Mission: Tomorrow

by Bryan Thomas Schmidt

  I couldn’t leave her here to trap an unsuspecting and lonely miner. But I couldn’t allow a robot capable of murder in my ship, either.

  When we got back to the kitchen and stripped down, Harry rubbed my tight shoulders. “Audrey said something about being able to transfer the claim,” I said quietly.

  He spoke formally, carefully. “We can. That’s what I went back to the ship for. The process will take a week.”

  “What about SpaceComSec and the mayday beacon?”

  “I have videos of both of the dead. They will release you from your mayday obligations.”

  “Thank you.” I sat still and silent, smelling the slightly oily tang of him, memorizing the feel of his hands, the stroke of his fingers on the long, tight muscles that connected shoulder to neck. “You can fly the Belle Amis, can’t you?” I asked him.

  His hands both stopped. I wriggled under them. “Keep going.”

  “Yes, I can fly her.” He squeezed a little harder, and then returned to his perfect, familiar touches. After a long time, he said, “Thank you.”

  A tear rolled down my cheek. A million ways to die out here, but for me it wouldn’t be guilt at stranding Audrey or death at her hands. It might be loneliness. “I’ll miss you.”

  He didn’t say he would miss me. He said, “You will be fine. You’re stronger than Audrey.”

  I let so much time pass that his touch began to abrade my skin. “You will have to take the bodies. I don’t want to live with their ghosts.”

  “We will release them.”

  More tears came. Harry stayed with me, wiping them away one by one.

  They left the next day. I stood out on the regolith holding onto a line and staring up at the Belle Amis as it flew out of sight. That night, I put on some jazz music and danced in the biggest empty room, and from time to time tears fell onto my fingers like glittering stars.

  Brenda Cooper is a working futurist and a technology professional as well as a published science fiction writer. She lives in the Pacific Northwest in a house with as many dogs in it as people. In addition to her several novels, her short fiction appears regularly in Analog and other venues. Her latest novel, The Edge of Dark, was released from Pyr in early 2015. Find out more at www.brenda-cooper.com.

  As we consider privatized space travel, one common topic is what role corporations will play. In our next tale, space-enthusiast-author Michael Capobianco imagines an astronaut caught in a bind when a corporation is in control . . .

  AIRTIGHT

  by Michael Capobianco

  I never get tired of looking at the Earth. From four light-seconds, the Earth is just a little bigger than the Moon from the Earth’s surface, 37ʹ in diameter. From eight light-seconds, half that, but still identifiable as a substantial blue and white marble. That’s about where I am right now, closing in on the extinct cometary nucleus they’re calling Ondine. As I get closer every day, it grows appreciably, but it still looks much smaller than the Earth. I can blow it up on my screen until I can see a wealth of detail on the dark gray surface, but mostly I just like to watch it grow on its own.

  I always get the equivalent of blank stares from the uninitiated when I explain what I’m doing and why. It’s a quirk of the legal system, mostly. The 2035 International Treaty on the Ownership of Small Celestial Bodies specifies that you have to have actual human being(s) come in contact with said celestial body to take ownership. And, to make matters even more fair, said human being(s) cannot sell, license, or otherwise place encumbrances upon their ownership rights until they have taken ownership.

  So I will own Ondine when I get there, assuming that I can “take possession” by putting on the single-use space suit and lighting down on the surface in Ondine’s microgravity. After that . . . well, that’s much more complicated.

  In any case, my name is Lon Innes, and I’ve been bumming around in earth and lunar orbit for most of my thirty-eight odd years. I was one of the first jockeys of the lunar ferry, so I logged a lot of time in space and got my résumé padded with highly complimentary references that I’m still coasting on today. And that led to me being hired for this mission, which is a doozy. Forty weeks in deep space, which is about forty times more than I care to spend exposed to solar and cosmic radiation, but they provided the appropriate medications and will potentially make it worth my while. Ondine is in a very particular orbit, you see. It’s heading for a close pass by the Earth-Moon system in about three months, which, if everything is jiggered correctly, will bring it back into a lunar capture orbit in about twenty-nine years. It won’t take a lot of delta-vee to get it there; in fact, Ondine’s orbit so closely matches Earth’s right now that it only comes by about once a half century. The rest of the time it’s either slowly catching up to Earth or slowly pulling away. Hardly any eccentricity, either. It’s a celestial-body owner’s dream come true.

