups? Harvard-MIT sorts?"

"If we’re lucky, yes. But whatever their size, we can buy them. No one gets to build anything big in space, unless we sell them the materials. We'll undercut everyone else doing asteroid capture. Who'll invest in them, if I threaten to drop a platinum mountain on the market?"

He finished his champagne. Unbidden, a waiter refilled it for him.

"For preferential rates and access, we ask Uncle Sam to give us a large lump sum up front. This goes into space construction equipment, staff, assets, whatever. We set up heavy engineering factories on AT 43. Meantime, we signs deal with the big players like Boeing and Huawei. We manufacture for them, under license. If they don’t agree, people will buy our own shitty substitutes instead – because they’ll cost nothing in comparison!  We’ve already cherry picked space prospecting. Now let’s corner space construction."

Snyder sat back, nodding and smiling. "I love it. I think it’s a lot of work, but you’d be crazy not to try with a pay-off like that."

"That’s what I thought.  I can get out of the VC business, and be a square."

"A square with an industry. So that’s going to be what? Making big spaceships?"

"Oh no, to hell with spaceships. Orbital habitats is where it’s going to be."

Synder frowned. "Like, for endangered birds?"

"No, for endangered people. Think of it, climate-proofed towns. They do all their own farming. There’s no storms, no hurricanes, no droughts. You don’t have to worry about Land Efficiency laws: you could even get away with raising cattle. Real beef, Sam! People can have large homes, large yards, large offices. And no climate refugees, panhandling on every street."

"You want to build Suburbia, in space?"

"And why not?" Spektorov leaned forward. "White, middle class, Americans are the highest spending consumers in the world.  We have data from the 1940s onwards, that Suburbia is what they most want to pay for. It’s not a product to them. It’s their culture. A culture that’s been under economic assault since the early 2000s. That was when the first generation of Americans went into the workforce, who could expect to make less money than their parents did. Can you remember what a shock that was? Sam, if we don’t create Space Suburbia – someone else will."

Sam whistled and shook his head.  

"That’s a hell of a project, Daryl."

"No. Going to the stars would be a hell of a project. But there’s no money in that."

Sam laughed. "Oh, don’t worry Daryl. You can take that up as a hobby, you know, for retirement."

Daryl looked up, suddenly, his knife and fork still.

Sam raised an eyebrow and kept chewing. "What?"

"Yes, you’re right. I suppose I could."

Jansen Henrikson, I

2033, The Netherlands

 "Are you the crazy space boy?"

 "Are you my boyfriend's annoying baby sister?"

"Stop it you two," the taller boy set down the helium canister. "Let's get this done before the wind picks up, or a policeman decides to ask us what we're doing."

Jansen Henrikson, 18, rubbed his hands and blew on his fingers. Slung over his back was a gym bag, and an enormous laundry bag. The dusk sun lit but didn't warm. Fall had begun edging trees with gold. Joggers dotted the outer path, making fitness look easy. A dog walker frowned at them, while his charges sniffed a tree and shitted.

"Pieter, why is she at the launch?" asked Henrikson.

"She wants to help," she said. "And I wanted to see who my brother is so proud of."

"Grab the tarp," he grumped. "Lay it out on the ground, Pieter's sister."

"I'm Anneke."

"Anneke, then."

She crossed her arms and frowned at him.

"Please."

She fluffed and spread the tarp like a sheet. Henrikson lowered the gym bag and unpacked it carefully. Zip ties. PVC piping. Nylon rope loops. Electrical tape. Wire clippers.

"Are you sure you two aren't making a bomb?" she asked.

Pieter and Henrikson opened the bulging laundry bag. Out they pulled two meters of silver, deflated, balloon.

"So it's just a weather balloon?" asked Anneke.

They laid it out carefully on the tarp.

"Not any weather balloon," said Henrikson. "Weather balloons burst. This is called a superpressure balloon. It's reinforced with graphene, so it won't pop. Stabbing it with knives wouldn't puncture it."

"Where did you find a balloon with graphene in it?"

"He stole it from ESA," said Pieter, sticking a rubber tube on the canister.

"I didn't steal it. I left fifty Euros in its place."

"Where did you get fifty Euros?"

He paused. "I stole it."

Henrikson pushed a piece of PVC tubing into the balloon's neck, reinforcing it. He put some nylons around the neck, and fastened them with a zip tie. Meanwhile, Pieter tied the canister to a digital scale. They then tied two of the balloon's nylons to the scale as well.

"Why are you doing that?" asked Anneke.

"To work out the balloon's lift," Pieter pushed the rubber tube into the balloon. "When it inflates, it will pull on the scale. If the scale shows one and a half times our payload mass, then we know there's at least enough to lift it."

"It'll be more than enough," said Henrikson. He turned the valve, and gas hissed into the balloon. Pieter fluffed the skin, checking against any knots forming. People were stopping and staring. The park lights came on.

"So, since it won't pop, it will stay up forever?"

"No," said Henrikson. "It will lose gas slowly over time. Normally this would stay up for about three months," he reached back inside the gym bag.

"So what are you doing different?"

"This," he pulled out a white box. Tubes clustered under it, sprouting wires and small fans. Solar panels had been fitted around the box.

"Is that the payload?"

"And a bit more. As the balloon loses gas, it will descend from the edge of space. Then it'll start picking up water vapor in these tubes. The water is electrolyzed and the oxygen, dumped. The hydrogen gets pumped back into the balloon."

"But it's a helium balloon. Is that a problem?"

"Not in the least. Helium reacts with nothing. One gas will gradually replace the other. They also give about the same lift."

Like a billowing evening gown, the balloon lifted itself up. The sun dipped away and Venus emerged. More people were gathered, some took pictures with their phones.

"Just smile and carry on," said Henrikson. "They'll assume we have permission."

"Do we need permission?" asked Pieter.

"No," said Henrikson very firmly.

"You're just saying that," said Anneke.

Henrikson tied the payload with the two spare nylons. The scale went to nine kilograms.

"Plenty of gas," said Pieter.

"I'm turning it off."

Pieter squeezed the neck and removed the rubber tube.  Henrikson pushed the payload tubes in. With zip ties he squeezed the neck shut. Pieter sprayed it with what looked like grey paint. It turned black as the epoxy sealant set.  

"Is it on?"

Henrikson pulled out his phone. "Yes," he swiped. "Transmission is strong."

"Is it carrying anything?" asked Anneke. "Instruments, I mean."

"It has the basic stuff - thermometer, barometer, cosmic ray detector," said Henrikson. "But it also has an infrared camera, tuned to picking up volcanic ash."

"The Philippines eruption?"

"It'll gather data on the spread," said Pieter. "We may as well do some real science. Otherwise, this is just an ego project."

"Isn't it anyway?"

The balloon was a wide as they were tall. It looked like a giant disco ball, trying to flee.  

"The wind is picking up," said Pieter.

"And he," Anneke pointed, "Is a policeman."

Henrikson snipped the nylons.

They craned their necks as it leaped into the sky. It sparkled like a star, and soon disappeared against the others. Pieter held Henrikson's hand and gave him a kiss.

"Well done," said Pieter. "But now you have to tell your parents. And about the fifty Euros."

