Taking an interview on my show was something one only did after much reflection. Guests had been unexpectedly launched into space, sent on bathyscaphe missions to the deepest oceans, gone diving with sharks, you name it. I sent Tom Cruise hang-gliding among the towers of Manhattan… although I later learned that millions of you wished I hadn’t. Oh boy, did he make a fool of himself.
My behaviour (none if which I even slightly regret, by the way) has led to a whole string of geopolitical oddities, unlikely partnerships and moments of deep weirdness. For political and other reasons, I developed strong friendships with several foreign governments. I don’t know, sometimes I was visiting a place and, well, things just clicked. A rather whacky United Nations motion by a delirious Thai delegation recommended that my company be conferred status as a full nation, and afforded a permanent place on the Security Council. They even proposed admitting me into the Thai Royal family tree; I declined politely, but had Hal and his craftsmen robots construct, decorate and deliver a new pagoda for the Grand Palace in Bangkok. It is a beautiful, soaring stupa, painted a searing white to bring an intense gleam to the acres of gold which surround it. Six years ago, after a lengthy approval process from the Thai government, I had flown the Emerald Buddha into lunar orbit and took a sequence of stunning images with robot cameras – the floating, serene Buddha whose jade was iridescent in the sharp sunlight, the stark lunar landscape curving away beneath, and the bright, rising earth all combined for perhaps the photograph of the century.
The limo pulled up. I kissed Martha in tender thanks, got out and headed in without fuss or fanfare, despite the noisy crowd. There was some security there, of course, but I often doubted its necessity. I was a controversial figure, as you can imagine, but no-one had ever gotten angry enough with anything I’d done to consider actually shooting me. Tom Cruise is the only exception I can think of. The closest I ever got was a scuffle with environmental protestors who insisted I prove my rocket engine exhaust was harmless. I couldn’t, because it wasn’t. If you inhaled a whole tank of the stuff you’d die. But I wasn’t proposing that anyone do that. All a tad illogical, and more than a little frustrating. I found, though, that my Takanli training paid off endlessly when it came to empathy and negotiation. It had been printed that I was ‘absolutely impossible not to like’.
Through the security and upstairs. Welcome to the Dirksen Senate Office Building, one of the architecturally sterile edifices which flanks the US Capitol building on its quiet North side. The impeccably prepared Rm. 215 was the setting for today’s high-profile celebration of quite how perfectly the Dvalin project had come to fruition. I had, as numerous reporters have quipped down the years, been busy. Extremely busy. The partnership between Hal, myself and the various rovers, flyers, production and resource robots (now thousands almost beyond counting) had been staggeringly creative and ceaseless in its pace. “A tourist in low earth orbit can now expect to have access to water sports and ball game spaces, an observation lounge, various zero-G demonstrations and sports, roomy personal quarters, organic food (much of it grown on-board) as well as a range of educational opportunities”… The advertising made it clear – space was cool, safe, extremely different, full of adventure for almost anybody and actually fairly straightforward to reach. The main issue tended to be persuading people to come back down, even when they were supposed to.
Once public enthusiasm hit its stride, companies from around the world fell over each other to pay me to haul their stuff into space, or feed their tourists, or repair their space vehicles. There were by now about three hundred people who would say that they ‘live in space’ and, inevitably and cherishably, Cody Pollett became the first off-world baby. The floating toddler’s antics drew trillions of browser hits as a delighted public watched her learn to talk, swim in zero-G and, perhaps most memorably, mess up her face with the first crop of space-farmed cherry ice-cream.
People filed in to the red-carpeted room, and those already seated organized papers, shook hands with colleagues and filled water glasses. I recognized almost everyone, perhaps only excepting the junior people, although I knew half of them by name also. Takanli memory is quality memory.
