by Issui Ogawa
Launch vehicles and engine sales also presented problems. In 1969, Japan’s Diet had resolved that the nation would use rockets only for peaceful purposes. But in those days, “rocket” meant “missile,” and the resolution became an obstacle for exports. This Cold War holdover prevented Japan from exporting the LE-5A, its first domestically produced rocket engine. That was in 1988.
Japan’s government had grown more pragmatic on such matters, but the ’69 resolution continued to hinder space-related commerce, like a useless antique no one was willing to discard. Japan’s bureaucrats winced at the prospect of exporting TROPHY. TGT might be a private company, but most of its facilities, technology, and personnel had formerly been under government control. In the end, TGT did not have the leverage to overcome bureaucratic resistance. If overseas buyers could not lay their hands on the real thing, they would have to examine published documents and attempt to build a TROPHY engine themselves.
Still, for a world groaning under the unbelievable cost of putting a payload into space—three hundred thousand yen to put a single gram into low earth orbit—TROPHY was a gift from heaven. For only 1.6 billion yen, an Adam rocket could put as much payload into low earth orbit—a hundred tons—as the Soviet Union’s titanic N1 rocket.
In the seventeenth century, passage across the Atlantic in a sailing ship cost the equivalent of two years’ wages for a laborer; jet aircraft reduced the cost to a few tens of thousands of yen. Now nations and corporations around the world were vying to develop TROPHY-equipped launch vehicles. The wheel was about to turn once more.
ON HER FIRST flight to Tanegashima, Reika Hozumi realized that her outlook on life had changed.
Until then, everything for her had been about numbers. As ELE’s auditor, she had reviewed the expenses for every division. The only question on her mind was whether spending would yield profit. ELE was an integrated entertainment enterprise, but life on the inside was not all dreams and fantasy. Instead, just as the company delivered a carefully calibrated experience to its visitors, it stringently tracked each and every yen, reckoning its profits precisely. This was Reika’s job. In her mind, if an activity did not create profit, it was nothing less than chicanery, even if it was positioned as service to society.
Then Ryuichi had thrown her world into chaos.
Profits? Unnecessary. Service to society? Secondary. The goal was pure flight. To Reika, Ryuichi’s obsession seemed a frighteningly personal, almost childish hobby. Yet she could only be astounded that this hobbyist had taken on the government and giant corporations, built a private company as his personal vehicle, nurtured an astonishing new invention, and was now positioned to make enormous profits.
By working with him, her world had broadened. It was not only that Ryuichi was extremely capable. He was continually pushing forward, almost heedless of those around him. The passion, the psychological fire that animated him, burned brightly. Sometimes this energy was destructive. How many times had he bellowed at her when she’d tried to knock some sense into him with graphs, charts, and formulas? “That’s beside the point!” was his mantra. Everything that stood in the way of successfully launching Eve, Adam, and Apple was irrelevant. Return on investment? Cost/ benefit? Beside the point—things would work out in the end. And indeed they had, and he kept moving ahead, always confident that they would. In a sense, Reika saw him as wisely reckless.
So when Ryuichi said he’d be in the Apple capsule for the first training exercise of Japan’s first manned spacecraft, Reika was hardly surprised. Instead she was concerned, and for the first time she worried about his recklessness and where it might lead, rather than simply viewing his seemingly rash decisions with contempt.
Reika got the news flash from TGT during an auditing meeting at ELE headquarters. It was then that she realized just how afraid she had been. There had been a wiring fault in the capsule—and a fire.
All that was needed to send her running out of the meeting were the words “capsule” and “fire.” TGT’s Tobishima factory was close to ELE. She rushed there in a taxi, but Ryuichi had already been taken to a hospital. When she arrived at the emergency room, Ryuichi had embraced her with his bandaged arms.
That was a year ago. Since then, Reika had come to realize that no woman before her had ever argued so much with TGT’s president. She hadn’t laughed at his dreams or stood noncommittally watching from a distance. She was the first to meet him head-on, the first to refuse to bend.
