by Peter Damon
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Oliver was the first to enter the meeting room, and helped himself to a cup of tea before putting his tablet down on the table. Using the remote-control unit to select the video conferencing channel on the monitor on the facing wall, he brought the telephone number for the connection up on his tablet.
Samuel entered and headed to the coffee machine.
“We’re going to have to ration coffee and tea soon,” he warned Oliver.
“We’re running short?” Oliver was both surprised and shocked.
“People are starting to hoard the things they like the most,” Samuel judged, given the high usage statistics he’d seen for the last week. The ARC had always been a heavy tea drinker, but he couldn’t see any reason other than hoarding for why consumption should rise so high, and so rapidly.
Oliver nodded, forgetting to mention the odd dozen or so tea bags he’d taken from the first floor the previous evening, and pressed the connection tab on his tablet.
“Who are we about to talk to?” Samuel asked, reaching the table to sit down with obvious relish.
“A man named Roland Prentice, a lawyer who works for Oxford University as a professor of international Law. He’s a specialist in United Nations agreements and we’ve asked him to review the Outer-Space Treaty for us,” Oliver explained.
Roland appeared on the terminal and smiled as he nodded greeting. “I guess you must be tired of being asked what the weather is like up there,” he chuckled.
“A little,” Oliver agreed. “You’ve had an opportunity to review the treaty?” he asked rather than assumed.
Roland nodded and patted the ream of paper at his side. “Yes. Much of it is the failed Moon Treaty of 1984, some of it re-worded to placate the USA. It’s clearly aimed at the ARC, although falling short of mentioning it directly, of course,” he told them.
“So, there’s no escaping its edicts, then?” Samuel asked, leaning forward attentively.
“Yes, well, I’m not certain as yet, and I don’t think anyone is, but it may not have any bearing on you directly. Indirectly, it will certainly affect you, in that any signatory doing business with you is probably in violation of the treaty,” he explained.
Samuel and Oliver looked towards one another, and back at the screen.
“You want an explanation?” Ronald anticipated, and nodded in reply to their vigorous head nods.
“The treaty is agreed and it obliges those nations and organisations who have signed it to act in accordance with its statutes,” he pointed out.
“And Britain is one of those signatories,” Oliver agreed.
“Are you British? You know, I’m not so sure,” Roland smiled.
Samuel and Oliver exchanged another look, hope beginning to kindle.
“We’re not?” Samuel asked.
“You’re registered to trade in the UK, but quite a few details are missing. You’re certainly not a British company,” Roland revealed. “Do you know anything of your legal status?” he asked.
“Nothing,” both men on the ARC admitted.
“Well, I’m not surprised. Someone has used a lot of foresight in the manner of your creation. I can see you as a legal entity, obviously, but your ownership is quite convoluted, as is the country of domicile,” he explained.
“And without that?” Oliver pressed.
“I would have a hard time taking you to court. In your case that’s compounded by your location. You’re not located in any country or location with laws that stipulate the method by which you operate or trade. Although the United Nations have tied the signatories down as to their representation in space, because none of your officers have signed the treaty, it is highly likely that, legally, they have no right to force you to do anything.”
“Could we have been set-up as a charity, or as some other special body?” Oliver asked.
“Not that I can see, and I think I would have if that were the case. Generally speaking, such instruments have a high level of transparency, to ensure they’re not used for tax avoidance. I think whoever set this up was looking for something quite different; purposefully obscure.
“Have they sent you a copy of the treaty?” Roland asked.
“No. They’ve spoken to us, but advised that they would supply instructions to the university,” Samuel explained.
Roland nodded. “No, they probably don’t want you reading the small print anyway,” he guessed. “Rolle College, as part of Cambridge University, is clearly British and Michael Bennett, as one of its officers, is therefore liable for the activities of the college. But the ARC, the actual ship, that one is unclear at the moment.”
“Well, I’ll be dammed,” Oliver muttered.
“First and foremost, you need to establish the ship’s ownership. You have offices registered in the UK, that’s no surprise, but you’re not a British company, if you understand the legal definition. One defines taxation and ability to trade under British law, but the only activity I can find under it is the rental paid by the Rolle College in Cambridge for the use of the ship. If that is your only income, and I suspect it is, then it’s easily offset by your expenses and liabilities, meaning no tax would be payable.
“The country of ownership will define your operating methods and status, not to mention your overall corporate tax liability.
“Secondly, determine who you need to trade with. Look to enter into agreements for such trade that don’t contravene the treaty. Even better, only trade with non-signatories of the treaty; that will help weaken it and possibly draw countries into breaking the treaty themselves, or be left in the wake of those that do.
“You’ll find that there will be many large organisations more than willing to go to the expense of setting up offices or agents in such countries, just to allow them to contravene rules within their own countries,” he explained.
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Pierre sat among his small team of administrators, watching the short documentary the UN had sponsored, detailing the impact the ARC had had upon the earth since it had first been launched.
