by Peter Damon
“He didn’t have to sign!” Oliver cried angrily, his fist hammering into the table.
“I think the Prime Minister made a decision based on where we stand at the moment, and at the moment, all things considered, there might be a much better developed strategy towards space travel than there is at present,” Sir James explained.
“Political clap-trap!” Oliver stormed. “I think the UN has been sold a pup. This has less to do with stopping individual nations from obtaining the riches of space, than to ensuring that the one group out in front get collared by all the others,” he suggested.
“You may be correct, Mr Cole. There is clearly considerable envy for the small group who have a tremendous power in their grasp, and who do not appear to be using it for the benefit of everyone.”
“That’s not only untrue, it’s unfair too, not to mention ignoring the basic principles of intellectual property rights,” Oliver bridled.
Sir James shrugged. “Lobbying is everything. The American’s proved that over a decade ago. Your adversaries were better at it than you, sirs.”
“So what now? Where do we go to get this changed?” Samuel asked in an effort to move the conversation on.
“Well, there are two ways to change a United Nations Treaty, and both are somewhat awkward and lengthy processes. The first is to raise an Amendment. Historically, few amendments have ever been agreed to by all original signatories, which means parties are only bound by the parts they have signed to.
“The other is called a Protocol. It is effectively a new treaty, but based on an existing one. As with the first, history predicts that not all those who signed the first treaty will necessarily sign the Protocol.”
“So we may be able to reduce our exposure, but no way to remove it,” Samuel summarised.
“So, from a United Nations perspective, Russia, China, Japan, USA, and whoever wants to join them can always hold the treaty over our heads, demanding we give ourselves over to their jurisdiction,” Oliver summarised.
“I’m afraid that is the way it reads,” Sir James agreed.
“Unbelievable!” Oliver cried, his eyes turned despairingly towards the ceiling.
Samuel stood at the head of the table and looked about the crowded room. All the professors had arrived, including the three who were ‘on loan’ to them. The Howard twins were there, looking shell-shocked, as did most of the senior students who had been involved in the original lift; Leanne who stared at the table, Allan who looked about him, as if surprised to find himself there, and Matt who looked angrily towards the monitor at the head of the table. They were all there, faces a rigid reflection of their deep feelings.
And on the screen; their nemesis, Brian Overton, the British Prime Minister, his face set in lines of parental concern.
“This wasn’t Russia speaking, or China, or even the United States. This was the United Nations, 191 member states,” he emphasised. “Their wish was very emphatic; we can’t allow the ARC to be so limited in its approach towards the marvels of space.
“But of course, this shouldn’t be viewed as the end of anything, but of the beginning. Think of the resources the ARC will now have in order to exploit the marvellous discovery of Thomas and David Howard.
“Of course, nothing is going to happen to you!” he snorted, and smiled slightly, the Elder Statesman about to make a defining statement. “All of you are heroes, and it’s about time you came down to be paraded and feted as such.
“Mr Charway will organise the transfer. I know him to be trustworthy, and I know he’s your friend,” the Prime Minister told them with just a slight nod of the head to emphasise his view, a preface to his closing statement.
“You’ve done a tremendous job, under exceedingly difficult circumstances. Come down, take a break, allow us to properly thank you for your tremendous achievements. We can then look at what senior positions are best suited for your continued development.”
Stanley Charway’s face appeared on the monitor. He looked up from his pad of directions and tried smiling at those on board the ARC. “Well gentlemen, how do you want to do this?” he asked politely.
BOOK 3: ASTEROID MINING
Prologue
It was the middle of October and unseasonably warm and wet in the capital city of the People’s Republic of China. Heavy rain-laden clouds had anchored over Beijing, delivering an unceasing torrent of rain onto the citizens below, a deluge of water that cleansed the sky of the pollutants from the heavy manufacturing to the west, but left it to stain the pavements, roof tiles and windows of those beneath it in the east.
With the stoic determination that epitomizes the Chinese race, hundreds of thousands of people braved the weather to continue their day-to-day activities. Cars eased past each other with frequent horn blasts, outnumbered by the thousands of electric mopeds that moved rapidly from junction to junction, surging forward on the turn of traffic-lights to rush to the next set, many using one hand to hold their umbrella over their heads while the other controlled their vehicle.
Buildings with 2000 years of heritage stood side-by-side with their modern counterparts, the modern making no effort to complement the earlier architecture, and yet strangely in harmony with it. They stood sentinel to the pace of the traffic as mopeds moved with group purpose, and cars interwove in a dance of equal urgency.
A taxi, alike in every way to the thousands of others in the teaming city, stopped at a very angular and nondescript building, windscreen wipers working at the double while the driver took his fare and gave change in return. The driver hardly noticed his passenger’s boyish looks, short dark hair, or his suit, cut simply but well tailored. The driver’s gloved hands were already on the steering wheel before his fare had fully exited, the lean young passenger pausing for a moment to gauge where the puddles were on the pavement while mopeds swerved smoothly around him.