“I have to admit, it’s fun having a worthy opponent.” Ryuichi stood with Reika on the catwalk at TGT, looking down on the first flight-ready Apple spacecraft. “And you certainly are worthy, Ms. Hozumi. Hey, it’s a compliment.”
“Can’t you find a better way to compliment me?” Reika sulked and looked away, then leaned her shoulder against Ryuichi. “And please don’t call me ‘Ms. Hozumi.’ My name is Reika.”
“Sure. Reika. As I said, I do enjoy catching hell from you.”
“That is not a compliment!”
They watched the activity in the assembly room as they bickered. Surrounded by technicians swathed in clean suits, Apple awaited its baptism by fire.
IMAGES OF CONSTRUCTION on the moon were broadcast around the world. In a single day, the Sixth Continent website received an unprecedented 140 million hits. Viewers of 1,200 web dailies in 115 countries saw Dozer 1 lift the largest boulder on the construction site, dubbed Ayers Rock. Twenty-two toy companies requested permission from Gotoba Engineering to market plastic multidozer models. While they waited for an answer, pirate versions spread across Asia and South America.
Companies selling lunar real estate had been around since the last century; now there were companies purporting to sell homes on the moon. Lured by virtual tours and slick presentations, more than five thousand people made hefty down payments. The media assumed Gotoba Engineering was behind it—it was, after all, a construction company—and the company became a target of fierce criticism. After struggling unsuccessfully to explain that they were in partnership with two other companies to build a wedding palace, were not in a position to sell homes on their own, and were not going to build homes in any case, Gotoba’s PR team threw up their hands.
Most of the victims were in the United States, where a class action suit was brought against Gotoba. The suit alleged that the company never made it clear they did not actually build homes. With Gotoba’s PR people on the ropes, Tae brought in Eden’s own experts to fight back. They mounted a campaign that adroitly positioned ELE as the victim and assembled their own legal team for a countersuit. Tae’s deep pockets, her understanding of American ways, and her intelligence offset Eden’s disadvantages at mounting a suit in a U.S. court. In three months, the complaint was reluctantly withdrawn, though the Americans refused to concede that Gotoba was blameless. But about half the members of the class action suit ended up applying for tours of Sixth Continent, and five hundred new Tae Toenji fan sites sprang up. The firewall on Tae’s wearcom was strengthened.
“EXCUSE ME. ARE you Tae Toenji?”
The maglev express platform, Tokyo Station. The man was in his thirties and wore a polo shirt and a nervous look. Sohya, walking behind Tae, quickly interposed himself between her and the man.
“I’m sorry. You’re mistaken.”
“Why, you’re Sohya Aomine! So she must be Tae Toenji.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
Tae tugged at Sohya’s sleeve and whispered, “It’s all right, Sohya.”
“Hold on.” He turned to the man. “I’m sorry, but I need your name and wearcom number.” The man identified himself as a high school teacher from Kyoto. Sohya input the information and snapped the man’s picture with his wearcom. He had his answer in thirty seconds: the man seemed to be who he said he was. His sophomores were in Tokyo on a field trip, and he was acting as their guide. Sure enough, around a hundred young people in school uniforms were watching with great interest from a short distance. They must have pressured him, thought Sohy
a. Well, he’s not a deviant or a terrorist.
The information came from ELE’s security department. Two of their plainclothes members were on the platform at this very moment, carefully observing the scene. Gotoba headquarters was in the heart of Tokyo, and Tae used the maglev whenever she visited on business. Given her wealth and celebrity, a security detail was a sensible precaution.
But Tae did not enjoy having bodyguards, and it became Sohya’s job to accompany her whenever she visited Tokyo. It was his idea, even though it took him away from work.
Having confirmed the man was harmless, Sohya bowed. “My apologies. Not everyone approaches Miss Toenji with good intentions.”