"I can't tonight. They are at ESA, today JUICE gets its final instructions for entering Ganymede's orbit."

"You're parents are working on the Jovian Icy Moon Explorer?" asked Anneke.

"Yes," he nodded. "They met during the selection process, in 2012. I've watched them work on this, my whole life."

"You there!" the policeman yelled, getting closer. "Stay right there!"  

"Are we in trouble?" asked Anneke.

"Maybe," Henrikson let go of Pieter and started rolling up the tarp. "But the crime, if any, will soon reach the edge of space. If we're lucky, it'll stay there for years."

"What," the policeman's face was red, "The bloody hell did you lot just do here? Eh?"

"We just launched a suborbital satellite," said Henrikson.  

"What?"

"I said I started a space program."

"And I helped," said Anneke.

2050, European Space Research and Technology Center (ESTEC),

The Netherlands 

"Everyone, I'm sorry but I have some bad news," the director's suit marked him out. The engineers and scientists filling the conference room wore mostly (geek) tees. "I know many of you suspected this might happen after the last rounds of cuts," he looked from person to person.  "It wasn't an easy decision by any means. ESA has decided to cancel the Kuiper Navigator mission."

Groans and exclamation. Not really so many, thought Jansen Henrikson. Who could really say they were surprised? Most remained quiet.

"I know, I know. I wanted you to hear it from me."

"I just want to say to you all," an elderly scientist began," in case, in case I do not get another chance, that I have greatly enjoyed my years here. Working with such amazing people -" and then she started crying. An engineer with an inappropriate shirt gave her hug. Other people started hugging and shaking hands.

"We should be hearing it from the Director General."

People stopped and turned. Henrikson stood in the doorway, arms folded.  "I have questions for him."

"Well Jansen, you can ask me," the director's smile thinned.

"Kuiper Navigator is the only 'Large Class' mission we have left. If we cancel it, then what's ESA's commitment to science?"

"We of course remain deeply committed," said the director. "Kuiper has cost a billion Euros. A billion. It would cost at least as much to complete. That kind of funding can't be justified anymore. Not when we're competing for funds with refugee camps, all along the Mediterranean."

"Without big science projects, we stand still. As a culture, as a species. We don't drive technology. We stop making crossover breakthroughs. That's not how we'll fix the environment or help the North Africans and English to go back home one day."

The director tried smiling again. "You're preaching to the choir, Jansen."

"Am I?  You were supposed to protect us. We're engineers, you're a lawyer."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Without inspiring science, young people don't go into STEM. The brightest will become lawyers - or even bankers."

"Fuck bankers," said someone. "Seriously. Fuck them. Remember 2008!"

The director sighed. "Does anyone else have anything they would like to say?"

Permitted anger, they all began.

Jansen Henrikson walked out the doors of ESTEC, for the very last time.

People huddled deeper into their coats. Black clouds were boiling over from the North Sea. A loudspeaker in the car park declared flood warnings in Dutch, Deutsche, and Arabic. Henrikson turned down his aisle and -

"What?!"

Where he'd parked, there was now a different car.

It was black, sleek, and offensively large in an age of micro cars. It had only rear passenger doors - self-driving only. All its windows were polarized black.

He walked up and knocked on the window.

"Hello?"

Nothing.

He knocked again, harder. "Hello?"

The door slid aside like a screen door. Warm air washed out, enough to heat an apartment.  Inside was a greying man in a blue suit. Sitting across from him were two suspiciously attractive perhaps-assistants. The man smiled.

"Doctor Henrikson. I've been expecting you."

"Where is my car?"

"We loaded it into the trunk."

"What?"

"It was so cute, I couldn't help myself."

Henrikson stepped back and looked at the trunk.

"It's perfectly fine. Look, I just wanted to give you a ride, so we could have a chance to talk."

"Just who the hell do you think you are? How dare you mess with my vehicle!"

The man grinned. "I'm Daryl Spektorov. Ever heard the name?"

"Please stop harassing me, and give me back my car before I call security."

No, really kid. I'm Daryl freaking Spektorov! Zdenka, show him the diamonds."

One perhaps-assistant opened the mini bar, and pulled out the ice tray. She picked out several cubes that were a bit too brilliant. She offered them to Henrikson. He took one, feeling its cold, its smoothness. He gave the man a hard look.

"If you're really Spektorov, then you won't care about this."

Metal screeched and paint tore. The perhaps-assistants stared, mouths open wide. Spektorov leaned out and inspected the damage on car.  

"You've clearly never keyed a car in your life. I'll teach you how sometime, I always key my brother in law's at Christmas, he's such a douche! I pretend it's the alcohol, but it isn't. I think he knows. Here, hand me that."

He took the asteroid-mined diamond from Henrikson, and flung it across the parking lot.

"Now that, is what Daryl Spektorov would do. Am I right?"

"You - you keep giant diamonds in an ice tray?"

"Honest to goodness, I don't know how they got there. Now, my time is worth more than some diamonds. And perhaps, for a few minutes, so are you. I'm here right now because I had it on good authority that today; you'd be out of a job."

"How could you know that? We just learned ourselves."

"What, you thought you were entitled to know first? I have two words for you," he held up two fingers. "Money! Oh look, I don't need a second word now. Now, if I may continue without being interrupted - I want your help, kid. I want your help with spaceflight."

"Spaceflight?"

"Yeah. This little Kuiper Navigator shit you were working on? Fuck Kuiper. I'm going to another star. Now get in, it's cold."

One of the perhaps-assistant poured him a drink. Her charms were wasted on him, but the Japanese whiskey's, were not. The car skimmed soundlessly down the highway. Rain slapped against the windows and twisted away into tiny rivers.

"Interstellar travel is impossible. You're wasting your time."

"That's not what you said in your dissertation. You said it was impractical. Biiiig difference."

"You read my dissertation?"

 "Personally? I think it needed more sex and violence, but I read it for the antimatter."

"It was a highly speculative paper. If all the particle accelerators in the world ran for a million years, we would not have one gram."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Can you build it or not? The engine you designed."

"The beamed core engine?"

"Can - you - build - it?"

"With the right team and resources, yes."

"Sweet, all your ESA friends just got fired. Tell me who you want, and I'll hire them tomorrow morning." Zdenka refilled his drink. "Now what resources do you need?"

"It's," Henrikson threw up his hands. "It's not that simple. The beamed core engine runs on antimatter!"

"So? You wrote about harvesting it from the Earth's magnetic belts. From Saturn. About purpose-building particle accelerators to shred heavy nucleii."

"My God, we're talking destroying Uranium. Saturn? Really? What do you know about Saturn?"

"A thing or two. It's pretty. Enceladus can easily be checked for life but NASA keeps wasting time on Europa. And that its rings act like brick walls to cosmic rays. They collide and produce antimatter. The most antimatter produced, in the entire solar system."

"Saturn is far away. You can't just hop over there."

"You see? This is why I need you onboard."

They got off at the exit. Henrikson watched as they passed the park he had launched his early balloons from. Dying trees poked out of the water. People wanted to pump the park dry, but there wasn't any funding.

