The Pilots of Borealis

by David Nabhan

  “HAVE YOU EVER HAD yellow flux?”

  That was the first thing Stanislaus said to him, beaming amicably and pointing to two steaming, jaundiced plates on a serving table next to a nearby settee. Before Rittener could answer Stanislaus upped the ante.

  “My wife made that for you; yellow flux is her specialty. This is the Mc Coy.” He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “She admires you, Clinton Rittener, and made me promise.” He motioned for the two of them to be seated for lunch. “Would you join me?”

  Rittener didn’t hesitate at an answer. “How kind of your wife. I never get home cooking.”

  Dr. Stanislaus wanted to make sure this all turned out right. He solicitously offered a dollop of fresh, incomparably exquisite Borelian honey. “You have to try it this way.” A few scoops later and Rittener was shaking his head in grudging admission, just a little faked. “That’s got an interesting taste, not bad at all.” He put his head to the side and pronounced, “It tastes a little like sweet mustard.”

  “Exactly,” Slanislaus agreed. “You’ve tried others? You’ve had the red?”

  “Yes, blue-green and red both.” Rittener thought back to the unpleasant experiences. “Spicy,” he commented off-handedly, but yet making the Galilean hand signal for “too much.” This one had currency throughout the Solar System, including Borealis.

  “Aside from the lack of home-cooked meals, everything else is well?” Stanislaus wasn’t just being polite. Rittener, until he settled in and his status changed, was a guest of the Borelian government. He was being quartered in the Basement, a growing subterranean space beneath the Core and spreading under the Garden. Tourists never asked to see this section of Borealis—vast research, infrastructural, industrial, commercial, and government centers were located here. The great mansions that lined the terraces weren’t for rent, and buying one was next to impossible, even if technically legal. Extended families lived in them for centuries and were planning to do so for centuries to come. So new arrivals, however few, were treated the same as legations, or business and trade delegates. There were no hotels on Borealis; one either lived here or was somebody the government deemed significant enough to have permitted to visit. Concerning such obviously important guests, their tab for room and board didn’t figure in the least with regards to how visitors came and went on Borealis, and so everything was at the government’s expense.

  Rittener’s quarters were spacious and well-lit by plenty of natural sunlight brought in with architecturally pleasing fiber optics skylights. The housing ombudsman instructed him to just ask his amanuensis for anything—anything at all—and any furnishings, artistic décor, and the rest would be subject to no limit save Rittener’s satisfaction. His stipend of credits for food and any other incidentals far exceeded his expenses.

  “Everything is well, thank you,” Rittener answered.

  Stanislaus was taking two scoops of flux for every one of his guest. Still, here was an opportunity to offer a genuine compliment.

  “Best flux I’ve ever tasted,” Rittener complimented honestly. “Please tell your wife I said so?”

  Stanislaus liked that of course but he didn’t say so. Instead he put his spoon down, folded his hands in front of him, and got straight to the point.

  “Everyone has a job on Borealis,” Stanislaus said it as a matter of fact and as the slogan it was. This wasn’t Earth, for goodness sake. Unemployment didn’t exist on Borealis and hadn’t for centuries. “So what will you do? Soldier, surveyor, gardener, miner, or something else? You’ve given some thought to this, no?”

  Rittener didn’t hesitate for an instant. “I want to pilot. If I live the rest of my days flying on Borealis I’ll end up being a very happy man.”

  Stanislaus was rubbing his mustache with his index finger. “Piloting? Well, you’ve set the bar quite high, even for a man like yourself.” He civilly kept his opinion about Rittener’s age to himself and how a piloting career, at best, would be measured into the future in months, not years. Now he stroked the facial hair with his whole hand; he was thinking deeper. “Of course, I do have a thing or two to say about sports on Borealis.” Then he added politely, “I saw you fly; you’re an exceptional pilot.” Rittener knew he was mediocre compared to the talent on Borealis but it was in his interest to play along too. Stanislaus’ next question came unexpected.

