Amy pulled her winter coat tighter and leaned toward Hayato, who put his arm around her. She was not ready to start this discussion with her husband. Could she leave Sol behind in such a dangerous environment? Amy shook her head, realizing she should not look for excuses. The American pediatrician had told them an important thing: It would be irresponsible to expose their son during this growth period to a gravity reduced by half. The psychologist had stressed how important it was for Sol to establish relationships with his peers. The radiobiologist strongly warned them about the enormous strain cosmic radiation exerted on a child’s body. But what about her needs as a human being, and as a mother? Was it fair that she, of all people, should be forced to choose between helping a friend or watching her young child grow up?
She felt Hayato’s gaze. Her husband—the father of her son—looked at her and gently stroked her hair with his fingers. Somehow she felt warm when he was near, even though the air was freezing cold. A light snow began to fall, and tiny, wispy flakes gathered on the cloth of her coat. Hayato leaned in and kissed her. It was a beautiful moment.
But Amy would have to leave him behind, too. Sol needed his father at the very least. How could she tell him this? Would Hayato feel rejected if she was to go on this journey without him? Amy looked into his eyes and tried to recognize what she already knew. The dark brown of his iris was calming. She felt she could drown in it, like at the very beginning of their relationship, but she did not find a specific answer in the depths.
“Concerning Sol,” she said.
Hayato remained silent. His face was very close to hers. He took a breath and held it a moment. “Our son will stay with me,” he whispered. “I know you have to fly into space. You are the commander. It is your expedition.”
“But...”
“I love this woman who is so responsible, who supports people, her… and no one else,” Hayato whispered. “Everything else is logically derived from it. ILSE can do without me, but our son cannot. I have already failed my daughter.”
Amy recalled the painful circumstance. After visiting his adult daughter—who was being treated in a residential psychiatric hospital—Hayato had been despondent like never before. “But you are going to be alone. I will return in two years, at the earliest,” she said.
“You will bring back Dimitri Marchenko, and Sol will have the best godfather in the whole wide world.”
“And if we come back without achieving our goal?”
“You start under the very best conditions, and you have solved much more difficult problems. And in a pinch you at least have someone on Earth who supports you.”
“I am glad you are staying with Sol. I am so worried about him.”
“Sol is going to be fine here. I asked JAXA whether they could use an experienced astronaut and engineer. They want to put me in the PR department.”
“And would you enjoy this?”
“We will see. If necessary, I will speak with Shostakovich.”
Amy shook her head. “Don’t. Just keep away from him. I think he is the type of person who uses other people as long as it is to his advantage, and then he discards them.”
“That could also be a fate which might threaten all of you.”
“I am almost certain of it. We just have to save Marchenko before Shostakovich no longer needs us.”
They sat on the bench for another half hour and wordlessly watched the bay. Amy felt good doing just that. With Hayato, she could be silent without experiencing unease. The distance, no matter how great, would not affect her feelings. Hayato was a good father. Right now, if she had the ability, she would simply turn the wheel of time two years forward.
January 12, 2049, Tsiolkovsky
“Hotel Amur… sounds rather romantic,” Francesca said with a laugh.
“It’s not Amour—or Amore, for that matter. It refers to the river Amur,” Martin corrected her.
“I know, wise guy, but it still sounds funny that we are going to spend our last days on Earth here.”
The group sat in the van that had picked them up at the airport of Blagoveshchensk, the next larger city. They had just been driven 200 kilometers through the Siberian taiga. Their driver, who had hardly said a word the whole time during the trip, disappeared without any explanation into the two-story prefab building. He probably was trying to find out about their lodgings. At least Martin hoped so.
They waited. It was quickly getting cold without the heater running, and the windows of the vehicle fogged up on the inside.
“Francesca, you better go inside with Marchenko. They must have forgotten about us here,” Amy suggested.
“Just a second. I am coming along,” Martin said. “My knees hurt from sitting so much.”
“You, of all people, are complaining about having to sit here for a long time?”
He answered Jiaying with an irritated look, closed the sliding door, and followed Francesca, who was aiming directly for the hotel entrance. Martin had underestimated the Russian winter and slipped on the packed snow covering the path, barely staying on his feet.
Meanwhile, Francesca was struggling with the front door. There was no handle visible, nor did an automatic function start up.
“There,” Martin said, pointing at a button. Francesca pushed it and the door swung open. Inside it was hot and smelled of stale tobacco smoke. Their driver sat nonchalantly on a sofa in the corner, smoking and tapping on a phone. Directly across the entrance was a niche separated by a counter, both of which were fabricated in the same ugly imitation wood. Behind the counter sat a blonde who was reading something. She seemed undisturbed by the newly arrived guests.
“The rooms are not ready yet,” she said in Russian. When Marchenko interpreted this from inside the suitcase, the woman looked up in surprise.
“You understand what I am saying? That’s great,” she said as she put a printed piece of paper on the table and pointed toward a number: 14:00. Martin could recognize that much without knowing Russian.