For all the magnificence of the achievement, there was little or nothing that had promoted globalisation, or improved harmony or economies, and that was the point.
At the forefront of its destabilising effects were the high-tech companies; those dealing with satellite and mobile phone communications. Household names had gone into administration with the losses of thousands of jobs, all caused directly by the activities of the ARC.
The effect of it was to rampage through the global economy and cause chaos in previously stable environments.
All of which had culminated in the loss of the International Space Station. While it was now recognised that the ARC had not caused the fatal damage to the ISS, there was little doubt that its presence in space had led to the demise.
For all of these reasons, the documentary claimed, it was necessary to force the ARC to become a United Nations enterprise, one that was more responsive to earth’s needs, and whose activities could benefit earth, rather than just the few who were based on the ship.
“Make sure we monitor the media in each country after its showing. I want to know how it is being viewed. There may be opportunities to follow up with some further details,” he elaborated to those around the table. Then there were extracts to be put onto YouTube, with links from social media sites like Facebook and LinkedIn. He wanted the whole world to see the ARC for what it was; a parasite that gave nothing back to its host, one that would ultimately cause death to the host, unless removed, or brought under strict control.
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Michael hadn’t played chess for years. Not since he and John Dalton had been close. Occasionally, while they waited for news to filter through from their contacts, they would play against each other, speed-chess mostly, distracted by the news coming in on their mobile phones and tablets, even laptops back in those days, cumbersome devices with built-in keyboards that took minutes to boot-up and needed a keyboard and mouse to us
e.
When Samuel had brought the chess board out and suggested they play, Michael had recalled his games with John, moaning as the earlier memory brought the more recent memory, and he recalled the news of John’s death, brought about because he had agreed to do one last favour for Michael before he retired.
Samuel put the board down and began putting out the pieces. “Can you feel him, here, now, watching us?” he asked.
Michael jerked, toppling two of the pieces, and stared at Samuel in shock. “He’s dead,” he muttered, shot down in Frankfurt International Airport while on his way to Japan. “Because of me,” he breathed, beginning to shake with the impact of his recrimination. John had never led a good life, but he would still have a life, had it not been for Michael asking one more favour from him.
Samuel closed his eyes and inhaled slowly through his nose. Michael, watching, was reminded of his teachings and did the same, turning his attention on the escape of his breath and the feel of his body. He immediately felt the tension within him, and as he took a second breath, let it begin to flow away.
Like water, the tension flowed from his limbs and torso, sliding through the bed to follow the structure of the ARC out, into the nothingness of space where he could feel it evaporate.
“Now, do you feel him?” Samuel asked, his voice intruding on the calmness that Michael had created within himself.
Michael did, losing the sensation almost instantly as shock made him suddenly tense and gasp.
He controlled himself with some effort and concentrated on his breathing once more. Slowly, through his growing calmness, he once again found himself aware of John.
Michael looked towards the man, his eyes still closed. He wasn’t truly seeing John at all, but sensing him, feeling him, and what he sensed most was serenity, and love, and comradeship.
“Does he want retribution for his death?” Samuel asked, his voice coming to Michael from far away.
Michael concentrated on his breathing, counting the breaths to steady the onslaught of feelings that threatened to engulf him once more. Yet, throughout it, the figure of John stood passive and warm, with no hate or malice, and no accusations.
Michael felt humbled. John should feel something. And yet the feeling of calmness and serenity continued. John was at peace, Michael concluded. He had found peace. John had lost nothing, and gained much.
Michael opened his eyes and found he’d been crying. The chess board had been put away again and Samuel stood by the door, waiting for his attention before he left.
“You know, you can do that with anyone, living or dead,” he told him. “When you’re ready,” he added, and left Michael to ponder on that.
Michael only had half an hour to ponder that, before Oliver peeked in, smiling hesitantly before stepping fully into the room.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Much better,” Michael told him, sensing a change within himself. It was still small. Thoughts of the ARCs situation could still make him shake and crawl under the covers, but at least now he had a weapon to fight back with. “Did you want something specific?” he asked. He wanted to return to silence and self contemplation. It was like he was a boy again, fishing with his father, a stick and a piece of string, and hours of silent communication.
His thoughts, like fish on his line, would tug at him and require his attention. Just a day or so ago they had the power to pull him into the fast flowing stream where they would all crowd in and pull him under, drowning him with their weight, all of them evading capture.
Now, they no longer pulled at him, at least, not with enough power to pull him in. He could sit there and watch his thoughts pass by. Occasionally one would nag at him and he’d give it more attention, but he was always reminded to let it go and regain his place on the bank, just watching, breathing deeply, still and relaxed, at peace with the world.
Oliver nodded. “Who owns the ship, Michael?” he began, taking a seat and getting comfortable.
October 19th.
Pierre Moulier walked with long strides to the newly completed meeting room where the large video conferencing unit had been installed. His staff watched him stride through the office, their heads down lest it be one of them who would feel his anger.