  “How did you manage to save that girl, Darda, at Tartarus?” he asked, practically in monotone, impressed but with a slight reluctance to accept the facts. “And live through it?”

  Rittener described how he’d backed air when reaching Darda, gripping her around the waist with both legs, using explicit piloting parlance so Stanislaus should see it correctly. It was some tricky piloting, Rittener admitted. “It might have been the best flying I’ve done in a while.”

  “Please,” Stanislaus held up his right hand and almost challenged, as if asking a magician to explain a trick. “I’m a fair judge of what constitutes expert flying. This hand has inscribed every pilot on Borealis. I know how you did it, but would like to know how you did it.”

  Rittener said it so matter of fact. “I expected sooner or later one or the other of the maintenance or emergency locks would be opened.”

  This didn’t clarify at all for Stanislaus. “So you gambled your life on this?”

  “In a way, if you insist . . .” Clinton made light of the odds. “But really, Doctor, how high would you rate the probabilities of the System ignoring three human beings flying, and suffocating, inside a carbon dioxide tube, even in such a far-flung locale as Tartarus?”

  “Makes sense,” Stanislaus almost groused. Now he worked his beard with real purpose, making it lay smooth. “Still, you made it half-way back up, even dragging Darda with you, and uphill.” There was a mixture of amazement and admiration in the words. “Do you think you’d have made it to the top?”

  Rittener’s blue eye had seemingly come to life at the query. As a doctor, Stanislaus knew that was impossible. The rest of Rittener’s bearing though at the same time went flat and drained. The pause that followed was interminable—literally. Clinton didn’t answer, and yet it wasn’t an insolent silence, just hush for a question that shouldn’t have been asked, let alone answered. He’d watched and learned first-hand how to make quiet speak with great effect from one of the best tacticians—his father.

  Stanislaus gave in finally and moved on. “Daiyu and I have spoken about you.”

  Stanislaus and the poetess Daiyu were the moderates on the Council, Rittener knew. They worked together, voted together, and were courted by the other coalitions wishing to acquire the all-important six-vote majority. “I’m sure a place could be found for you in the diplomatic corps as well.” Daiyu was in charge of Borealis’ foreign ministry, and from the conspiratorial tone Stanislaus was using, it was being made clear that “pilot” and “agent” were very close to synonymous on Borealis. The councilor’s next remark took on a chummy air. “That’s quite an offer to consider, Mr. Rittener. An assistant attaché is a high station, and doesn’t come without quite generous credits.”

  Rittener hadn’t come to Borealis for the credits. And the offer of Borelian diplomatic credentials, something that meant nothing less than entry into the most rarified heights in existence, even this wasn’t it either. Rittener’s expression of mild interest in both Stanislaus judged sincere, as incomprehensible as that was, and that made him a bit nervous. He regretted offering both like that now but it was his policy to just say things plainly. Humility wasn’t a Borelian virtue and its councilors ate flux, not humble pie. He bit down on his lower lip, squirmed a little in his chair, and then slowly came out with it.

  “Or, maybe, Mr. Rittener,” he paused. “Maybe you’re just a genuine friend of Borealis. Maybe you’re one of the last people in the Solar System that aren’t merely bought and sold. Maybe you’re here of your own volition, nothing ulterior. A pilot would be able to explain that.”

  “Living correctly,” Rittener repeated the pilot co
de.

  Rittener’s expression had changed; it was perceptible.

  “That’s right,” Stanislaus continued, “maybe you’re here because you think it’s the right thing to do. And if that’s the case, with your history on Mars, the Asteroid Belt, and the rest of the Outer, not to mention your connections on the Terran Ring and with the alliances on Earth, I’m guessing what you might be able to share your first day could be worth an entire diplomatic career.”

  That sounded weighty enough so he thinned it out with a joke. “Who knows? I’m a fair man. I might vote to credential and retire you on the same day if that’s the case.”

  Rittener smiled at the silliness. “Hired and retired on the same day? Is that legal?”