"Look kid, I've done everything, I've seen everything, I've met everyone. I even fucked the President - hey don't judge me, power totally makes up for looks. But nothing, none of it at all, matters. I don't even care if I never do any of that, ever again. There's only one thing I want - and every day, I want it more and more. You know what that is? It's sending a spaceship to another star. Henrikson, you listening?"

Henrikson kept staring out at the rain. "Of course I'm listening."

"Of course you are. Because you want this, too. Your whole life you wanted this. You've worked deep space projects like the Kuiper Navigator. You go to conferences on space colonization. You designed an engine for a starship. You and me, we're alike Henrikson. We're peas in a pod."

"I'm not so sure about that."

"No hurry, it'll sink in. You're not used to talking about what you want - most people aren't. Me? I talk about what I want, all the time. I'm very comfortable with it. Talk about it, Doctor. Talk about interstellar travel. Otherwise, no one else is going to talk about it."

"No one is interested in interstellar travel."

"Of course not. Even before the world went to hell, no one was funding it. Interstellar travel is for another time, another people, maybe."

They pulled into a cozy neighborhood. The rain softened slightly. LED lamp posts made bright cones.

"Fuck that shit, that's what I say."

They drew up beside a small house. The door slid open. The perhaps-assistant stepped out and opened a large umbrella.

"I need some time to think about this. I have to go over it with my husband."

"I need your answer no later than 11:15am tomorrow."

"What's then?" he stepped out.

"Here," Spektorov leaned out and handed him an envelope. Henrikson looked inside.

"Air tickets?"

"Just one air ticket, direct to Manaus, Brazil. The other ticket is for the space elevator. Have a good evening Doctor Henrikson. Pack light."

The door slid shut. The trunk opened, carefully lowered, and deposited Henrikson's car in the driveway. Then the behemoth slid noiselessly into the darkness, and was soon gone. Henrikson stood there in the rain, staring after it.

The front door opened. Pieter stood in the light, rubbing his hands on a wash cloth.

"What was that, darling?"

Henrikson kissed his husband and stepped inside.

"A very rude and powerful man."

"Is he rich?" Pieter helped him out of his coat.

"Very."

"That explains it. What did he want?"

"Everything."

Pieter rolled his eyes. "Typical. I hope you said no."

Lakshmi Rao, I

2002, Tamil Nadu, India

"Lakshmi," Ms. Rajasingham’s fingers were white with chalk.  "Why have you not done your homework?"

The school was a single room, with only three walls.  Three walls were good, thought Lakshmi. In Batticaloa, some were so poor they couldn’t afford any. Rows of wooden tables and benches faced the front. There was room enough for thirty.

"Lakshmi," she frowned and put her hands on her hips. "Don’t look around the class at your friends. They don’t have the answer. Tell me why you haven’t done your homework."

There were just three other students in class that day. Two were the Balakrishnan girls. They always wrote with pens and their mother had a cell phone. Shankari had a boyfriend, but Lakshmi wouldn’t tell or she’d get into trouble. Their father was mean, he would probably hit her. The Balakrishnans would never talk to Lakshmi; she was too low caste. The third was Gautam the Retard. He sat in a corner, drawing on pieces of cardboard. He didn’t seem to mind the UN logos on them. Gautam didn’t bother anyone. He just sat there and drew. Sometimes he did something nice, like the sun with people playing cricket. Mostly, he just did shit. His pictures hung proudly from the classroom walls. That was just to keep his mother happy.  She was a crazy bitch, thought Lakshmi. Always creating drama to put herself at the center of attention. Gautam was her prop, he brought her pity dividends. Maybe she had made him retarded by smoking when she was pregnant. Wasn’t that how that happened?

 "Lakshmi? I’m waiting."

"There’s no point, Miss."

Ms. Rajasingham seemed taken aback. "No point? No point in doing your homework?"

"No, Miss."

The teacher sat on the table, her bright blue sari trailed to the ground. The Balakrishnans smiled evilly at each other: Calculus had definitely been derailed.

 "Why do you say that?"

"My mother works in a shop. She works twelve hours a day, I see her after the sun has gone down, and before it comes up again. Do you know what we have to show for that? I had two dosais for breakfast today, with a little bit of coconut.  I had that same breakfast yesterday, and every other day. Once a month, we’ll have potato curry as a treat. Next door, Harini eats that every day, and fish curry, too. She has new clothes from town, and lipstick. She also lost her father in the war. But, do you know what her mother does for money?"

The Balakrishnan girls tittered. Gautam looked up.

"She’s a whore, Miss. She spreads her legs, and she feeds her family."

"Lakshmi, desperate people do what they must to survive. You shouldn’t judge them."

"I’m not judging her Miss, I think she’s right!"

 "What? Lakshmi!"

"You said it; she is doing what she must to survive. Pahal’s mother makes drugs. Udita smuggles guns for the Tigers in her sari.  They are all doing better than my mother, in the store. I don’t want to grow up to be like my mother."

Ms. Rajasingham’s face softened.

"That’s all true, Lakshmi. They do all these things, and they make money. They can take better care of their families than your mother can," she paused a moment, "or than I can. But do you think they like doing what they have to do? Do you think you would like doing it?"

"No, Miss."

"Drugs, prostitution, gun running, these are all aspects of one thing."

"The war in Sri Lanka."

"The war in Sri Lanka. But not just that one, but any other war as well. They are the symptoms of the male, military, model. Women always suffer under that model.  Women are weak all over the world, Lakshmi – but we are very weak in Asia."

"No we’re not," said one the Balakrishnan girls.

"See?" Ms. Rajasingham pointed. "Why do men need to control us, when we will control ourselves, for them? The war in Sri Lanka is a male agenda – no woman wanted that. We have to refuse it. A prostitute feeds her children, Lakshmi. But is she protecting them? What world will they grow up into?"

"It is easy to be noble, when you are not hungry, Miss."

"You can eat from my lunch packet."

"No."

"You are proud, I understand that. It is right to have your pride. But you must learn to accept help as well, when you have to, and when it is given without strings."

"No."

"Women must work together and support each other. How else will we succeed in a world stacked against us? You can eat from my lunch and do your homework, Lakshmi. Or, you can become a whore. What do you think would be worse?"

Lakshmi said nothing. The Balakrishnan girls looked down, quietly.

"The lives of women are always hard. You are old enough now that this can’t be hidden from you. It will not get any easier. But it may as well be hard in your favor, Lakshmi. Not the person who wants to keep you weak."

2051, UNHCR Field Office, Chennai, India

"Some of the staff are asking if they can work from home, tomorrow. They are worried about the storm."

Lakshmi Rao, UN High Commissioner for Refugees, swung open the French windows. The hot, humid, city streamed in. Besant Nagar had been one of the city’s richer neighborhoods. That, like everything else in the city, had changed.

Salvagers in just shorts and good luck charms smiled from across the street. Their boat was moored to the top of a billboard. The murky water censored whatever the smiling actress had promoted.  A swimmer burst forth, they pulled the gasping man aboard. A waterproof flashlight was tied to his arm. In his hands was a net filled with silt and dirty china. An elderly man began sorting them between stacks of abandoned homeware.

Out of glass-stripped windows, urchins sat by fishing lines and played games on their phones. Pirated, Kollywood soundtracks boomed from rival speakers. A woman cursed as a passing police boat splashed her fruit stall. The solar-powered craft whispered down 17th Street, it’s Khaki-garbed crew, unconcerned.  