“No—it’s all right. You need to be careful.”
Sohya stepped aside. The man looked at Tae and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to trouble you. My students wanted your autograph. The only way I could stop them from mobbing you was to approach you myself. I’m sorry, I know we’re bothering you.”
“No, I’m flattered.” Tae smiled and waved at the students. They burst into cheers of excitement. “Thanks for your support, everyone,” Tae called. “I hope you’ll visit my Sixth Continent someday!”
The boys whistled. The girls squealed. Other people on the platform began to stare. Tae waved to everyone, then spoke to the teacher. “You said something about a signature.” The man held out a copy of the field trip guide. Tae signed it with a flourish.
“And, er…could I shake your hand?” Sohya moved to intervene, but Tae shook her head and grasped the man’s hand.
“We wish you the best of luck,” the man said. Tae thanked him.
He seemed to be gripping her slender fingers harder than necessary. Sohya broke in. “I’m sorry, but we must be going.”
“Mr. Aomine, could I shake your hand too?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your hand. Can I shake it?”
Baffled, Sohya extended his hand. The man’s eyes twinkled like a child’s as he gripped Sohya’s hand with both his own. “You went to the moon! It’s so great, I can’t believe I’m actually meeting you. And now you’re building a base up there. What an amazing feat!”
Sohya mumbled thanks. The man pumped Sohya’s hand up and down, full of excitement. “Actually, the students are interested in Ms. Toenji, but I really wanted to meet you. I’ve been interested in space travel since I was a kid. I even made a stab at becoming an astronaut.” He reluctantly released Sohya’s hand. “We’re all behind you. Good luck!”
Sohya struggled to assume his media smile and thanked the teacher again, who then rejoined his students. Sohya waved, but they didn’t leave. They kept looking at him and Tae.
Sohya looked at his open palm, still warm from the man’s grip. “I’m sorry I doubted him. I guess some people are just nice.”
“Yes. They’re everywhere.” Tae’s voice was toneless. Sohya looked at her. She glanced away. “Everyone is so nice. They want my signature, but they don’t want to be my friend.”
“What do you expect? You’re—”
“Different. I know. So what does that make you?”
“I’m different too. Anyway, you don’t have to be self-conscious around me,” said Sohya.
“Of course I do. The security detail is watching you too.”
“Yeah, I noticed that.”
“You did?” Tae looked at him. Sohya smiled.
“I’m not dumb enough to think I’m trusted by the people who look after you. But that’s fine. The security guys are like your accessories. They’re just there for your safety.”
Tae was silent for a moment. “That’s what I like about you,” she said.
“I know. I assume I’m still a candidate for boyfriend. Or am I out?”
Tae laughed lightly. “Let’s just say you’re still the number one candidate.” Her smile finally returned.
“I’m glad I’m number one. I’ll try to make sure I don’t slip to second place. You know…if you had more friends, you might not be building Sixth Continent.” Sohya looked at her questioningly. “You said you wanted people to be able to live on the moon, to make it part of humanity’s world. But you also said there was another reason. What is it?”
“Another reason…” The arrival warning sounded, cutting Tae off. The streamlined maglev glided into the station. The doors opened in front of them. Tae looked back at Sohya. “I’ll tell you next time. Let’s say goodbye here.”
“Okay. See you.”
Tae took her seat in the first-class car. Sohya lifted his hand in farewell. She kept glancing at him. Sohya looked back at her and pondered.
The thousands of people working to make Sixth Continent a reality had diverse motives. Tae was the axis around which all these motives revolved. Yet it seemed that she herself had multiple reasons for pursuing the project. What she had let slip so far was somewhat different from what she was telling the world in her PR program. What was her true motive? Sohya still did not quite know, and she wouldn’t tell him. He knew there was no point in asking again. She’d tell him when she was ready.
The departure buzzer sounded, and the express silently moved forward. Tae wasn’t looking at him now. That was a bit of a worry.