  Stanislaus smiled back. “It would require some wrangling . . . but yes, I guess it is.” Rittener knew he was going to say it. “Everything, you know, is possible on the Moon.” He almost guessed the next words too. “Your opinions, especially, about the Terran Ring are of particular importance to us.”

  Stanislaus had imagined he was in charge of this conversation. Rittener leaned forward now and let him know he wasn’t. It struck like a punch, immediately disabusing Stanislaus of the error in his appraisal.

  “Councilor, I am here as a friend of Borealis. And as a friend I’m telling you that your worst enemy now is yourselves. Borealis can’t win a war with Terra—the idea itself is ludicrous. It simply can’t be done. I know what they’re capable of and how strong the hawks on the Ring are now. You’re playing right into their hands by acting the flint for their steel. These are sparks you should want to see extinguished.”

  The councilor was caught off-guard but recovered quickly and jabbed back. “That’s a clever turn of phrase,” Stanislaus wasn’t complimenting though. “There are a number of powers maneuvering to pounce on Borealis’ resources who send us far less flowing ultimatums. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind saying what you mean more plainly. I assume you’re referring to helium-3?

  “Borealis has been an honest broker, posting in every interplanetary forum the accurate figures of the h3 mined and shipped, revealing the evidence our explorers have meticulously compiled, explaining the disappointingly finite supply left. I don’t know if the Terrans are simply blind or if their thinly veiled threats imply other disabilities. You rather know them; what’s your opinion?”

  “Well,” Rittener pointed out, “there’s an outstanding Terran capital warrant with my name on it so I’ll vouch that they make mistakes from time to time.”

  Stanislaus matched Clinton’s black humor on the death warrant, “It’s nothing personal, I’m sure.

  “Just because prospectors have been rubbing their hands together at what they expected to find as they moved south doesn’t mean things had to turn out that way. Everyone in the Solar System had better get used to the fact—and quickly.” He sounded like a teacher scolding a middle school class. “There’ll be fresh supplies soon at hand, around the equator and further down into the temperate zone of the southern hemisphere.” Stanislaus put on the same face of exasperation Rittener had seen on Rufinus talking about Australis. “But, as Borealis had said so often, there is none to be found in a vast area cupping the Lunar South Pole, extending up to the 65th parallel. This helium-3 wasteland is real and all those from Earth to Titan still wearing tinfoil hats about this need to take them off and to start thinking constructively.”

  He finished his lecture, sat back and punctuated it. “We don’t have a wand to wave so that Terra’s energy problems can be solved.”

  “With all due respect, Dr. Stanislaus,” Rittener said, “I believe the Terran Ring is asking for something less than that. Their claim is that they should have some say in their own future.”

  That future was being jeopardized by the rationing plan the Borelians seemed determined to implement. It was going to hurt, but the pain was to be spread around, and it was the only option available—other than war, of course. Earth, Terra, and all the smaller states were to receive a fixed share of the supply. The most renowned economists, mathematicians, engineers, planners, and logisticians alive had done their best to calculate how that burden should be shared fairly. No one was to be cut off, yet no party would be able to satisfy all of its former demands. According to the calculus, a few decades of steadily shrinking supplies were left—for all. This was the clarion call. Earth and Terra should have complained the least, so close to the giant ball of fusing hydrogen they’d almost ignored for so long. There was their future—Sol—and the plan put them on notice to either make the switch or stumble back into pre-telegraphic times. As for Mars, the Asteroid Belt, and the rest of the Outer—well, the future was a little less secure for them. Further out from the Sun they’d have to solve some monumental engineering problems to get at the helium-3 on the gas giants of the Outer Solar System. It looked impossible now, but it wasn’t wise to bet against human ingenuity, especially when pushed into a corner.

  “The Terrans have their own figures they’d like considered,” Rittener said politely. “It’s their view that Borealis’ distribution graphs were crafted more by the armies of lobbyists and teams of deal-making legations that flooded in to help Borealis with the plan.” There was no polite way to say that. “It couldn’t hurt to look at the figures again, could it?” Rittener left off saying, “especially if it avoids a war.”