The sky was dark with torrential promises. Today was no different from any other, that month.

"It will just be heavy rains," said Lakshmi, turning back. "I didn’t think Chennaites would be bothered by that. You’ve survived much worse."

"Traffic is the problem, not the rains," said a tall, slim, Tamil girl in a black business suit. "They are mostly commuters. The roads are already getting congested with people leaving the city. By tomorrow, they will be impassable. The ferries stop running tomorrow afternoon. No one will be able to leave work, except by water taxi. They will charge storm prices."

Lakshmi nodded. "Thank you for your insight. Things are of course quite different in Geneva. Anyone with families can work from home tomorrow. Tell the rest to bring overnight kits, we have some couches. I’ll be right here with them. Geneva and New York don’t want to hear that we stopped resettling climate refugees because of a storm that won’t make their news. They’re unhappy enough that I’ve relocated here. I have fallen behind these past two days with the move; I’ll need your help to get caught up."

"Of course, Commissioner."

"Please call me Lakshmi, I run a very informal office." She stepped back from the balcony and walked to her table. "Now I understand you’ve been covering this blow out over Orbital E4? Something about the allocations? I haven’t had a chance to go over it yet."

The girl shook her head, "It developed very quickly. Everyone is grumbling."

"Everyone? Anjana, it can take the whole population of the Bogra camp. That’s what it’s for."

"The camp is very mixed, Bengalis, Hindus, Biharis. They don’t get along when stressed, nor have they ever in the past."

"So they don’t want to share E4 with each other?"

"It’s more than just the camp’s leaders. Last night Dhaka and Delhi got involved."

"Perfect. What are they saying?"

"Well, Dhaka wants only Bengali Moslems on E4. Their rationale is that the Bengali population has the most Internally Displaced Persons, so should get preference. They profess to have no part in the dispute, and that they are simply speaking in support of the upset Bengalis at Bogra camp."

"Oh I’m sure. But E4 can support a thousand people. There aren’t enough elligible Bengalis at Bogra to fill E4."

"Yes. Dhaka suggests emptying the Jamalpur camp as well."

"That’s ridiculous! I’ve been to Jamalpur, it’s not even Highest Risk."

"Delhi agrees. However, they are urging only Hindus instead. To fill the rest of the orbital, Delhi wants to send some of our own climate refugees. A mixed group of all religions and castes."

"A mixed community is just a charade at multiculturalism to embarrass Bangladesh. I think what’s really happening, is that someone in Delhi wants to set up E4 as an ally."

Anjana shrugged. "All the nations are doing it. Orbital refugee stations are space assets, subsidized by Big Five money. And E4 is being built by India."

"Delhi is forgetting they’re building Orbitals to stabilize our crumbling neighbors. I’m sure this is just some idiot trying to please a minister. We don’t have to care what Delhi says on the matter. I will talk to the Prime Minister and clear this up, this weekend."

 "There’s more though. The situation has become tense," she waved a file towards Lakshmi. It glowed towards her, reality augmented. Lakshmi tapped it and stats scrolled in the air.

"This report is just in today, from the camp management. It’s an analysis of recent violence in the camp. They’re not having the usual patterns of theft and murder. They’ve had disappearances killings, rapes. Women in particular have been targeted. These are ethnic cleansing patterns. I talked to RAW about it this morning; they are concerned that militant groups have taken root."   

 "RAW thinks militant groups have taken root, everywhere," Lakshmi frowned. "Off the record, what are they telling us?"

"Off the record, the militias are Bengalis, backed by the ruling party. Prime Minister Begum is a Bengali nationalist. If he can give them privilege over the minorities, he will. Getting the UN to sanction partial treatment, will be a coup."

"And he is threatening to destabilize a refugee camp, within his own borders, to get what he wants?"

Anjana said nothing.

"I understand you have some contact with the former ambassador?"

"Jamal Khan. He is a family friend, yes."

"Will that be a problem?"

"Not in the slightest. What do you need me to do?"

"Meet him in person. Somewhere they have a Faraday Cage. Make sure nothing is recorded. Tell him we have an informal message for Prime Minister Begum. Next month, I will formally award E4 to the Bengali Moslems of Bogra and Jamalpur. Further, I will announce that E7 will be given to them as well, next year. However, he must speak in parliament in favor of birth control. All the family planning NGOs he expelled, must be readmitted."

Anjana’s eyes grew. "He will take that as an insult!"

"It is an insult. But this man needs to realize that I control the future of his country. If he wants to be unreasonable, then I’ll be unreasonable. Or, he can withdraw his militias, and we proceed with the original plan for E4."

"Understood. I’ll set up the meeting tonight."

 "Is there anything else?"

"Nothing major. I do have a personal question, if you don’t mind."

"Of course not. What is it?"

"May I ask why you left the Geneva HQ? We’re honored to have you here, but Chennai – "

"Chennai is half underwater?" Lakshmi smiled. "You should always be proud of your city. No one else will be, if you aren’t.  I moved here because Chennai is flooded. Making Chennai my home puts my lot in with everyone else. Leaders from affected nations will take me more seriously."

Anjana nodded. "That’s quite committed of you."

"Thank you. If I was really committed though, I’d get a sex change. The last commissioner didn’t need to live by the sea to be taken seriously. He was male."

They shared bitter smiles.

"Is there anything else, Anjana?"

"Just one minor thing I’ve been tracking. I try to keep an eye on things as they develop, see if they go anywhere. I’m not sure this is anything yet, but I have a feeling. It’s quite unusual."

"What is it?"

"A private poll is being conducted in eight, major, Indian cities."

"A poll?"

"It asks questions that seem designed to gauge support for an interstellar space program."

"Interstellar?"

"I did some digging; the polling company is being funded by the Spektorov Foundation."

"Spektorov?" she raised an eyebrow. "What a loser that man is. Is interstellar travel even possible? Why is he wasting money on such a bizarre poll? He should stick to profiteering off space golf courses for his one percent friends."

"Well, he’s also polling in Russia, China, Europe, and the US."

Lakshmi laughed.

"The Big Five? He wants to spend public money and space assets on something he’ll try and make money out of. Typical billionaire."

"Should we be worried?"

"Why should we be worried?"

"The Big Five's shipyards are the only ones that can build habitat-scale. If Spektorov manages to win over a country, it could compete with our access."

Lakshmi smiled and shook her head.

"Don’t worry about this. Spektorov is just trying to not be remembered for building habitats for the rich, while a billion people live in refugee camps. No one is going to be impressed with his interstellar spaceships.  The Big Five are not going to forget how unhelpful Sun Star Mining has been. I wouldn’t waste any thought on it. Rubbish like this never goes anywhere."

Two Hours Later

"Did you eat? Did you take your medicine? Have you set the alarm system?"

The young girl on the screen rolled her eyes. She wore an old shirt and baggy shorts, and sat cross-legged on the floor. Beside her was a box of takeout noodles, chopsticks astride.  She held a game controller in both hands. She was looking away, her high score climbed on another screen.

"Yes Ama!" she frowned. "Of course I did."

"What about the dog? Did you feed the dog?" asked Lakshmi.  