Wu Anguo ran the few paces from the taxi to the rotating doors of the building rather than wait for the doorman to open his malfunctioning umbrella. Perhaps the committee he was scheduled to meet would be impressed with his water-stained clothes. Perhaps not; one could never tell what the committee thought, and trying to anticipate them was always a mistake.
Anguo wasn’t his real name. His parents had named him Lei, his birth having occurred during a thunderstorm. However, in the fashion of poets and artists, he endowed himself with a name more fitting to his role. Hence his new name; Anguo, translated into English as ‘Protect the Country’.
The woman on the front desk recognised him and immediately offered him a visitor-pass, both hands extended, her face lowered in a brief acknowledgement of his seniority. “Would you like a guide, honoured sir?” she asked.
“No, thank you. I know the way,” he told her, and hurried on, well aware of the time.
The doors of the spacious lift opened and he stepped out onto a plush foyer where another reception desk stood, a more elegantly dressed woman seated behind the counter. Attentive to the meeting and the delegates’ requirements, she stood and hastily moved to the large door that stood to one side of her desk, stepping nimbly across the hand-woven carpet to open it for him. “They are waiting for you,” she told him softly, her tone carefully gauged as to not cause offense.
“Thank you,” he murmured, and stepped into the large meeting room.
A dozen Chinese men turned to look at him, their faces calm, even as their eyes slid over his face and clothes. They were alike in build and dress, forged over decades from the same metal. Each man was a leader in his own field, endowed with knowledge, drive and commitment that had raised him beyond the millions of other Chinese who competed for power. They were men tempered over decades rather than just years, men dedicated to the controlled development of the People’s Republic.
“Wu, we were just talking about you,” the chair told him, his eyes untouched by his fleeting smile. “Come, sit, tell us what you have found out,” he was told as they too moved towards the table and their chairs.
Anguo bowed
and took the solitary empty chair that faced the committee and cleared his throat, their combined attention having squeezed it closed for a few moments.
“On June 11th of this year, the British used a new technology to lift a merchant container ship from the Philippine Sea into outer-space, choosing an orbit of 500 kilometres above the earth,” he explained.
“The ship is the 180,000 tonne Emma Maersk, a class E container ship that the British bought through intermediates. They then used a South Korean port in order to refit it, while a second and smaller craft acted as a subterfuge, docked in a Japanese port.”
“A poor second prize for the Japanese who captured it before the British and the Americans; there was nothing on it,” one of the committee murmured without humour.
“Exactly so,” Anguo confirmed with a nod before continuing.
“The Emma Maersk is 397 metres long, 56 broad and 30 tall. It was designed to carry 11,000 shipping containers, however, we’re fairly confident that the cargo holds have been sealed in order to increase their living space, and so the overall total volume of containers is reduced. They have used these containers as the frame on which to provide communication satellite facilities, and have been very successful in this field, making nearly all but Chinese providers non-competitive.
“On launching into outer-space, Cambridge University in England immediately released details of what was intended to be a university college in space, and they have made efforts to continue this fabrication, recruiting just over 100 students to pretend to study on board the craft.
“However, they are making strides to capitalise on their technical discoveries and move even further forward, recruiting scientists from Russia, United States and Britain to help them towards their goals. We have evidence to suggest they have a laser based communication system capable of handling ten to twenty times the capacity of radio waves, and new Stealth capabilities whose nature is unknown, but highly efficient.
“Soon after ascending into space, the university offered space on the outer hull of the ship for experiments. We have been able to obtain room on their hull, indirectly of course, and have been able to position a listening device upon it, disguised as a Solar Wind measuring tool. This was fitted to the hull in July, and since then, we have been listening to the crew.”
“And it is now October,” he was reminded.
“Quite so,” Anguo acknowledged, his heart hammering. “We have determined that the launch technology is based upon a chemical. In addition to providing lift, it provides controllable gravity and in doing so, can also negate inertia. Their crafts can accelerate and change direction without damaging the craft, or causing discomfort to the occupants.
“We know they want to develop this chemical further, but we have not heard anyone mention its manufacturing method, or its structure. Only its name; HYPORT. We have a team of scientists trying to decode the name in the hope that it is some form of acronym, or in some way relates to the composition or manufacturing method of the substance. However, we do know that the chemical has failed to obtain the speed of light, and at best is only able to propel vehicles at 10 million kilometres an hour.”
“Only!” another member of the board snorted. “No wonder they were so quick to invite the Americans to land on Mars!”
“Indeed,” Anguo nodded agreement. “Although limited, it is still sufficient to obtain their next goal, which is the mining of minerals from the Asteroid Belt.”
“We heard this. If they succeed, it is almost guaranteed to undermine our control of Rare Earth Elements,” another around the table told the chair.
That seemed to shake the room, for China, but for a very short period of a couple of years during which the Japanese had mined Rare Earth Elements from the bottom of the ocean, had control of the market. “Continue,” the chair nodded towards Anguo.
