Rocket Girls
Page 1
Copyright
Rocket Girls 1
© 1995 Housuke Nojiri
First published in Japan in 1995 by Fujimishobo Co., Ltd., Tokyo.
English translation rights arranged with KADOKAWA SHOTEN Publishing Co., Ltd., Tokyo.
English translation © 2010 VIZ Media, LLC
Cover art by Katsuya Terada
HAIKASORU
Published by
VIZ Media, LLC
295 Bay Street
San Francisco, CA 94133
www.haikasoru.com
ISBN: 978-1-4215-3985-0
Haikasoru eBook Edition
CONTENTS
Copyright
Chapter I
Yukari Morita: 37 kg, Excellent Health
Chapter II
So Easy a Monkey Could Do It
Chapter III
Girl of the Jungle
Chapter IV
The Fear Diet
Chapter V
Perfect by Redesign
Chapter VI
Midnight Interview
Chapter VII
Endless Countdown
Chapter VIII
Meddling Spirits
Chapter IX
The Blue Planet Awaits
Afterword
About the Author
ROCKET GIRLS: THE LAST PLANET
Haikasoru
CHAPTER I
YUKARI MORITA: 37 KG, EXCELLENT HEALTH
[ACT 1]
A LONE SILVER tower stood above the white sand and coconut palms of the beach.
Two kilometers away, the image of the launchpad Isao Nasuda was peering at through his binoculars shimmered like a mirage. A fine white mist of liquid oxygen rose off the body of the rocket and spilled steadily down toward the ground.
“Hardly a breath of wind,” Isao muttered. “That’s good.”
The man next to him lowered his own binoculars. “What, Mr. Nasuda? A brisk wind all it takes to topple your rockets these days?” The man was stationed in Indonesia where he worked for the Overseas Economic Cooperation Fund. He had just flown out to the islands. “Don’t misunderstand me. No one would like to see this succeed more than I would.” His face split into a smile. “What’s the saying? Sixth time’s the charm?”
Isao snorted. “Accidents happen—goes hand in hand with breaking in new technology. We’re in this for the long haul.”
The man from the OECF shook his head. “The taxpayers are starting to ask if this is money—and it is a lot of money— well spent. It wasn’t all that long ago the people out here in the Solomons were running around hunting heads. How is a rocket like this going to help them?”
“Education. One communications satellite will bring modern education to all seven hundred-plus islands. That alone should be enough to sell it.”
“Then why a manned flight? If you want to bring satellite TV to the natives, why not launch from Tanegashima back in Japan?”
“Isn’t it a bit late for second thoughts?”
“I’m just passing along the complaints we hear every day.”
“Then maybe it’s time you started educating your complainers. Satellites are expensive pieces of hardware. Expensive enough for companies like AsiaSat out in Hong Kong to use the shuttle to go up and pluck a broken one out of orbit, have it repaired, and have it launched again. You want to keep a satellite working, you’re going to have to send people up to kick the tires every now and again.”
“Why not have NASA or the Russians do it?”
“Russia has one foot in the grave, and the shuttle is booked solid for the next decade,” sighed Isao. “Besides, they’re falling apart. Only a matter of time before another one goes boom. But if we had our own manned space program—just think of it!” Isao thrust a finger toward the OECF man’s nose. “The possibilities would be endless! He who rules space rules the world!”
“So that’s why we’re really here.”
“You work for the government. You of all people should know the importance of a good bait and switch.”
“Mr. Nasuda,” began the OECF man, frowning, “I have an official notice from the Department of Economic Planning. I don’t think you’re going to like what you see—it’s an ultimatum.”
[ACT 2]
IN THE CONTROL room, amid the throng of engineers, the traditional prelaunch betting pool was getting underway.
“Ten dollars says it fails,” declared Satsuki Asahikawa, the chief medical officer. She was clothed head to toe in crisp white.
“That’s pretty harsh, Satsuki,” Hiroyuki Mukai grumbled. “How ’bout a little faith, eh?” Fresh from an all-nighter, the chief engineer stared at the monitors with bloodshot eyes.
“Oh, I have a little faith.” The flight director, Kazuya Kinoshita, a tall man with hair combed straight back, threw a wad of Solomon Islands dollars in Satsuki’s cap. “Until the LS-7 booster proves itself, manned spaceflight is a no go. And judging by the mood in the observation room, the whole show’s riding on this one. That said…ten dollars on a failure.”
“The whole show? You think they’d cancel the program?”
“Sure do.”
“That wouldn’t be all bad,” interjected Haruyuki Yasukawa, “as long as I could go back to Hamamatsu. I come out here to be a big shot astronaut, and my ride keeps exploding. Now all I have to look forward to are daily torture sessions with Satsuki. I’m not sure how much more I can take.”
“That’s not torture, it’s training.”
“That what they’re calling it now?”
“You sure you want to go there?”
“There’s that look again—like you’re sizing up a guinea pig.”
“Oh, please.”
“You think I didn’t notice, Satsuki?”
“Notice what?”
“The last time you had me in the centrifuge, you bumped it up to 20 G, remember?” At 20 G, Yasukawa weighed about one and a half tons—enough load to kill the average person.