Aside from the 300 permanent inhabitants, another thousand or so people commuted to space several times a year, and perhaps a two thousand a day travelled above the atmosphere. The majority were tourists, just taking in the view for a few hours and heading back, but demand for hotel space was increasing. Hal’s launch and construction schedules were models of dynamic flexibility; new demands were met in days, and major assemblies could be wrapped up in a couple of months. We masked the ludicrous levels of efficiency which governed life behind our iconic green fencing by repeating a mantra to the press and public: everything is modular, so building new stuff is really easy; “it all just fits together like Lego” was perhaps the most charming of my attempts to diffuse any internet flutterings about construction robots or alien computer geniuses.
We had relented, however, when it came to the President. With such extraordinary power to totally fuck the Dvalin project, should he so wish, it was critical to bring the Executive Branch onboard, almost from the beginning. We trod carefully; Hal was petrified that the CIA would simply have me kidnapped and torture every last detail out of me – lightspeed travel, the Chrono Vortex, Relocation, Replication, everything – and so he demanded a suite of guarantees before the initial meetings were even scheduled. In the end, our agreement was framed by a curious and perhaps unprecedented mutual blackmail; the President agreed not to reveal anything I told him – doing so would have complicated my life so severely as to make it unliveable – and I agreed to restrain Hal when it came to revealing certain sordid political and personal secrets. His information-gathering capabilities matched those of all the world’s intelligence services combined, and his files bulged with evidence of corruption, nepotism, abuse of power, sexual misconduct, drug use and a rainbow of other potential scandals.
It had worked well, up to a point. By 2030, four incumbents had received classified briefings, all in their first week in office, detailing the history of human contact with alien life forms, the handing over of technology, and the promise of access to the Red Cubes which held yet further miracles. The agreement was modified as necessary; Hal added sections forbidding US companies to unfairly benefit from technology transfer, and also the paragraph which guaranteed orbital infrastructure completion (including the bringing of Dvalin into orbit) before Red Cube data could be released. It was a win-win; the successive administrations avoided public panic, got a cut-price suite of gas stations, hotels and repair shops in orbit, and ensured humanity’s limitless future expansion into space. Furthermore, Hal brokered a brilliant piece of debt-forgiveness legislation which guaranteed relief and foreign aid in previously unheard-of amounts.
For some, the treaty appealed to nationalistic sentiments; others took a wider, more globally humanistic view. Among those who eventually had to be told – a tightly controlled list now numbering twenty-one – there was a mix of reactions. Many of the politicians instantly wondered how this staggering revelation might be turned to their advantage; it couldn’t, naturally, as this would involve leaking classified information which, they had been told, would have the swiftest and most dire consequences. The military types generally took a cooler, pragmatic view; some were desperate to co-opt the technology for military purposes (which Hal absolutely forbade) while others remained certain that Takanli harboured malicious intent and that, one day soon, we would be overwhelmed by a high-technology expeditionary force arriving from outer space. Ambitious defensive plans for nuclear-capable space battle-stations were only shelved after intense pressure from Hal who, in his role as mediator and liaison, could unseat or usurp the obstructive, paranoid generals by nixing vital congressional funding. Resentment and mistrust continued to bubble under the Pentagon’s surface; we kept a lid on the worst of it, but on my less optimistic days, I wondered to Hal whether we had made a mistake involving the mili
tary. They saw the world so differently and had priorities which seemed contradictory both to the spirit of Dvalin and to the peaceful, Utopian influence of Takanli.
In all, though, the agreement was an important pillar supporting Dvalin; however much I resented having to tell anyone about Takanli, this was certainly the smoothest way to get our work done. I prayed it would stay intact, through the transitions between radically different administrations, and despite the military’s obsessively suspicious, institutional weirdness.