“Their efforts are in two major fronts; the first, to travel outwards and finds resources that they can barter with the earth in return for greater autonomy. Secondly; to continue to develop their advantage, improving the performance of this chemical for greater travel capabilities.”
“And what have they achieved?” the chair asked.
“Well, testing is hampered by the efforts of various earth groups to obtain this HYPORT, or alternatively, a foothold on the ARC from which their can expand their influence.
“The automobile industry clamours to assist the ARC in producing the next generation of space going vehicles, a replacement for the hand-crafted SUVs and coaches the English travellers manufacture from scrap parts. They are also represented in a pressure group that has been lobbying for greener transport solutions across the major democracies. HYPORT, they claim, would negate global warming all on its own, and should therefore be made available to the transport industries and not allowed to be retained in private hands.
“America’s destruction of the International Space Station further delayed testing, and Russia’s interference has impacted heavily on the ARCs abilities to concentrate on their further development.
“However, they were able to take the chemical to absolute zero, and in doing so, caused it to shift dimensions and depart from our region of space. There is not yet an indication of its return to our space-time continuum,” he told them, warming inside at the surprise that crept into their expressions.
“There’s no such thing as ‘other dimensions’,” said one of the others. “It is a thing of American pulp fiction,” he asserted.
“I have no view. I only recite what those on board have said. Professor Pavel Chaichenko of the Budker Institute of Nuclear Physics is quite certain,” Anguo explained.
“And now the United Nations has voted on the Outer-Space Treaty. In theory that puts us at the management table, but in practice? You know these people Wu. Will they capitulate?”
Anguo kept himself still, refusing to sigh, blink or shrug. He wanted to, but not in front of these men.
“The mood of the ship has been complicated by the apparent mental breakdown of their leader, Mr Michael Bennett.”
“Really? When did this occur?” he was asked.
“Fairly recently. He witnessed the destruction of the Mars Laboratory where it sat in Cape Canaveral. Eight of the Mars team have died so far as a result of the explosion. The event may have brought back memories of his own wife, killed in the explosion of their car some ten years ago.”
“So who makes the decisions while Mr Bennett is indisposed?” the chair asked.
“We are uncertain. His illness has not yet been communicated; hence no one has stepped forward to formally take over. Unofficially, his partner Heather Wilson will hold some authority, but I suspect only if her decisions chime with the thoughts of the other senior members of the team. The new Operations Manager, Samuel Jenkins will also have some authority. He is a Hindu practitioner and so can be relied upon to make morally correct decisions.”
“You think? He is also American, not so?”
“True,” Anguo bowed in deference to the more senior man.
“What of those who made the discovery of this technology?” another on the committee asked.
“The two Howard brothers, twins. Their residence upon the ARC has helped ensure that the technology remains a secret. They have no living family and are somewhat dysfunctional in normal life-skills. They do not appear to have any friends outside of the small group who help to support the ARC. Nor have they shown any sexual orientation, or desires.
“Another contender for leadership may be the leader of the English travellers, the man who brought the gypsies into outer-space in order to help clear earth orbit’s of the debris left there by the American and Russians in the 7 decades during which they have had access to outer-space.
“Frank Hill has proved himself a resourceful man. Our current understanding is that he wishes to build his own spaceship, just to house his extended family of travellers, but this goal may change, if Mr Bennett were immobilised and there was an opportunity to become the leader of the complet
e community of space-goers.”
“So the dragon has lost its head, and the body is in a quandary,” the chair mused.
“And has grown a second body. Only yesterday we saw a second craft join the first. We believe it is a ferry that the Howard twins mentioned some weeks back, for which we were unable to obtain confirmation. Now it is there, 136 metres long 31 broad, 50 deep. It bears little resemblance to any ocean going vessel that we know of, so we judge that it has been extensively modified, possibly for this trip to the Asteroid Belt that they wish to make.”
“Thank you Wu. You have been very helpful. Please ensure any further news is passed to me quickly. I fear we must make our decision now,” the chair murmured, glancing towards the other men around the table.
Anguo rose and bowed to the committee before leaving. They didn’t seem to notice him, having already turned towards one another to discuss his report in subdued tones.
October 15th.
Oliver Cole brushed his sandy hair to one side and reminded himself that he had intended to talk to someone about getting a decent barber on board the ARC. It was a small thought, but such titbits helped steer his mind from that of Michael Bennett and his apparent mental breakdown.
Oliver was seated at his command desk within the control-room of the ARC, a swivel chair sitting before a flat blue screen for chroma-keying. Facing the chair was everything an editor and international journalist would ever want; immediate access to the two dozen or so media accounts the ARC held, software to convert his spoken words into script, into ten languages too. There was additional software to monitor the web, alerting him to messages and articles that mentioned their name, and sufficient terminals to allow him to view incoming messages as well as permit him to write and edit outgoing ones. Video from any of the camera on the hull, vehicles or offices could be edited and packaged off to media organisations, or just posted onto YouTube, whatever he thought appropriate, and all with little more than a wave of his hand and a touch of his finger. Working with over 100 of the top students from British universities had its perks, after all.