ADAM 2 AND 3 delivered full payloads to the moon without incident: more multidozers and a unit called a bulk shooter, a linear-induction drive conveyer system designed to hurl excavated soil over the lunar surface. Prepping and paving roadbeds to transport excavated material would delay the project timeline. Hauling regolith would consume large amounts of energy. The most efficient approach would be to move only the material itself. That meant hurling it across the surface.
Dozers 2 and 3 worked together to carry the bulk shooter, which was also standardized at a weight of five tons, into Eden Crater. Dozer 2’s power cable snapped partway through the climb over the crater walls, but once in motion, the multidozers were able to electrolyze their internal water supply to make hydrogen and oxygen for their fuel cells. This allowed Dozer 2 to make its way back to the Turtle and retrieve a new cable.
The bulk shooter was safely transported to the center of the crater. It threw permafrost excavated by Dozer 2 a full kilometer at forty meters per second. Once solar panels were installed on the crater’s far side, power would be available round the clock. And once the area around the Turtle was ready to receive the material, the plan was to hurl it all the way out of the crater, a distance of two kilometers.
The world was transfixed by images of regolith shot through with golden threads fountaining across the lunar surface. Moonrelated fiction flew off the shelves of bookstores, from science fiction by Arthur C. Clarke to works by storyteller Jules Verne, the founder of the genre. Publishers rushed to meet demand with paperbacks and comics, and representatives from Hollywood visited ELE. The world was engulfed in a passion for anything relating to space.
Maybe it was because the world was now so interconnected that strife between peoples had eased, armed conflict had diminished, and the money and resources devoted to military aims were seeking somewhere else to go. Maybe it was because the emerging countries had become more skilled at diplomacy that aid to them had increased. Protection and recovery of their still-significant environmental assets had succeeded, and they were able to stand on their own feet economically, so the world as a whole had become more affluent. Maybe it was because China had closed down Kunlun Base two years ago, and people were hungry for the next big thing in space exploration. Maybe it was the dizzying speed with which new forms of entertainment were appearing and falling out of favor. The people of the developed world were waiting for something new to entertain them, and Sixth Continent was the ideal dream.
Whatever the reason, Tae’s vision had become the focus of feverish worldwide expectation.
But not everyone welcomed the prospect of a wedding palace on the moon—those who had first sent men to another world. Those who had left twelve sets of footprints on the moon, carried out photoreconnaissance of every planet in the solar system, and boastfu
lly regarded it as their territory. Those who constituted Earth’s most elite and ambitious fraternity…
As far as NASA was concerned, they had not been beaten yet.
[4]
“WHY IS GOING into space so important?”
Reika kicked the tops of the little breakers along the beach with her bare foot, scattering a line of droplets across the tide’s calm surface. Then she sneezed. Even on Tanegashima, the December weather was cold.
“Because it’s too comfortable here.” Ryuichi took off his jacket and put it around her shoulders. She whispered thanks and put her hand on her shoulder, where his hand was.
“What do you mean?”
“The earth is too kind to us. She protects us from space so well that we don’t even need clothes. Otherwise we’d be dead.”
“We still get colds.”
They exchanged smiles and walked on side by side, carrying their shoes and socks, feeling the sand with their bare feet.
“I’m thankful for it, but I don’t like being overprotected,” said Ryuichi.
“Why?”
“I know what happens to people who are coddled too much. My brother was one of them. We came from a pretty rich family. He had three private tutors all through school. He made it into Tokyo University but spent all his time betting on horses and dropped out. He ended up blowing the family’s wealth. I’ve seen firsthand how money comes. Also how it goes.”
“I’m grateful to your brother then. Thanks to him, you’re here with me.”
“I think we would’ve met no matter what path my life took.”
“Is it fate then?” she asked.
“No. I would’ve found you somehow.” He held her closer. Reika didn’t want to say it, but at last she had to.
“I wish you wouldn’t go. When I think of you going into space…I can’t bear it.”