*****
Today’s hearing, which fell close to space-baby Cody’s sixth birthday, was a routine funding review by the Appropriations Committee. The Chairman, Senator Christopher Beasley (R, MT) was one actually one of my biggest fans. Sixty this year, his grey curly pate gave away none of his youthful energy. Beasley and I went back a ways; eleven years ago, after a very successful Senate review session (much as this was destined to be) we had taken a private air-breathing shuttle to one of my orbiting stations and then sky-dived back through the atmosphere. Nanofiber suits kept us safe and we revelled in freefall until 11,000ft, after which I had guided the senator into a safe landing at a spectacular campaign rally in Helena. I have never spoken to anyone about my jump back into Wales with Gemma, so this set a new record for high-altitude jumping. This, in turn, was broken only when I re-entered from a terrific lunar orbital trip with Richard Branson. We were in freefall for fifteen glorious minutes. Great jump.
Beasley got things going. “OK everybody”, he liked to begin, “let’s settle down if you don’t mind.” He spoke for a few moments, welcoming everyone, and then began a quick review of how the agreement had come into being. “Anyone with Wikipedia-level knowledge of the 21st Century could write a paragraph on these events, but they must be rehearsed for the record.” Beasley’s easygoing manner, refined tenor voice and endearing, now almost grandfatherly smile, made these hearings an even greater pleasure. His constituents trusted and respected him, the media weekly injected new life into its long-running love affair with him, and the public saw him not as Presidential material perhaps, but certainly as an established Capitol Hill operator whose word could be taken to the bank.
“The Dvalin project”, he began with a certain oratorical flourish, “began in 2013 with the inception of Dvalin Incorporated, the business arm of a new ideological movement. Its aim is to peacefully colonize the universe. A family of reusable spaceplanes were designed, tested and brought into service remarkably quickly through an incentive plan brokered with the UK government.” I smiled to myself, remembering the bumbling, enthusiastic minister, all those years ago at a disused airfield in Norfolk. Rarely for a politician, I felt it only right to note, he had been as good as his word.
“Passenger service to a growing number of orbital platforms and hotels began in 2015 and has continued to enjoy a flawless safety record. Annual inspections by the FAA Space Branch confirm that by far the most dangerous aspect of flying in space is to have the company’s founder as your pilot”. A ripple of amusement around the room. Beasley loved to wind me up in these hearings; but he knew I’d get my own back the next time he was on the campaign trail. I was known for randomly arriving to spice up his fundraisers or campaign speeches; I don’t care who the crowd is – a parachuting superhero trumps a greying politico.
“A dedicated tanker-shuttle fleet began water and fuel deliveries, leading to the establishment of giant orbital tank-parks where space vehicles can refuel and resources can be shared. A large fleet of tugs, assembled in orbit from parts flown up from Norfolk, efficiently ferry materials without the need for heavy and expensive re-entry shielding. Automated docking has become the norm, and has proceeded without serious failure for twenty years.” He took a sip of his water. I was enjoying the hell out of this.
“Six-passenger tourist flights were succeeded by the twenty-five passenger shuttle in 2019 and the sixty-seater ‘bus’ orbiter in 2026. Dvalin’s newest shuttle, a double-decker, two-hundred seater space taxi, has raised daily carrying capacity to nearly 4000 passengers.” There was a hum of excitement in the room, even though most already had this information. Economies of scale, I mused. All I did was decide we should go. Perhaps it was the shock of realization: in 2010 it took billions of dollars to put seven people in space wrapped in an eggshell; these days, thousands were carried in consummate safety.
The Senator continued for another half hour or so, summing up the extent of our orbital achievements, to which his role in today’s hearing was confined. He did take time to mention a small project of which I was inordinately proud. Way back in 2011, Hal had flown a robotic rescue mission to Mars. Starved of solar power as their arrays were caked with dust, NASA’s hugely successful Spirit and Opportunity rovers were just about dead, until a micro-lander showed up to each site and dusted them off. They had spent ten more years trundling around the Red Planet; NASA, and my ever-loving public, could not have been more grateful. One of the prettier members of the science team at JPL had given me a memorable blow-job, just to say thanks.