  Because . . . water mainly. No one knows for sure what’s inside what is almost certainly a very thin coating of organic materials left behind when the outer layer of the comet evaporated into space and put on a spectacular show. But planetary scientists know enough about comets now after exploring twenty or so that they can make fairly good guesses. And the guesses all come down to an enormous quantity of H20, which, at present prices, is worth a few billion cu’s in a suitable microgravity environment that can be reached with minimal delta-vee.

  There’s no way to effectively orbit a body as small as Ondine. Its gravity is so low that the best you can do is maneuver into a matching heliocentric orbit close by and use the thrusters to keep your position. And so, when the time was ripe, I dropped MK212 down to within less than a kilometer of the surface, and set the autopilot. Fortunately, Ondine is a fairly regular little guy, almost spherical except for a big crater taken out of the northwestern quadrant (as arbitrarily defined by the mapping software) and a barely noticeable bulge at the South Pole. Also, luckily for me, it’s not a fast rotator, spinning at a leisurely full rotation in 17 hours. I’ve heard some stories from the sole proprietors who’ve been claiming pieces of solar detritus in Earth orbit, and it’s almost impossible to do if the things are irregular and spinning too fast.

  I’ve been in full communication with Earth during this whole trip, and that has made everything go a lot faster, but as the distance grew, the time delay became more and more annoying. A three-second lag is a real conversation killer, but sixteen seconds is even worse. Of course, there’s plenty of onboard memory, and I made sure it was packed with every conceivable game, movie, interactive, and simulation, so that’s not been a problem. I pretty much gave up on spoken conversations and rely on audiotext messages, except when I really want to hear someone’s voice in near-real time. That hasn’t happened lately. In this particular case, now that I’m here, I need to report and respond to the big boss’s questions, so I lock my eyes on the main screen, turn on the link, and direct the call to headquarters.

  “Hello, folks. As I’m sure you can tell from the sensor relays, I’m here. Everything is, as they say, nominal. I’m going to sleep for a few hours before I stake my claim, so don’t get worried if I’m not reporting.”

  Bezospace’s Vice President in Charge of Legal, Donna Sutherland, a chunky, dark-haired woman of indeterminate age, is sitting within the camera view next to BS’s CEO, smiling old silver fox Jonnie Nyvatten. I haven’t seen him since shortly before launch, when he came up into NEO to wish me well and reassure me that, even though there could be no formal agreement between us, BS understood that I would be well compensated and there would be no legal shenanigans once I had succeeded in setting foot on Ondine and could begin negotiations. Neither of us would say anything until that happened, so why was Sutherland here?

  Sixteen seconds pass, and I see Nyvatten’s smile widen. “I just wanted to congratulate you on your accomplishments so far, Nebulon. My techies tell me that you’ve used much less than the predicted amount of fuel to reach the hoverpoint, and the Autonomous Unit is fully checked out and ready to go once we�
��ve reached a deal. Best of luck to you during the most hazardous part of the mission. I have every confidence in you, Neb.”

  “That’s fine,” I say. Not much more to say, actually, at this point. Yes, that’s my first name, and that’s why I automatically correct him. “Lon.”

  Sixteen seconds. Sutherland leans in a little toward the camera, dark swatch of hair slipping down over that smooth, ivory forehead, and the enhanced stereo effect makes the look in her hazel eyes deep and profound. “I’m looking forward to the signing-over ceremony, Mr. Innes. I’m sure we’ll be able to get you started back to Earth in no time.”

