The Hundred Gram Mission

by Navin Weeraratne

  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.[v] 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.[vi]

  "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.[vii] 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 Pi
eter, 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,"[viii] 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.