  “That old saw, again? There isn’t a scintilla of truth to that.” Rittener didn’t need to consult an amanuensis to determine if he were lying. But the flushed redness in Stanislaus’ face betrayed something else too. He was flabbergasted that Clinton Rittener, of all people, should be putting forward Terra’s case on Borealis. He needed clarification.

  “Is Terra’s view,” Stanislaus demanded to know, “your view?”

  THE TERRAN VIEW WAS the Lunar Partition Doctrine. For their part, nothing could be more fair and equitable. There was obviously a helium-3 shortage and Terra would be more than happy to lend a hand. The Lunar Equator was proposed as a demarcation line. The Terran Ring would see to acquiring its own helium-3, tapping the fields in the southern hemisphere. Borealis could go on mining those in the north and sell the production to the rest of the interplanetary market. There it was, plain and simple, problem solved. The plan surprised no one. Terra had always just grabbed whatever it wanted, and the heavy-handed fingerprints of the Ring were easily discernible on this proposal too. The generous accord to leave the rapidly dwindling stakes in the northern hemisphere to Borealis while they expropriated the rest was actually offered with straight faces by Terran diplomats.

  When the plan was unveiled it produced snickers everywhere—except on Borealis. Borealis took it for what it was and started growling back. They’d come to regard the Terrans as thankless and insulting. Borealis had powered the tens of thousands of fusion reactors on the Ring, and had done so for generations. Now that a crisis loomed—and yet one that could be peaceably solved if but Borealis’ steady hand be trusted—the Terrans weren’t replying as faithful comrades and allies. They were snarling instead, barking directives and threats that made it quite clear the Terrans didn’t view them as equals at all.

  “And these proposed Terran settlements on the Moon,” the Borelian ambassador had said in the Forum, “from whence will they receive their water and food?”

  The Terran ambassador bristled. “If you are threatening to withhold those supplies, Terra has the ability to ship them in. They would be small operations that wouldn’t require that much.”

  All the delegates laughed at the idea of water-starved Terra exporting H2O to the broiling lunar surface. The laughter was punctuated with cat-calls from the delegates of the Alliances on Earth, mindful of another great bone of contention. “So pilfering Earth’s fresh water for yourselves isn’t good enough? Will you leave us our oceans at least, or do you have plans for that too?” The Alliances on Earth had every reason to complain bitterly. Terran long-wave, very low frequency technology, broadcast into the ionosphere with blistering amplitudes
, created pressure cells in the atmosphere below that moved the jet streams anywhere the Ring liked. They mostly liked them at absurd heights where much of the moisture could be sucked into intake scoops the size of the base of the Great Pyramid at Giza. This had greatly expanded desertification of the planet and helped spawn the desperate wars that wracked the parched planet. The Terran Ring looked like a halo from Borealis, but from Earth it looked like a noose.

  The Borelian ambassador’s retort was considered a casus belli on Terra. “Well, they’d better not be too small. Anyone entering Borelian sovereign territory without valid documentation is subject to immediate arrest. Hopefully, you’re considering logistics which includes a security force, too.”

  There is where matters stood—on the brink of war. Terra had sent Demetrius Sehene to participate in the recent piloting match and Borealis had pretended to welcome him. But both sides were maintaining a diplomatic pretense that hardly disguised that the adversaries were on the edge of a precipice.

  “YOU TALK MUCH LIKE the jingoists on the Ring, Mr. Rittener,” Stanislaus accused. “Whose side are you on anyway?”

  “I’m on the side of common sense, Dr. Stanislaus,” Clinton elucidated. “You must realize Borealis plays right into their hands with all your provocations.”

  That animated the councilor quickly. He didn’t like Rittener’s choice of words in the least.

  “Provocations?! You can’t be serious,” he said in a loud, angry voice. “It’s just the reverse.” Stanislaus’ face was sapped of any power for subterfuge, frowning and staring in offended disbelief.