"No, I gave him to a Chinese man who looked hungry."

"Don’t be horrible!"

The girl faced the screen and glared.

"Of course I fed the dog. He’s whining at the door, waiting for you to come home."

"I’ll be back very late, maybe around midnight. I have to call Geneva soon on a secure line. It will be a long call."

"We’re fine here Ama, just do your work and don’t worry about us." Her eyes went back to her game.

"I’m sorry darling; I know I said we’d spend more time together while you’re back from college."

"Its fine," she kept staring at her game, "I can take care of myself."

Lakshmi said nothing to that.

"Next week, I need you to stay with my aide for a few days."

"What?" she looked back at her mother.

"She’s young, Roshmita. You and Anjana will get along. She can show you Chennai."

"Where are you going?" Roshmita demanded.

"I have to go to Africa for a few days."

The girl dropped the controller.

"Why the hell are you going to Africa? Are you going to Sudan?"

 "Don’t talk to me like that, child!"

"Are you going to Sudan! Answer me!"

"Of course I am going to Sudan! Who else do you think they’ll send? It’s my job."

"You have to go and get killed for your job?"

"I’ll be fine, child."

"No you won’t! You think I’m stupid?" she clenched her hands, "They bombed that UN aid center! There were no survivors, Ama! You want to go to some climate-damned place and get killed? What do I tell your dog when that happens?"

"Don’t make this difficult, Roshmita. I am needed there."

"Fine! Go to Sudan! See if I care!" the screen turned blue and ‘CALL ENDED.’  

Lakshmi redialed several times, but there was no answer.  Then she got up, drank some water, and looked over her notes.

Then, she called Geneva.  

Abdul Kareem Al-Rashid, I

2020, Newham, London

Londoners walked by the diner, hunched against the cold in their scarves and sweaters. Heat blasted from the outdoor, spinning griller. A couple warmed themselves in its heat oasis while a man carved meat for their sandwiches.

It was still quiet inside the LED-lit diner. The rush wouldn’t start till five. Metal chairs and tables crowded together in the small room. Squeeze bottles of olive oil and chili sauce elbowed salt and pepper shakers. On one wall was a huge picture of the Al Aqsa mosque. Facing it was an old picture of the queen. A TV in the corner showed live news from the House of Commons.

"The Niqab ban is the beginning of the end, Tariq," said the man with a glass eye. He sipped a small cup of Turkish coffee.  "The UK will burn if they pass it."

"You idiot," said the salt-and-pepper bearded man across from him. His heavy apron read ‘Al-Rashid’s, The Best Shawarmas.’ "That kind of talk got us into this mess in the first place." He looked down and saw his cup empty. "Kareem," he tapped the youth next to him. "Get me and your uncle some more coffee."

"Yes, Father."

"What?" said Glass Eye. "You want to blame this on me?"

"Don’t make this about you," Tariq shook his finger. "It’s about people too busy making a big deal out of Islam, to see that they’re making life unlivable for the rest of us. They should worry less about Sharia and more about fitting in."

Glass Eye shook his head. "It pains me brother, to hear you speak like that."

"What?" Tariq didn’t notice his son pouring him more coffee. "My faith somehow means less than yours, because I work hard in my restaurant instead of pamphleting the streets? This is our country now Wahleed, but it was theirs first. We have to integrate, follow the laws, and try to become a part."

"No. They don’t want us to integrate, and they never have. We are outsiders to them, just as our parents were. They only want us here to clean their toilets and sweep the floors. If we don’t stand up for our beliefs and way of life, no one will."

Tariq pointed at the TV. "How is that working out for us?"

"Let them ban it. It will not stop us. Moslem women will get arrested. They’ll go to jail, mothers, accountants, students. They’ll come out, and they’ll wear it again. It is a pointless ban, it will only make us stronger."

"You mean angrier. You are a radical, brother. You do nothing to make this country a safer, better place for our children."

Wahleed smiled. "You do business with mostly white people, yes? White, English, Christians?"

"So?"

"Do you tell them that being Christian is wrong?"

"Fuck off."

"But you are a Moslem. You know on the Day of Judgment, they will be held accountable."

"See? This is what I mean about integrating. You don’t know when to shut up.  What do you have to show for it, have you converted anyone? No. But you do have a criminal record for harassing people in the streets. Well done, Little Brother."

 "I am not worried about my record here on Earth. A Moslem should only be concerned about what God thinks of him, and should always do his duty as dictated by the Quran."

"You see? Talk like this is the problem. We’ve come full circle." He downed his coffee. "I have to do a few more things. The five o’ clock rush is about to start."

"Just leave the news on," said his brother. "I want to see the judgment."

"We all want to see the judgment."

24 Hours Later

Kareem, second generation Yemeni British, stepped through the burnt rubble. He held a cloth to his nose, his eyes stung.

"Come away from there, Kareem," said Tariq Al-Rashid from behind the yellow caution tape. His eyes were red. "It’s not safe."

Kareem stepped his way back, carefully. The pictures of Al Aqsa and the queen were ash. The TV screen had melted into a paste of black and burned circuitry. The metal chairs had survived, but their plastic seats were just scorch stains.

In the street, a police car was parked with its siren lights flashing. A paramedic helped a blanket-wearing grandmother with her oxygen mask. Above, news drones hovered on quad rotors, the whole Internet watching through their cameras.  

"We’ll rebuild it," Wahleed put his hand on Tariq’s shoulder. The man’s apron was soot-stained. "The community, the brotherhood, we have the funds. You will be alright Tariq. It’s just property."

"Today it was just property," he replied.

"I’ve been talking to the other store owners on the street. The Turkish laundry owner, Marcel. He told me he got CCTV footage of the whole thing. He recognizes some of the arsonists, they are from the neighborhood, Tariq."

Tariq’s smile was thin, "there is no point. The police will not help, they never do."

"I’m not talking about going to the police."

Tariq’s eyes flared. "Don’t you dare! You idiot, you think that will solve anything? You think that will make things better for us? We cannot be baited!" He took a step towards Wahleed. "Promise me you will not do anything stupid. Promise me. Promise me!"

"I swear upon God, I will do nothing to them."

Tariq glared at his brother, and then turned and walked away. Kareem watched his father leave.

"Uncle?"

"Yes, Kareem?"

"I would like to see the footage."

Wahleed raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure about this?"

"Just show it to me."

"You should not cross your father," he shook his head.

"My father is a coward."

"He – he is just doing what he thinks is right, Kareem."

"And so am I. Show me the footage."

Andrew Jessop walked down the street. The curfew had been lifted: he was out late, after some drinks with his mates. What a week! Shit, they’d had some fun.

The street was deserted. Further up, red and white lights zipped past on the motorway. The LED streetlights were out, bulbs stolen by the residents. Red neon flickered outside a tattoo parlor. It was closed.

What the fuck?

He looked over his shoulder at the sudden footsteps. A man had appeared, hoodie pulled over. Andrew was sure he hadn’t been there before. He kept on walking. The man in the hoodie started to gain on him.

Andrew laughed to himself. What, was he afraid of some wanker? Fucking fag.

The man got closer.

"’Allo," Andrew called out to him.

"Hello," the man nodded.

"Nice night, eh?"

He said nothing.

