Justine glanced at her First Mate. “I’m heading to the bridge, if you’ve got everything under control here.”
“Sure do, Captain. Take a nap. I’ll alert you if Ekwan falls down a crater,” she joked.
“Belay that. Only alert me if he kills himself.”
She forced a smile, and made her way through the spacecraft.
*
With the Orcus 1 empty, Justine made a detour to the galley and helped herself to a squeeze tube of cold tea. She congratulated herself on achieving the most important goal of her life.
Stories of Planet X had filled Justine’s young mind and fed her imagination, and as a teenager, she studied every book she could download on the subject.
She made it her lifelong passion, reading everything she could find about the planet, scouring two centuries worth of data. With every probe that went past the dark world, she made certain to download all relevant data.
After she graduated from her Arizona State’s Astronomy Department with honors, the Lowell Observatory took a shine to her, and sponsored her into the NASA training program. Justine had worked hard over her short career. She clawed her way up through the ranks, just for the opportunity of fulfilling her dream. Her ultimate goal: the Orcus 1 mission. It was hers, though it had cost her a marriage along the way.
Brian, her ex-husband, had decided he did not want to play second runner up to Justine’s career. Her single regret was that she never made room in her schedule to have a child. The sense of loss and regret over her decision to put career ahead of family might have sent her into a deep depression that might have gotten the best of her, had not the Orcus Mission become a strong possibility.
Duty beckoned. Someone had to staff the bridge. With squeeze tube in hand, she picked her way through the ship.
She reached her command chair just as a klaxon sounded.
Scanning the monitors to no avail, Justine pitched her voice to get the computer to acknowledge her command. “Com: on.” The ship’s computer beeped, and Justine asked, “Captain, here. What is it?”
The replying voice came across filled with a high-pitched whistle of static.
“Captain! We’ve got something strange out here, you know! Something you just have to see!” There was no mistaking Helen’s Canadian accent when she was excited, and the woman tended to get overexcited about even the little things. Justine sighed.
“If it’s a patch of ice with pink and purple streaks through it, I’m not going to be impressed.”
“You want impressed?” Helen’s digitized voice asked. “Well, I guarantee you won’t be disappointed. Get out here and see for yourself!”
“What is—”
The computer beeped, indicating that Helen had cut off communications.
With a grudging effort, Justine lifted herself out of the chair and made her way to the lockers to suit up and go outside.
She grumbled all the while. “Crazy Canucks. Always with those cliffhangers. She probably loves the weather up here, while I freeze my nethers.”
Justine, who weighed 59.8 kilograms on earth, was finding it difficult to maneuver with her Plutonian weight of 2.4 kilograms once outside the Orcus 1’s artificial gravity simulator. She weighed about as much as a large bag of salt. A strong leap could send her dozens of meters in any direction. That kind of activity, she admonished herself, was against regulations, and unsafe.
With its surface a slick sheet of methane ice and dunes of frost, any small misstep on Pluto could send her sliding hundreds of meters away. There would be little time to use the ice hooks built into the sleeves of her suit-shields to slow her down. Her boots were equipped with vacuum-suckers to keep them stable on the ice. Even so, a fall into one of the kilometers-deep craters that pocked the surface could mean a chilly death.
NASA publicity department wanted lots of commentary on the trip, and Justine decided to get it out of the way while she could. She spoke into her microphone, and pointed a small mini-cam toward the largest object in Pluto’s sky.
“The moon, Charon, whose surface is more water-based without traces of methane, is a dark blue orb filling the sky.”
Shifting to get out of the glare from the Orcus 1’s landing lights, she skittered across an expanse of ice, and caught herself. With a deep breath of relief, she faced upward again.
“Although it is 1,270 kilometers in diameter, a third the diameter of Luna, Charon is more than five times the size of Luna from the Earth because of its proximity to Pluto, 12,640 km away.”
Justine got into an ATV and set it to follow Helen’s homing beacon.
She babbled while the vehicle rolled over the icy glacier that made up most of the surface of the planet.
“The primary mission of the Orcus 1 is to examine the possibilities of methane-based life forms existing on Pluto. Nitrogen is a necessity of life, making up about 78 per cent of Earth’s air by volume. It makes up a vital part of protein molecules. As with the Mars microbes a century ago, NASA is hoping to find some evidence of life on Pluto.”
The beacon indicated she was within a kilometer of the group.
She struggled to think of something to say that might interest an Earth audience.
“Pluto is named after the Roman god of the dead and the underworld. To continue the allusion to Greek Mythology, they named Pluto’s smaller twin ‘Charon’ for the old boatman who ferries souls across the River Styx. In following this tradition, NASA decided to name the first manned mission to Pluto as Orcus 1 after the—”
As she came over a rise, she shut her mouth tight with a clack that echoed insider her helmet. Below her, the science team and Helen gathered like acolytes around a divine statue.
Her eyes beheld a sight beyond anything she had ever imagined possible.
In a place where no human had ever before set foot, against the cold darkness of Pluto’s skyline, there was a monument the size of an aircraft hangar. The bulk of the structure resembled the nucleus of a complex atom.