  Strangely, this doesn’t sound very comforting.

  Did I mention that my sponsors have designed this mission to be as inexpensive as possible? That’s why there’s only one person aboard, if you hadn’t figured that out. While all of the water and oxygen is recycled very efficiently, they did have to provide decent food for a long journey, and that takes up twice as much space if there are two. Saves on rocket fuel, too. And it makes it much easier to divvy up the proceeds.

  Even after almost three months, I haven’t gotten sick of the various kinds of bars that fill a good percentage of the storage space in the mid-module. If anything, it’s the lack of variety in texture that gets a little wearing. And the lack of easily readable labeling. I get ready for bed by stripping off my flight suit, nestle into the coolest part of the command space, and pull out what I think will be a crunchy, fried meat roll-up and some “celery with cream cheese” sticks and unwrap them, letting the clear wrappers float up into the disposal airflow. And then it’s sleepy time.

  I put my head in the half-clear suit’s helmet, twisting the fasteners tight and the space suit inflates with a loud hiss. I’m not going to pretend this isn’t going to be dangerous. Emergency space suits are foolproof to put on and are reliable, but going out into the micro-G environment of a basically unknown cometary surface is fraught with all sorts of potential hazards, and touching down too hard or at the wrong angle could raise an opaque cloud of regolith dust that would take hours to dissipate. I’ve got many hours of practice with this rig, and I know the maneuvering unit’s strengths and weaknesses, but . . .

  It takes about nine minutes to depressurize the crew quarters. Not the most elegant system, but this is basically a second-generation Dragon capsule with an overlay of new electronics, and it doesn’t have any amenities.

  Every time I’ve done this before, I’ve been tethered, so it does feel strange to float away from the open hatch. I catch myself on the handgrip on the inside of the swung-wide hatch door, shrug to better situate the maneuvering unit’s harness, and let myself go, executing a 180 and then dead stop.

  Prepositions like above and below don’t mean much to someone who’s spent as much time weightless as I have. It’s just there. A vast wall of marbled slate, filling up my vision, irregularities masked by the low phase angle. I know that it’s intrinsically very dark, far darker than asphalt, but it seems bright compared to the ring of starless space around it.

  It’s time to start documenting this historic mission, for the sake of posterity but also because this is the only way I’ll be able to prove that I conformed to the letter of the Treaty. Mounted over my shoulder is the tamper-proof evidentiary camera that must be delivered intact to the authorities before the claim can be certified. It is protected by an impregnable shell and records on a nonmagnetic substrate that can’t be modified once the images have been laid down. An external laser activated from my glove turns it on. A standard helmet cam also sends an image back to Earth via MK212.

  If I try, I can imagine that I’m falling, but in fact, I’m propelling myself to a point on the surface where Ondine’s rotation is minimal. I find my shadow, a slightly irregular blob of real black among swirls of dark and lighter gray. Still no sign of the boulders and concavities that show on the imagemap. I’m breathing harder, and there’s a faint tang of ozone.

  As my trajectory takes me toward the pole, the shadows start to break out, and I get more of a sense of the approaching surface. There are certainly spots that I need to avoid, but a big, flat area is coming up that should present no problem. The last few seconds it does feel like falling, but when I touch down, there’s hardly any sensation through the boots. A puff of regolith spins up and spreads out on ballistic trajectories, but it’s not a problem.

  And suddenly, it’s mine. Whatever good sense that would make me want to just make the claim and get out of there is held off for a minute by sheer sense of wonder. In all directions, broken, crumbling ash like someone had emptied out a thousand cremation urns here. Above, and it truly feels like above, MK212 is a tiny, irregular stylus shape, Autonomous Unit mounted on the docking hatch at the forward end like a small head. Overwhelmed by the Sun, no stars are visible, no Earth-Moon, but there’s still a deepness to it all.