"You mind keeping your distance then, eh?"

"You Andrew Jessop?"

He stopped. "Yeah. How do you know my name?"

"I went to school with you, you dumb slag," he pulled back his hood. "Kareem, we had Shop together during A Levels."

"Fucking hell! Kareem! Oh you tosser, I thought you were creeping up to stab me!"

Kareem laughed.

"What you doing on Barley street at this time?"

"Short cut to home.  You’re one to talk!"

"Just walkin’, you know? Been some tough days."

"Right. You – been okay? You know, with ‘em – "

"The riots? Yeah, why shouldn’t I?"

"You know – just asking."

"Got any fags?"

Andrew pulled out a half-empty pack of cigarettes.  

"Cheers," Kareem took one and lit it. He took a big drag.

"My Dad hates it when I smoke, but my uncle gives no fucks."

"Your uncle?"

"He’s traditional, you know? No drinking, but nothing in the Quran about smoking," he laughed. "You ever read the Quran?"

"Fuck off mate," Andrew laughed. "I haven’t read the fucking Bible. Why am I going to read your book?"

"Fair enough," he took another puff. "It’s very precise on what do to about your enemies."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," and he shot him in the gut.

Andrew staggered back, staring. Kareem shot him twice in the chest, and after he fell, once in the head. He stood over the body, the smell of cordite and blood in the air. Slowly, he pulled out his phone, took a picture, and uploaded it. He put the gun back in his pocket, and walked towards the motorway.

2051, Zinjibar, Abyan Governorate, Yemen

"We need to get a pig to rape Sukarno."

The four bearded men sat closely on deep, easy chairs. Cigarette smoke filled the dim room. The low table carried small cups of thick, black, coffee. A woman in a black abaya came in, placing glasses of water from a tray.

"No, that’s not good enough," the fattest speaker shook his head. He wore faded street clothes and sneakers. "We should put it on Youtube, and then send his family the link."

A well groomed man in a business suit, crossed his legs and laughed. "And what will that colorful act achieve? Besides on pig-fucking search traffic."

The first man’s eyes flashed. "What will it achieve? We’ll show that cocksucker and everyone else what happens when they ruin an operation! How are we supposed to go after the Chinese space elevator, now that they know we are sitting right outside?"

One of the men stood up and went to the window. In the compound, small children were sitting on benches drinking their morning milk. Older girls in bright headscarves snapped at them, keeping them in line. Further off, two men were washing an array of solar panels. A third sat guarding their rifles and sipped red tea.

"We are no one to tell Sukarno and his followers, how to behave," said the oldest man. He wore a white, traditional, dishdasha and counted worry beads, one-handed. "Who are we? Just a group of men in the Gulf. Sukarno is Indonesian. He and his followers heeded our call. Let them conduct Jihad in their own way."

"But Hajji," the youngest man, who wore a soccer shirt and designer jeans, "They have ruined our plans. The Chinese had no idea we were in the area. Now, they will clean us out. In Congo they were very thorough, I was lucky to escape."

A child looked up and saw the man by the window. He waved, suddenly all smiles. The man waved back.

 "I don't think it is us they will come after said," the old man. "Sukarno’s group is ready to follow their own path. It is how these things happen. They are too different, too hotheaded. China will not confuse them with us. All the same, it is a good thing the Indonesians don't know about Black Fire."

The fat man glared at him. "Has anyone told the Chinese this? Because in the video Sukarno is quite clear that he is part of Jemaat Ansar. You think the Chinese won't seek us? What happens when they trace the money? That's when people will start to find out about Black Fire."

At the window, the man held his phone up to the sun. The app read his location and facing. A drop down menu appeared, showing him what spy satellites were passing overhead.

"The money cannot be traced," said the suit. "You do not understand crypto-currencies. Our money is completely anonymous. Pretend it is like our websites."

"That’s not correct," said the kid. "Our websites are hidden services. Anyone with the right onion address can access them. They just cannot find our computers."

"Yes, but that is all too much for Faisal," the suit waggled his finger. "He is a dinosaur of Hawala banking and message couriers. If he does not understand anonymity networks and crypto currencies, today is not the day for us to try and change that."

 "Hisham, you insult me brother, but you do not have to worry about drone strikes, over in Dubai," the fat man’s eyes were slits. "Look, whether you call it the natural splitting of jihadist movements, or the actions of village idiots, Sukarno has declared his presence to the Chinese and given them our name.  How can you all be so sure they will not find us? Do you think any effort will be spared if they learn what we are working on?"

The man at the window put away his phone, and cleared his throat. The others turned and looked to him.

"I feel you are all correct," his bald head gleamed. "Sukarno’s actions are insubordinate in the extreme. Our operation against the Chinese space elevator is now compromised. We have to abandon it, but it was never our main goal. We must get Al-Rawi and his men out, and cut Sukarno’s funding."

"He will not like that," the older man said.

"We will do it slowly. If he survives the Chinese, I want to be able to work with him again, someday. And if they are really splitting off, then he will have to find his own funding, anyway. I understand they have stolen a high end, pharmaceuticals printer?  He is already doing the needful. Between narcotics, medicine, and the sex trade, they will do fine."

"He has named us," said Faisal the fat man, fidgeting.

"And the Chinese will come looking for us. This cannot be helped. We knew we would be identified and hunted, sooner or later."

"But not this soon, Father," said the kid. "Black Fire is not ready yet."

"Indeed Wahlid. But there is very little that can be tied to us.  All jihadists fight to protect Islam against the power of nonbelievers, apostates, or abuse by our own. Their targets are governments, foreign troops, infidels.  They goals are to expel invaders from Moslem lands, or to bring Islamic rule to wayward ones. They fight for land, water, power."

"We do none of these things," said Hisham, the suit.

"Exactly. We are an outlier, we will make no more sense to their intelligent computers and analysts, than we do to our own, ignorant, brothers and sisters. We are jihadists against technologies that can weaken the emerging Caliphate. With each dry drinking well, each empty plate, the consciousness of the world’s Islamic peoples grows. Those who have subjugated them grow weaker, as will their infidel allies.  This century is like a great fast. When it is finally broken, we will all be free."

"Abdul Kareem, it is not too hard to understand that we attack engineers and experimental kelp farms," said Faisal. "They will know that we target technology that alleviates the pressures of population on the world’s governments. Do you think the Chinese will think this trivial?"

"I think they will see it as a very real, but very small risk. Which is another reason we must abandon the attack on Tianguo De Jieti. We cannot give the Chinese computers data that validates concern about us.  Like the Americans, they are data driven. If there is no data that we are still a threat, they will leave us alone."

There was awkward silence around the table.

"We didn’t pick the Chinese out of a hat," said Hisham. "They are as much a threat as the US. Their graphene space elevator was a perfect test target for Black Fire."

"Yes but right now, we need to confuse their thinking computers. We need to do something that breaks whatever predictive models they will be applying to us. Something that will get us de-prioritized."

 "Do you have something in mind?" asked Wahlid.

"Yes. Lakshmi Rao, head of the UNHCR. She's behind the Orbital Refugee Resettlement Program. If she gets her way, millions of people are going to be fired off into space, where they will be helpless and perfectly controlled. Recently, she has been undermining our brothers in the Bangladeshi climate camps."