Orbiting that nucleus, a number of spherical objects formed what looked like an electron cloud, hovering in the space around the monument without any visible tethers or supports.
An alien chill walked icy fingers up Justine’s spine.
Humankind was not alone in the universe…
__________
St. Lawrence Charity Hall :
Ottawa :
Canada Corp. :
Michael Sanderson, vice-president of Canada Corp.’s Space Mining Division had his best smile on for Stall Henderson, the Mayor of Ottawa, and Ian Pocatello, the National Minister of Finance.
Sharing innate pleasantries over triangular glasses of champagne at the St. Lawrence Charity Hall, Michael groaned inwardly at the need for such a cosmetic facade.
Michael had lost track of how many of these functions he had attended over the past thirty-two years of his career, both in and out of the corporate government. Since his appointment to the VP of SMD five years previous, his attendance to these functions had tripled. They wore thin on him.
His smile, however, never faded.
“I don’t usually drink, but after tasting this excellent champagne, I’m considering changing my views.” He took a sip to punctuate his opinion.
“My wife spends hundreds of hours finding and sampling new labels, and buys it by the case when she finds one she likes. I’ll tell her to send you and Melanie a bottle for Christmas,” offered Stall Henderson.
“Wonderful. I’ll be looking forward to it.”
Mayor Stall Henderson was an open, jovial man, well suited to public office. Short in stature, he had a balding pate and an expanding waistline; a sign of the good times he had brought to the city. Everybody’s friend, he had a quick mind, but suffered from a dry sense of humor, which some people found condescending.
Michael genuinely liked him for his personality, and for his integrity and political acumen. He was a politician’s politician.
“So how is the asteroid business?” Stall segued not so casual
ly. He kept his eyes from glancing at the Minister of Finance. Stall Henderson was well into his sixties, and had been mayor of the country’s capital city for twenty years.
In the past century, Ottawa had grown from merely the legislative capital of Canada to a major international city that attracted investors and researchers from all over the globe. Canada Corp. had resisted the worldwide corporate trend of diversification, and had located all its divisional headquarters in Ottawa and its environs; a major stroke of good fortune for Stall’s political repute.
Michael smiled and set his empty glass on a tray carried by a servochine, exchanging it for a full one.
“Oh, we’re doing about as well as can be expected,” Michael said equivocally. “We have a few more prospects in development, as you’ve no doubt read in yesterday’s press release. If the preliminary surveys are correct, I can see a day in the future when Earth’s natural resources will no longer be extirpated. All mining for the globe will be done off-planet. It’s quite exciting.”
“Fascinating, I would hasten to add,” the mayor said. “Anything to do with outer space has my interest piqued. I have a son in post-grad studying the geothermal anomalies of Mars.”
“Sted Henderson.” Michael searched his mind, and was pleased with his recall. “Yes, I read his graduate thesis on it; published in Sol Weekly’s last issue, I believe. Since finding those microbes last century, experts have been arguing about life having once existed on Mars. Sted’s thesis points out that the evidence might suggest, instead, that life will exist one day in the future on Mars, that the planet is preparing itself for some kind of evolutionary burst. A boon for the naturalist movement. There was talk of degrading orbits or something along those lines. Increased temperatures and so forth.”
“Yes! He’ll be delighted to hear you’ve taken an interest.”
Ian piped in. “I caught that issue as well, though I had bought it more for the cover story about the Orcus mission to Pluto.”
Ian Pocatello was an unknown quantity to Michael, and that night’s focus. Younger than both Stall and Michael by at least twenty years, Ian had won a seat in the House of Ministers in the last round of proxy elections with a resounding majority decision; it had been his first time campaigning, which served to show he was a dangerous political opponent.
Researching Ian’s background, Michael learned the man had spent the early part of his life as a successful financial advisor. Upon his election to the legislature, Ian had been appointed to the cabinet as “Minister of Finance” by Canada Corp.’s long-time CEO, Pierre Dolbeau.
The first two budgets under Pocatello’s administration had brought sweeping cuts to every department of the corporate government of Canada. Warning of a trend of global economical collapse—China, Ltd., Australia Company, India Limited, and Spain Corporation being the first countries to declare bankruptcy and be taken over by neighboring economic powers—Ian had forewarned of a day when Canada Corp. would be the victim of a hostile takeover from the much more fiscally powerful USA, Inc.
Three years into his Five-Year Plan, he turned around Canada Corp.’s financial outlook, and although the budget was still constricting, Canada Corp.’s debt had dropped by eighty percent, and forecasts indicated a possibility of a surplus within the next six quarters.
Ian Pocatello’s straight-faced, quiet approach to functions was daunting, however, and it took all Michael had in him to keep the conversation going, trying to find a soft spot in the Minister’s defenses.
“I didn’t know you were a space buff.”
Ian shook his head. “I’m not. Progress in space industry bears watching, though. If it’s profitable, I’m interested.”
Around the three men, dignitaries and functionaries in all levels of government—national, provincial, and municipal—as well as lobbyists from differing private corporations and minority groups, swirled in a cacophonic dance of political maneuvers. Behind those smiles and polite nods were feral plans and ambitious agendas.