“Starting at 2 p.m.,” the employee said. Martin looked at the clock behind him. That’s another quarter of an hour.
“Marchenko, could you tell her it is only another 15 minutes? Maybe the rooms are already available? The long trip...”
Why did Shostakovich have to choose a launch from the Vostochny Cosmodrome in Northeastern Russia, far away from civilization? He explained to them that this spaceport, which had only been opened 30 years ago, had been a real bargain. Nevertheless, the disadvantages were obvious. If Martin thought of the nice hotels in Florida... and the climate there! Today, the thermometer had barely risen above minus 20 degrees.
“It’s no use, Martin,” he heard Marchenko’s voice say. “2 p.m. is 2 p.m. But you could get the others already.”
“Good idea,” Martin replied resignedly. He tightened his coat around himself, put on his cap, and walked to the bus. Then they might as well carry the luggage into the building.
The rooms were small and shabby, so Martin and Jiaying decided to take a walk before dinner. But the town of Tsiolkovsky—named in honor of the pioneer of the cosmonautic (astronautic) theory—was definitely not a tourist attraction. The little town had only one purpose: supply the spaceport which had been built further east, once Baikonur had become part of Kazakhstan. The snow was piled up several meters high along streets that followed a checkerboard pattern. The buildings, mostly prefabs, were generally functional and had no more than two stories, just like their hotel. There were no other pedestrians to be seen. After half an hour in the bitter cold they had both had enough, and they fled into the hotel bar where they ordered beers.
“Shostakovich obviously wants us to leave willingly,” Martin said.
A grouchy waitress placed two beer bottles on their table, together with a bowl of peanuts.
Jiaying smiled. “Have I told you how happy I am you are coming along?”
Martin caressed her forearm. “Yes, you have.”
The swinging door of the bar opened, and Francesca, Ha
yato, and Amy entered the room. Francesca carried the ever-present suitcase. Shostakovich would come in the evening, and they would have a final meeting.
The billionaire sent the staff outside and had them lock the front door.
“This way we will not be disturbed,” he said. “First of all, let me say how happy I am everyone got here safely. In your case, Ms. Li, I have to admit it was particularly complicated to explain a longer absence. In return, I am going to send some payloads belonging to your People’s Liberation Army into space—no problem.”
Jiaying nodded.
“Excuse the rather unconventional lodging. The Vostochny Cosmodrome is not exactly built for show. The showcase projects are launched elsewhere, but here we work. The cosmonauts I employ do not need any luxuries. They have dormitories in the basement of the cosmodrome, but I really did not want to put you there.”
“And when do we start?” asked Francesca, drumming her fingers on the table.
“Tomorrow morning at 8 o’clock a vehicle will pick all of you up. Take just what you need on board and leave everything else behind in your rooms. First we will send Marchenko on his way electronically,” Shostakovich said, pointing at the suitcase. “Then it’s your turn. A proven Angara 9b rocket will transport the six of you—who will be on board the Semlya capsule we developed ourselves—and insert you into a lunar orbit.”
“I... I won’t be coming along,” Hayato said, holding Amy’s hand.
“I see. We do not mind, since my daughter Valentina will be on board as the laser specialist.”
“Speaking of lasers, when do we pick up the module?” asked Martin.
“We already sent it ahead. It has a lead of two weeks, so you do not have to worry about that.”
“Anything else we should know?”
“No, Ms. Michaels, I think everything should be clear. I actually just wanted to meet you here to wish you a pleasant journey. Tomorrow I am having an important meeting in Moscow, but everything is prepared.”
Amy stood up. “Then I wish us all a successful mission.”
“If you still want to quit,” they heard Marchenko say from his suitcase, “remember you really do not have to do this. I do not feel I am worth your sacrifice.”
“There will be no sacrifice,” the commander said firmly.
January 13, 2049, Vostochny Cosmodrome
Martin yawned loudly once they were all seated in the van. He had slept little the previous night. Yes, he was sure this was the right decision, but that did not necessarily mean he felt no fear, either. Things were somewhat different now, compared to his first launch—another voyage that he had undertaken reluctantly.
This time, he and his crewmates were about to take part in a mission hidden from the eyes of the entire world, and without all nations wishing them success. This time the launch was supposed to be surreptitious. Anonymous people in the private flight control center of the RB Group would make important decisions. Devendra, their CapCom at NASA headquarters, did not even know they would be on their way into space again. Plus, they would then be hitchhiking through the galaxy, in hopes that Marchenko would really be able to take over ILSE and then pick them up near the orbit of Earth.
Of course Martin had informed himself beforehand how well the private Russian technology worked, and this reassured him. The Angara 9b was the updated, largest version of the Angara rockets, which had proven themselves for 30 years. At this point in time, there had been only two failures among at least 50 documented launches, and in both cases the crew survived. For this particular mission, which would take the crew beyond Earth’s orbit, the rocket had been reinforced by twelve Baikal boosters. The Semlya capsule was an in-house development by the RB Group, and it could carry up to eight astronauts.