"Orbital refugee resettlement is a joke!" said fat Faisal. "More are born in camps daily, than Rao can resettle in ten years. Money that could go to camps, they are wasting on these ridiculous space prisons. Rao is so ineffective, we should be protecting her!"

"Perhaps, but this is about survival," said Hisham. "We need to throw off the Chinese AI. If killing Rao doesn't make sense for us to do, let's do it."

"I can't believe I'm having this conversation."     

"Let’s talk to our scholars," sad Kareem. "I want them to issue a fatwa against her. We will publically take responsibility. There are Indian groups that will support us, and they will come forward. Either they will reach out to us, or they will assassinate her, themselves."

"A worthy goal," said the older man.

"And one that will affect the Chinese computer models. There is an immediate opportunity to consider. I just read about it this morning, which is what got me thinking about her."

"What’s that?" asked Faisal.

"She is going to visit refugees in Sudan."

"So?"

"We are owed favors there."

White lights and air conditioning were what made this cave, different.

Face-masked men in clean room suits looked up from their computers and lab tools. The visitors nodded as they walked by.  One opened each glass door and spoke to the men inside. Some he shook hands with or patted on the back. To all, he listened and nodded.

"The tests are coming along very well," said one of the face masks. "Replication across selected media is within our target range. The machines are still viable even at three percent carbon. With sufficient energy and resources, the reproduction interval is as fast as eight minutes."

"Doctor Zakayev, How long before Black Fire will be ready for a test?" asked Kareem.

"We have been testing it, Sir."

"He means in the field," said Faisal. "Live targets."

"Soon. The problem is maintaining control after two million cycles.  Control becomes unreliable.  statistically, it becomes impossible."

"You keep telling us that control is the problem," said Faisal.

"But it is. Unless there is some circumstance where it can be allowed to burn uncontrolled, this will always be the issue. An exponential weapon cannot be tested safely. That is the very nature of it.  We can make you a more practical weapon, but it will not be as powerful as this."

"What if we tested it in space?"

Faisal and Zakayev regarded him.

"No, seriously, what if we did?"

"A space station or spaceship environment would be contained," Zakayev nodded. "The extreme heat and cold of space will help sterilize, as well. I suppose yes, that is the safest option."

"Faisal, do you think our new Uighur friends on E2 could help?"

"Well they are in space. They are just lip service warriors, though. Social media liketivists."

"We wouldn't need them to be much more than that. All they have to do is sneak a sample of Black Fire into a greenhouse module. Something that can be jettisoned.  They would be safe.  We can make sure of that, can’t we?"

"With enough preparation, yes," said Zakayev.

"I don't like it," Faial frowned, "working with amateurs?"

"We were all amateurs once. They would be happy for the opportunity to do something helpful."

"Let's see how they pan out first."

"Just keep an eye towards this. Especially with the Chinese hunting us, we need to see what Black Fire can do."

Suyin Lee, I

2025, Shanghai

"Suyin! Stop now, you naughty child!"

The kindergartner looked up. In one hand was a broken hair band. In the other, a rock. Before her on the ground, red-faced and wailing, was a boy. Standing around them were their peers, quiet voyeurs.

"Suyin!" the teacher pried the rock from the girl’s hand and flung it away. Some children watched it arc. Miss could throw. "Suyin, why did you hit Kang?"

"He hit me!" her face was indignant and four years old.  "Look," she held up the broken hair band, "look what he did to Lihwa's band."

"Suyin, you are a girl. You should not hit people."

"Why not? Boys can hit!"

"They shouldn’t, either. But it is very bad for girls to hit. It is not what a lady does."

"I don’t want to be a lady! I want to be a General, like Daddy!"

"Go and stand in the naughty corner."

2046, Hainan Island, Yulin Naval Base

"Move! Move!"

The night-clubbers were stunned like deer in the APC’s headlights.

"Get out of the way, idiots!"

Slinky black dresses scattered off the street. The column of ZBL-11s roared by, rattling forgotten drinks on outdoor tables. The stunned streets were lined with gold watches and designer evening wear. Purses and arms were clutched. People dialed stupidly, congesting the networks. Police sirens replaced booming Mandopop. A honking fire engine stormed after the APCs, firemen on squawking military radios.

Captain Suyin Lee, People’s Liberation Army, unbuttoned the hatch and looked out.

Outside, silence had broken out in the Yalong Bay resort district. Some hotels were blacked out, perhaps by choice or panicking city controllers. Erupting smoke and drawing helicopter fireflies, was the Sanya Hilton. Its fires burst windows, showering firemen. Were there nerve agents? She checked the seal on her gas mask.

 Overhead, the air boomed twice.

 "What was that?" asked someone from inside the APC.

"Supersonic booms. Must be J-15s from the Liaoning."

The hatch next to her opened and a soldier climbed up.

"Here," he broke a honeydew-flavored power bar in half. "Energy boost."

They ate as they drove past a burning shop. A black mass had caved its roof in, metal shrapnel crunched under the APC’s treads.

"Must have been a dud," said the soldier. He had the stripes of a Lieutenant.

She shook her head, "It was shot from orbit.  Laser satellites will aim for the warhead."

"Pity it didn’t save the Hilton."

"It’s not programmed to. The cruise missile must have been on a bad trajectory, anyway. The satellite wouldn’t have wasted the shot on it."

"What the hell were they thinking?"

"That a pre-emptive attack on a carrier group and a submarine pen, was their only chance. It was. They failed."

"Latest on Battlefield Control is that a Type 052E has come under attack near the Paracel Islands, but it’s holding its own."

"I’d expect that from a drone carrier. They should have focused their cruise missile attacks on it. The Liaoning is practically a floating museum."

"A floating museum they had a better chance at sinking. And one that we’re about to go aboard."

 A few minutes later they hit a snarl of honking trucks and swearing transports. They dismounted and jogged the rest of the way to the naval base.

"That’s everyone, Captain!"

The lieutenant had to shout over the rotors of the Z-15 helicopters. Unfriendly loudspeakers made announcements across the base. Logistics crews ran carrying hoses from fuel trucks, while pilots opened panels and checked instruments. A ship’s horn sounded as a destroyer began pushing away from its dock. A Chinese flag flapped angrily.

"Good!" she yelled back. "I’ll see you aboard!"

He saluted, then turned and climbed aboard his helicopter. It lifted up and away.

A Dong Feng pattern Humvee pulled up, and a soldier with white gloves stepped out. He saluted Suyin, and handed her a folded printout.

"What’s this?"

"New orders, Madam."

"My unit is already leaving."

"This is just for you, Madam."

"What?"

"Colonel’s orders."

She pulled open a door and climbed into the Humvee, "hurry up, I have a war to fight."

"Colonel Chen, I don’t understand these orders. My men could be in Hanoi tomorrow, and I need to be there with them."

The middle-aged dress uniform looked across his desk at the standing woman in the battle fatigues. Her helmet was tucked under arm. Slung round her neck was an assault rifle.

He cleared his throat.

"Captain Lee, your orders are very clear. You are being transferred to Chengdu without your unit. There you will be on standby, until further notice."

"Am I being punished? Whose orders are these?"

"Why, General Lee of course, your father."