Ostensibly, they were all there at the dinner to help fund-raise for Child-Find Canada, and it was more than a success at ten-thousand dollars a plate and a full house, but that was an excuse for the participants to lobby other politicians for support in whatever individual goals they had come to the Hall to achieve.
Michael’s agenda was straightforward, but he had to play his hand close to the vest, or others would dismiss his motives as a smoke screen for some private objective. If he did not portray himself as a political barracuda, he would lose standing and reputation. The mining effort would suffer, and, ultimately, he believed, the rest of the sub-corporation.
The SMD needed funds to bolster their research efforts. At present, they had thirteen class 2 nickel mines to show for the $140 billion the Corp. and private stakeholders had invested in the Space Mining Division. Forty-two of their projected asteroidal mines had showed, after additional surveys, to have impure lodes of ore and minerals; in a cost versus product schematic, they were not worth the trouble at present.
Michael Sanderson believed in the SMD, as the best hope for Canada Corp.’s financial supremacy in the global economy, and as the best hope for the world. Scientists had estimated that the asteroid belt itself held hundreds of undiscovered new elements, with attributes that could improve the quality of life for everyone on Earth.
Already, USA, Inc. and The British Conglomerates of the Commonwealth had aggressive and profitable space mining programs up and running, although most other country corporations were so far as unsuccessful as Canada Corp. A major lode had not yet been discovered on any of the Space Mining Division asteroids, and the race to the proverbial mother lode was getting tense.
Michael knew there were iron ore lodes out there in the Belt that would more than justify the massive investment by Canada Corp. and others. One or two big finds would alleviate the debt the SMD was accumulating.
He needed a few more billion dollars for operating costs and research—there were hundreds of thousands of asteroids to survey—and he was sure the “Big Find” would occur soon. He had to get the Minister of Finance on his side, and to believe in SMD.
Then they could take their case to CEO Dolbeau.
Over the past two months, however, Michael had been unable to arrange a meeting with Ian Pocatello. The minister would not take private meetings with the VP of SMD, and had not returned any of his calls. When Michael discovered that the Minister of Finance was on the attendance list for the night’s charity, he had seen to it that he and the Minister would cross paths.
Another man was approaching, and hearing the last words spoken, commented in a wry voice.
“We have a Canadian on the Orcus 1. Did you know that? I’m following the story closely, myself.” He laughed. “And I saw a tabloid on the Mesh just today promising that landing on Pluto will mean the end of the world. 93% of readers agree.”
Which is why they perform extensive mental competency and personality tests before someone can buy a share of the country corp. and can then vote on national matters, thought Michael.
The others curled their lips at the comment as the Minster of Energy, Mines and Resources—Michael’s direct co-superior—joined them. He and the Minister of Canadian Space Exploration shared the joint-chairmanship portfolio of the Space Mining Division.
“Michael, how are you?” Alliras Rainier asked. A gray-haired man of seventy-one, Alliras was the foremost champion of the SMD, having made it a personal crusade to pass the bill ten years ago to create the Division, and pushing to have long-time friend Michael Sanderson appointed VP and director of the effort. Michael’s meteoric rise through the ranks of EMR could be attributed, to some extent, to his association with Alliras Rainier, a long-time advocate of Michael’s philosophies on energy and conservation.
Michael himself had just passed his fifty-third birthday a week before, spending the weekend with his family at his home outside Hull, Quebec. He kept fit by jogging two miles every morning, avoiding animal fats, and eating grains,
fish, rice, and plenty of fruits and vegetables. At his last check-up, his doctor said to him, “I have some bad news; you only have about fifty or sixty more years to live.”
Family was the most important thing in Michael’s life, but a close second was the welfare of his fellow humans, not just Canadians, but everyone in the world. He gave to charity, and did what he could to help the environment, which was why he had gotten into the field of environmental energy at McGill University, where he had met his wife, Melanie, a Humanities Major.
Some small successes early in his career had garnered him the notice of Canada Corp.’s Department of Energy, Mines, and Resources. He had been climbing the ladder of the governmental corporation for the past thirty years, and was near the top, where he had gained more influence than he had ever hoped or dreamed.
He was in a position to effect great changes in the way the world found and used energy, and the possibilities excited him. The passion that had sent him into Environmental Studies in University had not dissipated over the years.
His energy level, and tolerance for political maneuvering, however, was fading fast.
When Michael nodded that he was fine, Alliras prompted, “And your lovely wife, Melanie?”
The conversation from this point was choreographed; the two had gotten together at Michael’s house the night before to discuss tactics.
“Melanie? She’s here, somewhere. I think she’s cornered Angela and the two are probably deep in debate over the aesthetics of pre-Columbian art.”
“I never should have encouraged her to take that U of Carleton course. I think I’ve spent over a hundred big ones on ugly statues of pregnant goddesses in the last six months.” He laughed, and the other three men joined in obligingly.
Michael could tell that Ian Pocatello was starting to feel more than a little cornered himself, with three pro-mining lobbyists surrounding him. The Minister was tense, as if waiting for the concerted attack.
The whole charade reminded Michael of tigers stalking a polar bear.
Forbidden The Stars Page 3