“What about it?”
“Before I passed out, you grinned.”
“Note to self,” she said after a brief pause. “Even air force pilots experience visual distortion at 20 G.”
“I know what I saw!”
“Next time we’ll just have to try twenty-five,” Satsuki purred. “Says you!”
Two years earlier, before coming to the islands, Yasukawa had been a test pilot in the Japan Air Self-Defense Force. He was stationed in Hamamatsu where he flew experimental Control-Configured Vehicles, or CCVs. All that changed when his commanding officer called him in and asked if he wanted to be an astronaut.
The Solomon Space Association was a new program continuing the work of the former National Space Development Agency of Japan and the Institute of Space and Astronautical Science, and they were about to begin manned-flight operations. The SSA was a local endeavor, operating solely within Solomon Islands territory, or so went the official line. In reality, it was financed with Japanese cash and staffed almost exclusively by Japanese nationals.
Since members of the Japan Self-Defense Force are not generally allowed to serve overseas, Yasukawa had to be temporarily discharged from the service before he could work for the SSA. There would be risks, he knew, but they were risks he was willing to take for a once-in-a-lifetime chance.
“If this launch fails, I’m going back to Hamamatsu.”
“If they’ll still have you.”
“Yeah—what?”
“It’s time,” interrupted the flight director without looking up from his screen. He flicked on his mike. “T-minus ten minutes. All personnel clear the launchpad!”
[ACT 3]
TEN KILOMETERS AWAY, the voice from the loudspeaker reached a small village in the jungle. The village stood on the slopes of
one of the Shiribas, a line of jagged peaks that crossed the island from northwest to southeast. A handful of huts and towers stood around a crude square at the village center.
Each of the huts had a log frame and banana-leaf roof. The floors were raised a full meter off the ground to distance them from the scorpions, snakes, and poisonous ants that teemed on the jungle floor. Walking around barefoot was one thing, but even the locals, who called themselves the Taliho, slept better with a good meter of open air between them and the local fauna. The floor of the chief’s hut extended past its walls, forming a balcony that encircled the structure. Baskets and water jugs lined the balcony atop a rug of woven coconut fibers.
The chief sat on the rug with one of his many daughters, Matsuri. Her sharp ears had no difficulty picking out the announcement against the backdrop of birdsong and screeching beasts.
“T-minus ten,” she announced to her father.
“Ten minutes until the fireworks.”
“We will see them from here?”
“Probably.”
“Woo!” Her face glowing, Matsuri rose and leapt from the balcony. A grass skirt and woven bikini top were all that covered her sun-bronzed skin. She was much lighter than the dark-skinned Melanesians, and her chest-length hair fell straight. The Melanesians wore their hair short and kinked.
Matsuri beat the large talking drum at the center of the village, calling her friends to gather. “Fireworks soon! Fireworks soon!”
People streamed from the fields and dense jungle surrounding the village square. Most of the adults were dark-skinned locals, but many of the children had skin the same lighter color as Matsuri’s. Everyone wore grass skirts and ornaments made from shells or animal fangs, and little else.
A ripple of excitement passed through the crowd.
“The fireworks are starting! Hurry up!”
“The Japanese are shooting their fireworks.”
“It’s been a while since the last one.”
“Think this one will go high?”
“Last time was all smoke, no fire.”
“I hope there’s a big fireball this time.”
Their chief had explained that the Japanese used fireworks to put things up in the sky. Sometimes the fireworks flew so high they could no longer see them, but more often they burst into balls of flame—much to the villagers’ delight.
The adults watched from the square while the children perched in the towers like so many bells. They watched and waited.
Without warning, a pillar of white smoke rose beyond the trees. An orange flame burned at the head of the column, topped by a small silver cylinder. Then came a roar like thunder, sending birds flying from the trees. The silver cylinder sped skyward with incredible power, followed after a forty-five-second delay by the terrible roar of its ascent.
“Go! Go! Go!” the villagers cheered with delight. They clapped their hands; they stomped the ground; they beat on drums and sticks of bamboo.
“C’mon, fireball!”
“Boom! Go boom!”
Bright red flames enveloped the cylinder.
For a moment, a flash as bright as the sun lit the sky, then faded to reveal bits of metal trailing white smoke, scattering like strips of paper in a ticker tape parade.
“Wow!”
“They did it!”
“That was the best one yet!”
Shouts of exultation rose throughout the village.
The chief called down from his balcony. “No work! Today, we feast! We have drink and wild boar! So light the bonfire, and make it big!”
The villagers cheered.
[ACT 4]
THE DRUM OF rain against the ship subsided, and Yukari stepped out on deck. The storm clouds that had brought the squall were already receding into the distance, leaving behind a clear blue sky. The sea air was heavy with the smell of trees and people. Maltide was close.
Maltide was an island covered with dense jungle. Coral reefs and palm trees hemmed the beaches, but the interior was filled with sharp peaks, the occasional black spire breaking through the foliage.
The island was bigger than Yukari had expected. Back in March her uncle had told her of a Japanese enclave on a small island in the Solomons. He had been in Guadalcanal visiting a skipjack tuna cannery for the food-service company he worked for, which was where he had heard the rumors.