She cursed. Like a man.

He gave her a hard look. "You may be under the wing of powerful party members, but you will not conduct yourself like a peasant soldier in my presence."

"I’m sorry Sir."

"You can leave now."

"Sir," she put her hand down on the table, "There has to be something you can do. You are in command here. They have to respect the decision of the officer on the ground."

Something snapped.

"Listen, Captain. Your Daddy gave you and your brother some toy soldiers to play with, but yours now have to go and fight - and probably die. Your Daddy knows you can’t get married if you get shot in your pretty face, and that’s that."

"No Sir, I can't accept that."

He glared, eyes popping out and rolling on his desk. "You can't accept that? It's not what you accept, that matters. You are a woman officer in the PLA!"

"What does that mean? I earned my rank!"

"Your father earned your rank! And it means you follow orders!"

They stare-battled.

"There is a flight to Chengdu in two hours. Make sure you are on it, and off my base."

Indonesia, Central Kalimantan, 2051

"You call this Chrysanthemum tea?" she looked down at her cup and made a face. "No wonder terrorists are trying to kill us."

Rain poured down on the parked ZBL-11 armored carriers. Men in camouflage and body armor walked between them. A pair of ponchos and bandannas jogged off into the jungle. German sniper rifles with oversized power packs were on their backs.

Seated operators with headsets crammed the armored command vehicle. Ruggedized screens streamed street, air, and infrared views of a large house. Standing in the middle was a tall woman with her hair in a bun.

"Lieutenant Colonel, we’re getting a transmission from orbit," the operator turned and said to her.

"Put it through," she said.

"Tiger Command, this is Yaogan 211. How copy, over?"

"Solid copy Yaogan. Go ahead."

"Support request received, I shall be above the AO in three minutes. However, I am still charging my capacitors. Laser support will not available for another twenty minutes, over."

"I don’t need them all, or at full power, 211. How quickly can you get me a couple of head shots? Just something that will cook someone’s brains, over."

"Understood. Partial recharge in two minutes, over."

"Excellent. Command out."  

She looked to another operator. "Update from the drone carrier?"

"The UAVs have arrived, and are orbiting the target, Ma’am. A Z-15 Medevac is leaving the Wenzhou, now."

"Just now? It’s true then, the imbeciles are all in the Navy."

She stepped to a street view screen. In it, policemen were arguing with tuk tuk drivers and motorcyclists. Behind them, soldiers in PLA green, laid razor wire across the road.

"Tiger Three, report."

"Three, reporting. We’ve started cellular jamming and the road block is in place. The local police are telling people it’s a toxic leak from a Chinese tanker."

"Good work. Do the locals believe them?"

"Even the police believe it."

She looked over to a different screen, showing the outside of the house. A stray cat glared at the camera before leaving, ass in the air. Beside the display was a set of ECG tracings. All normal.

"Tiger One, report."

"All quiet here, Lieutenant Colonel. We have the entrance and Tiger Two has the rear.  We’re ready to make forced entry on your command."

"Standby, Chief Sergeant. We wait till Tiger Four gets here," she turned to a controller. "Where are my special forces operators now?"

"Southwest Falcons ETA is eighteen minutes. Plus or minus, they say."

"Plus or minus?"

"I diverted a UAV to take a look. A water buffalo herd is crossing further up, traffic is at a standstill."

"Where are the Americans now?"

"They’ve deplaned, and some are on their way here. Ma’am, their ETA is less than ten minutes."

"Fucking great."

"Shall I just ask Tiger Three to keep them out, till the operation is done? The Americans can’t have a problem with that."

"No," she shook her head. "You can never be sure with Americans, everything seems to offend them. Tiger One, this is Command."

"I copy."

"I’m coming over. Make room for one more."

"Yes Madam."

The operators all turned and looked at her.

"Are you not waiting for the Southwest Falcons?" asked one.

She slammed a clip into her pistol. "I am a Southwest Falcon."

Hua Tse, aerospace engineer, taikonaut, and National Games fencing medalist, had pissed himself. He sat bound to a chair, blindfolded. The morning before, the Laughing Man with the bamboo had come to beat them. Hua’s ribs spiked with pain, every time he breathed.  It was good that they were being beaten, said Xi Sheng. It meant they were going to keep them alive.

Then they came back for Xi Sheng. They removed his bonds and even his blindfold. "We are releasing you today," they told him. "See, I told you," the senior engineer told Hua. "We are too valuable. The government will negotiate for us. It’s going to be alright. I will call your mother and let her know you are alright."

Minutes later, he heard Xi Sheng screaming. It stopped suddenly and loud cheering followed.

Hours passed. No one brought food or water. The tropical morning heat made the room an oven.

He heard the key turning and the heavy door opening.

"We are releasing you now," said a voice. It was the Laughing Man’s.  

They dragged him out into the courtyard. The high sun beat down like Judgment. Blindfold off, he could finally look about his prison. The walls were mud and plaster with flaking white paint.  Solar panels lined the coconut leaf, thatched roofing. A small satellite dish was mounted on a teak pillar. Wires ran from it to the twin-lens camera set up before him.  Behind him was a black flag stretched out on a plywood frame. Masked men with assault rifles stood before it.

In front of him was a sawn-off log with a machete beside it.

"No!" he tried to back away, two guards seized him by his arms. "Don’t do this, you’re making a mistake!"

The man at the camera looked up and nodded to the guards. They dragged him to the log and forced him to his knees. Another person walked up, and picked up the machete.

A pulse of white light flooded the courtyard. There was a bang like a point blank gun shot. Scalding liquid sprayed him. Hua cried out, his eyes shut tightly. They felt like hot knives had lanced through them, into his brain. The guards let go of him, people were yelling. The air was suddenly hot, dry, and smelling of burned meat.

He opened his stinging eyes. On the ground before him was a burning body, machete fused into one hand. The head was gone – shredded meat clung to the walls. The camera and its gaping user were red with spatter.

"Emergency action protocol, target eliminated," Yaogan 211 was tinny in her helmet comms. "Capacitors recharging."

"Go!"

The charges blew, and the front door vaporized.

Seven body armors rose and stormed through the doorway. Red lasers cut through the smoke, QCW assault guns appeared at their ends. Instrument-crammed helmets looked about, like the giant heads of black insects.

Two men were on the floor, their assault rifles still slung. One wheezed blood, and looked up.

Suyin Lee shot him through the face.

"Clear!" she waved the rest of them forward.

They kicked down the door and entered the second room. It was a kitchen. Women in headscarves had been washing plates and stirring curries, now they were screaming.

"Hands on your head! Hands on your head!" one of the soldiers waved his gun. "Get on the ground, now!"

A younger woman grabbed a knife and rushed at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

One of the soldiers pulled out a grenade.

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

"UAV Two standing by, over."

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

"Fire mission confirmed. Stand by Tiger Leader."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The gunman regarded her with venom.

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

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

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

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

One hour later

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

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

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

"Which one are you?"  

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

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

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

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

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

"Excuse me?" Lee frowned.

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

"So?"

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

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

"Look at their personal effects, their clothing."

"There's nothing special about those."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nodded but said nothing.

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

"Totally. I love poking around."

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

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

She turned very deliberately, and walked away.