The various links had already been fed into the video conferencing facility, and Pierre had only to select the one he wanted for the link to activate and show him the tanned face of Milan Marin, private secretary to the Russian Federation’s UNSA committee member.
“Good morning Pierre. How are you this morning?” Milan asked, smiling into the camera.
“Concerned Mr Marin. I understand through media outlets that the Russian Federation has launched a manned expedition into space. Is that correct?” he asked.
“It is,” Milan nodded.
“You realise this is in violation of the Outer-Space Treaty, I assume,” Pierre reminded him.
Milan blinked and gazed steadily out at the camera, clearly thinking through Pierre’s claim and trying to formulate a response.
“I will require the Russian Federation to provide a report on the reasons for this violation, in addition to the mission’s objectives and their schedule of activities,” Pierre added.
“Pierre, really, is this absolutely necessary?” Milan asked, uttering a small laugh.
“Mr Marin, the treaty binds all signatories, not just those that individual members want to shackle. I will require your response before the end of your current business day please, otherwise this situation will have to go before the full committee,” he warned the Russian.
Milan lost his smile and glared at the United Nations Assistant Secretary-General. “You forget your place, Moulier. Our launch is to help the United Nations Space Administration and does not need your attention or concern. I suggest you concentrate on bringing the ARC business to a speedy closure, otherwise it will not do well for your career!”
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Breakfast on board Freedom One, while it moved sedately along with its charge, consisted of something that looked like an egg omelette with small pieces of ham and mushroom, fried rice and grilled tomatoes. The tea slowly took the taste from Frankie’s mouth while he settled into his seat, his weight activating the monitors on his control-table.
“How we doing?” he asked the room at large, even as his board confirmed that everything was in the green. The crew confirmed it, trading views of the position to verify that even the smallest of items were green.
“Anything new from earth, Matt?” he asked.
Matt nodded. “The Russians have launched a manned mission into space, no one knows why. China is preparing a manned launch, they say to man their old space station, but no one can understand why they’d want to. Samuel thinks both launches are attempts to get onto the ARC early. What we don’t know, and neither of them is saying, is whether they’re working together, or independently.
“Inside the ARC, tutorials have stopped, so the students are helping David and Thomas wade through their testing of the HYPORT.”
“We’ve got some initial results from the samples we took yesterday,” Peter told him, working with Jerry to calculate where best to begin drilling for core samples.
“And?” Frankie pressed as all eyes turned towards Peter.
“Well, it’s just a few samples from the surface, so we need to keep it in perspective.”
“But,” Frankie pressed while the others groaned.
Peter grinned. “The samples have significant traces of water, nickel, cobalt and platinum,” he told them.
“We’re rich!” Matt beamed.
“Well, those are very early estimates,” Peter warned the younger man.
“So, you begin to take core samples,” Frankie assumed.
Jerry nodded. “We’re going to do a geological survey of the asteroid with enough detail to offer it on earth’s metal markets as one single batch of goods. We dump it somewhere on earth, and they move in and do the breaking up and the refining of it all themselve
s,” he explained.
“All except the water. We’ll use something like scrapers to scrape it off the surface and keep it in orbit for when we want it,” Peter explained.
“Can’t we just turn it to let the sun burn it off?” Frankie asked.
“Too much there, Frankie,” Peter shook his head. “We’re talking about millions of tons of ice-water,” he explained.
“Ok, let’s get to work,” Frankie agreed. The drilling equipment needed ferrying over to the asteroid, and then setting up. No one had ever taken a 200 metre core sample in outer-space before.
Meanwhile, Ricky had opened his tablet and was putting his ideas down for the first ever space-mining vehicles.
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Samuel sat in the auditorium and, like many of the students who didn’t have anything else to do, watched the crew of Freedom One at work on the asteroid. Camera’s on the hull of the ship showed three of the crew setting up the drilling equipment, which they’d been doing for some while now. Now and then, the sun caught the surface of one of the five satellites stationed around the asteroid to distract the eye with a flash of sharp light.
“How are they doing?” Oliver asked, coming to sit beside him.
“Looks like problems with the drilling equipment,” Samuel explained.
Oliver nodded and sat quietly for a little while, watching in silence as the three spacemen took the equipment to pieces once more, and began to meticulously put it together again sometimes stopping to gesture, clearly at odds about what should go where.
“How’s the media business?” Samuel asked.
“Thriving. One wonders what they’ll have to talk about once we’re gone,” Oliver told him.
“Back to wondering who slept with whom,” Samuel didn’t wonder.
“There was one snippet of interesting trivia,” Oliver admitted, and waited until Samuel turned to look at him before continuing.
“NASA issued a press-release offering their congratulations to us for having captured a near-earth asteroid.”
“That’s nice of them,” Samuel agreed, his eyes, if not his attention, returning to the large screen.