  But it is, after all, time. I remove the evidentiary camera from its holdtight and hold it at arm’s length, so it can see both me and the surface. With the other hand I pull the metal ball that’s encoded with my information and let it fall. It takes a full minute, but when it’s down the process is complete. No need to say anything, but I do. “Thank you, Ondine. You’ve made me very happy.”

  And I’m back. Inevitably, removing the emergency space suit renders it unusable a second time, but unless something goes disastrously wrong, I won’t need one, since MK212’s trunk is pressurized and accessible. And if something goes disastrously wrong, I’m pretty much screwed whether I can do an EVA or not.

  My lawyer is located in the Leeuwenhoek complex on the Farside, where they operate on the standard UTC day-and-night schedule, so I can give her a call and expect to find her in her office. The protocol we’ve developed includes a number of encryption algorithms, but, considering the fact that I’m using Bezospace software mounted in Bezospace hardware, it’s likely that it won’t be secure.

  Xandra Rawal swims up out of the depths of the viewscreen, and then the back wall of her office crystallizes behind her. Even as a projection, she comes across as a solid mass of chutzpah. First impression comes from the chiseled strength in her cheeks and jaw, barely softened by the stylish sweeps of crimson and blue that enclose the face in parentheses. At the moment, she looks thoughtful, her dark, tattoo-shadowed eyes staring into middle space until they snap on to my image.

  “Congrats, Mr. Innes. Your success has already been announced, and is dominating the collective mind for at least a few hours. I have heard from your sponsors, and that doesn’t bode so well, I’m afraid.”

  Fuck. I did sort of anticipate this, but it still takes the edge off my elation. Is she waiting for me to say something? The lag is excruciating.

  “The contract they offer is, perhaps, the worst of its kind I have ever seen. Certainly the worst aspect of it is an undefined net amount rather than the gross percentage you presumably want. The deductions are computed on the basis of future expenditures that I can only characterize as flights of fancy.”

  She scowls down at the audiotext function of her desk. “And they have said right out that this aspect of the contract is nonnegotiable. Now, you and I both know that that would normally be just a negotiating tactic, but, in this case, I’m afraid they’re backing it up with threats.”

  “Threats?” I say, knowing that the word will probably arrive in the middle of her next statement. “What kind of threats?”

  And indeed, she continues to speak. “I’ve looked through the language of the Treaty and even into the stated intentions of the treaty parties and it’s obvious that they never anticipated something like this. Even though the intent of that section is to give sole possession to any explorer who sets foot on a minor planet, there are no provisions that cover what happens afterward. In fact, Bezospace would probably be within their rights to just turn off MK212 and let you die.”

  “That’s why you’ve drawn up the trust, though, right?” Which ties up the rights to Ondine and puts them in limbo practically forever
if I don’t make it back. “I’m ready to sign it now, by the way.”

  After a while, she looks back at me. “The paperwork should already be there. The threat, however, is not so severe. They indicate that unless you sign the contract as is, they will not modify Ondine’s orbit and it will continue on in its Earth-crossing orbit. Your ownership would then, of course, be valueless.”

  “Send them the counteroffer we discussed. I give you full authority to negotiate in my stead. You know what I want, and what I won’t accept.”

  Rawal fades and I open the trust document, read through it quickly, authorize it with full authentication, and dispatch it to the lunar cloud for safekeeping. It should protect me.

  Exactly three hours later, there’s a rude noise and the viewscreen comes back on. It’s Sutherland, alone this time. That didn’t take long. I climb out of the exercise cage that takes up a good portion of the command deck and push off, catching a handhold to swing myself down into the position to interact.

  She pushes in against the limit of the stereo, and I can’t help but compare her to my own lawyer. She’s just as much of a hard-ass, but it’s expressed in a totally different way. I would dearly love to watch the two of them engaged in negotiating the contract.

  “Mr. Innes, Lon, it’s good to see you again. It’s so gratifying that the mission has progressed so smoothly. I must tell you, however, that your associate, Ms. Rawal, is not behaving very professionally. I think it would be best if we left third parties out of the discussion.”