Japanese in the Solomons…
Did it mean what she thought it did? She had to find out. Even if it only ended in disappointment.
Unfortunately, there weren’t any direct flights between Japan and the Solomon Islands, and getting there using a prepackaged tour would be too expensive. The high school Yukari had been accepted to last spring didn’t allow its students to hold part-time jobs, so saving up was out of the question. After brooding over the problem for a few days, she decided to take it to her mother.
“I don’t know what good it will do,” her mother began. “But who knows? A trip like this on your own—it might be good for you.” And like that, her mother handed her five hundred thousand yen in cash.
Yukari’s mother was in architectural design, so she made considerably more than the average salaryman. Better still, she wasn’t stingy with it. The air of indifference with which she had given Yukari the money was simply intended to annoy her daughter, which it did.
By the time summer vacation rolled around, Yukari was armed with passport, visa, and traveler’s checks. She left Narita Airport on July 21 aboard an Air France DC-10 that took her as far as New Caledonia. From there a Solomon Airlines Boeing 737 brought her to Guadalcanal. After a night in a hotel in Honiara, she boarded a ferry. Now she was eight hundred kilometers south of the equator, a world of sun, coral, and jungle.
As the ferry pulled up to the pier, Yukari shouldered a backpack over her windbreaker and pulled on a short-brimmed straw hat she had picked up in Honiara. She stepped off the boat, followed by a stream of men with blackened arms and necks. The rickety wooden pier she found herself on looked as though it might give way at any moment, but after a few heart-stopping steps, she had reached the shore.
A short walk along a road made of crushed oyster shells and bits of coral brought her to Main Street in the town of Santiago. According to her guidebook, Santiago was the closest thing to a proper city on the entire island. Even so, she couldn’t spot a single building taller than the palm trees. A stone mansion from the days of British rule caught her eye. She peered past the outer wall and saw that the grounds had been converted to a marketplace. Stalls led up to the open hall on the first floor of the house, and smoke from grilling fish filled the air. Shoppers carrying baskets and bags of woven hemp filled the market, the pale East Asians standing out against the dark-skinned Melanesians. English was supposed to be the common language here, but what strange, clipped syllables Yukari could make out didn’t sound like any dialect of English she’d ever heard. A stucco church stood beside the market, and beyond that stretched rows of small shops.
Yukari was on a missing-person search, so she figured the city hall or the police station would be good places to start. She began exploring the city and before long came across a peculiar street market. A riot of primary colors—reds, yellows, greens—filled her view. At the head of the street stood a brightly colored gate decorated with two dragons.
“I guess anywhere you go, they have a Chinatown.”
Amused, she stepped through the gate.
She had scarcely crossed the threshold when someone called to her in accented Japanese. “Miss! Miss! You come from Japan?”
An aging Asian man with ruddy cheeks stood in front of the shop on her left, beckoning her closer. The sign behind him read TIANJIN RESTAURANT in large Chinese characters. Scrawled messily to one side, an addendum in Japanese read RICE PORRIDGE, DIM SUM. JAPANESE WELCOME. STAFF SPEAK JAPANESE.
A stroke of luck. Yukari could hold a light conversation in English, but the pidgin they spoke on the islands was another beast. More importantly, she might overhear something to aid h
er search in a restaurant that catered to Japanese.
“Hello.”
“Hello! You pretty girl! You come inside, you eat. My name is Tianjin Cheung. This my restaurant. Japanese love my food.” Mr. Cheung led her inside, peppering Yukari with pleasantries all the while. The shop was decorated with openwork folding screens, black tables and chairs, and all the usual fixtures. A stereotypical Chinese restaurant.
Mr. Cheung brought her a menu with Japanese translations beside each item.
Yukari glanced down the menu. “Um…rice porridge, please.”
“Rice porridge? Nothing else? You should eat. Too thin. Bad luck being thin.”
Yukari didn’t appreciate the pressure tactics but decided she stood more to gain by befriending the proprietor than by getting on his bad side. “Okay, throw in some dumplings.”
“Dumplings. Very good. One minute, please.”
Mr. Cheung disappeared into the back and returned a moment later carrying a tray laden with a bowl of rice porridge that looked exactly like the paste kids use in arts and crafts, a small bamboo basket of dumplings, and a mystery deep-fried morsel that loosely resembled a twisted doughnut.
He poured Yukari a glass of oolong tea. “You come visit base?”
“Base?”
“Sure, rocket base. Other side of mountain.”
“There’s a rocket base here? Really?”
“Oh yes. I never tell lie.”
“There wouldn’t be any Japanese on this base, would there?”
“Oh yes. Only Japanese.”
“For real?” Yukari sprang to her feet. Jackpot.
“For real. I never tell lie.”
“How do you get there? Is there a train? A bus?”
Mr. Cheung only shook his head.
[ACT 5]
THIRTY MINUTES AFTER the explosion the management team had already been called into a meeting. It was unusual to meet before the initial telemetry analysis was even complete. Whatever this was about, it wasn’t going to be good.