Beasley wrapped up and introduced me, rising to shake my hand and lead me to the dais. The room was completely full, I noted, with rows of people standing at the back. Cameras used to click or fizz at moments like this; now they were mostly silent, emitting only the occasional beep.
“Hi everybody,” I began, as I always did. It had been my catchphrase for years. I know, I know, it’s a bit crap, but they’ve loved it from day one. Every comedian or chat-show host who does impressions of me has to start with it. My particular cadence has become almost as well known as Neil’s ‘one small step’ and it never fails to garner a faint, reassured chuckle from the assembled crowd; they enjoyed the show despite themselves. Such is the magnetism of my post-Takanli personality. I owe them so much.
I laid out the history. “Under an agreement, penned five administrations ago but binding in perpetuity to all the signatories, I continue to offer full participation in the Dvalin project in exchange for guaranteed debt forgiveness and inflation-linked increases in foreign aid. So far, one hundred and ninety-seven nations have joined.” The detractors ranged from tiny Bhutan (who felt that capturing a rock from space was not just plainly crazy, but would inevitably bring about the destruction of mankind) to Iceland (whose enigmatic and nationalistic leadership saw me as an overlord, a would-be tyrant who reached for the stars in search only of greater power) to Costa Rica (who are just pissed at me because I was caught in an amorous embrace with their First Lady, the ravishing Consuela Marquez, in the lobby bathroom of the Panama City Marriot three years ago. I fled within an hour of the incident, leading to the first occasion in world history in which an arrest warrant had been issued for someone who was in space. Having personal access to orbit can be just so very convenient).
“Freed of debt, given targeted grants and assisted by advisors, trainers and language specialists, developing-world educational levels rose quickly. In the last twenty years, eight hundred million people have been elevated from the most serious forms of poverty, and literacy rates across Africa and Asia are skyrocketing.” I deliberately expressed these gratifying facts with a certain rhetorical fanfare. A Kenyan team won a spectacular Nobel Prize for Physics, thousands of gifted graduates were pouring out of newly-founded universities and technical institutes, and the improvements in literacy and language skills were staggering. It was like modern education had hit a winning Grand Slam at the World Series. I hid it from no-one: I was proud as hell.
“Intensive investment in education using the profits generated by my space infrastructure services” - those not shrewdly invested by Hal – “have boosted civic institutions and the rule of law, eroded corruption and provided opportunities for billions.” Imagine the Gates Foundation, and all the cool things they got done, and then multiply it by 1000. And then double it every five years.
I bring up these achievements only because I was asked to list them at the hearing. It was a pleasant moment for everyone – a success story in which all had
written a chapter.
“Congressional education funding, as per the agreement, has remained high and the US boasts an engineering base second to none.” The wealth was spread around; a massive new recycling infrastructure (funded by dollar-for-dollar partnerships with local councils and state governments) had dropped international metal prices as high-quality recycled materials became available.
“Africa has been paved with highways and food can now finally move to where it is needed”. My only regret from this splendid local achievement was that Hal’s construction robots could have done it in a twentieth of the time. It did, however, provide millions of jobs, the salaries for which were linked to the local cost of education and food. The continent thrived.
“Pacific oases were created in barren areas by pumping tonnes of nitrates into the water and providing a solid basis for coral”; a sunken aircraft carrier generally did the trick, so starting with the old HMS Invincible, I bought virtually the whole world’s stock of old, large warships, stripped them down, cleaned them up and scuttled them amid the nitrate blooms. The world’s coral reef stocks are in their fifth year of continuous, spectacular gain.
I made sure to take care of my own – and I won’t apologize for it, given how well I took care of everyone else. A Welsh concern, of which I was among the founders, became the world’s largest producer of high-efficiency solar arrays; the shipyards of Barrow-in-Furness now manufactured deep-water submarines and habitats; deep-sea, long-duration astronaut training took place in a Scottish loch.
Voyage Page 46