The main problem was overcrowding on the flight. Shostakovich did not own a space station where they could wait in a more comfortable environment until Marchenko picked them up with ILSE. Instead, the five of them would be flying into space in a cramped capsule, heading for a rendezvous point that their spaceship would hopefully reach as well. A cancellation of the mission would only be possible up to a certain point—after which the capsule’s fuel would not be enough to return to an Earth orbit. “Marchenko just has to do his job quickly and efficiently,” Amy said when Martin voiced his concerns. He considered it might be a clever strategy not to dwell on possible problems.
The van followed a freshly-surfaced road eastward, straight at the early morning sun.
“Looks like a good omen,” he said to Jiaying who sat next to him, and his girlfriend smiled.
After 15 minutes the first buildings came into view. To the left, Martin spotted the top of a rocket looming over the snow-covered treetops. This must be launch pad 1A, he surmised. Their platform was located at the northeastern end of the area. After another ten minutes he saw the tower standing there and nudged Jiaying, who kept her eyes closed.
Due to the extreme climate here, this tower was a special feature of Vostochny. Inside, the technicians were protected from the intense cold and could work on the spacecraft up to the last minute before launch. Even more importantly, the risk of frozen pipes was precluded. The van looped around the tower—an action that was probably meant as a special gesture—and then deposited them in front of a low, modern looking building about 800 meters away.
Looking exceptionally attractive in a tight, form-fitting overall, Valentina Shukina was awaiting them at the entrance. Jiaying inconspicuously nudged Martin, because he was so conspicuously staring at the Russian billionaire’s daughter. An older gentleman in a shabby lab coat stood next to her as she spoke in a friendly tone to address the crew.
“Welcome. Now that we are all here, let us get started right away. Dr. Shevchenko will briefly examine you, and I will pick you up in ten minutes.”
“Follow me,” the doctor said, as he led them to a kind of locker room. After all of them had taken off their heavy coats he handed a compact blood pressure meter to each of them.
“Just a formality,” he said confidently. “After all, we are sure you are all capable of going into space.”
Martin was pleased with his reading of 118 over 78, and he returned the blood pressure meter. Shevchenko did not even ask him about his results.
“It’s okay,” the doctor said. “You look healthy. Are you feeling that way?”
“Yes,” Martin replied.
“Fine, then.” He repeated the charade with each of the others.
The door to the corridor opened. It was Valentina. The doctor nodded at her.
“Now we are going to start with the transfer of Marchenko,” the Russian woman announced. “I can do this on my own, but if you want to come along...”
All five of them wanted to say goodbye to Marchenko. Valentina took them to a room that might have once-upon-a-time been a kitchen. All the walls were tiled, and it smelled freshly cleaned. Yet instead of the several stoves one might expect, they saw computer cabinets along one wall. Next to these someone had placed a single table containing a monitor, a keyboard, and a number of cables.
“I have to ask you for the suitcase now, Ms. Rossi.”
“I would rather do this myself.”
“You lack the necessary passwords… but just a moment.” Valentina launched a program and typed something in. “Now you can plug in the network cable. The transfer is done via SFTP.”
“SFTP?” Marchenko’s voice sounded incredulous. “Does the ‘S’ stand for Stone Age?”
“Yes and no,” Valentina said wistfully. “We developed a complete implementation of the protocol ourselves. That way we can be sure there are no backdoor programs.”
“We—meaning you?” asked Martin.
Valentina nodded. Martin’s appreciation of her instantly rose by at least 50 percent.
“The program has already been launched,” Valentina said. Francesca sat down at the keyboard. She was about to start typing, but then stopped.
“I wish you a good journey, dear Dimitri,” she
said. “And then you will let me know, as we arranged.”
They agreed on a secret code. Very clever, Martin thought. Or at least they pretended to have done so, and that was just as good. That would keep people from trying to manipulate Marchenko’s digital copy. He was protected in various ways, but if Shostakovich’s IT research was as advanced as the rest of the world’s...
“We will see each other on ILSE,” Amy said. Jiaying waved, even though Marchenko could not see the gesture.
Francesca started to type. Finally, she held her right index finger over the ‘Enter’ key. Martin could see she struggled with herself, but then she pressed the key. Martin could not help but expect a voice announcing ‘Transfer Initiated’ to occur, and silently acknowledged that he must have watched too many bad science fiction movies. Why should a voice state the obvious? The gigabits of which Marchenko consisted were zooming through space at the speed of light, and in just a few minutes they would reach the Icarus asteroid.
“You are not using NASA’s Deep Space Network, are you?” asked Martin.
“No,” Valentina replied. “We set up a mesh network on our asteroids. Each station can transmit and receive signals to and from any other station. This allows us to work without needing too much transmission power.”
“And the messages are less likely to be intercepted by someone,” Martin added.
“That is another advantage,” was Valentina’s response.
“But if you are not near one of your orbiting asteroids, there won’t be any reception.”
“That is a weak point of our concept. But it was designed for asteroid mining, you have to remember.”
Ice Moon 4 Return to Enceladus Page 8
