by FX Holden
“I’m serious, sir,” Meany told him. “One day you’re going to be sitting on the cludgie when I page you and by the time you give me weapons authority, it will be too late.”
Bear sipped his tea. “And in that case, the AI will assume control, make an evasive maneuver and the mission will continue with nothing more to show for it than your own raised heart rate,” he said.
“Or ten tons of space junk will slam into our very expensive Reusable Launch System and your court-martialed self will be drinking your tea on some windswept rock in the Atlantic instead of my cozy trailer.”
Bear smirked. “You tempt me, Flight Lieutenant. The Falkland Islands might actually be an improvement on the bleak gray Scottish skies of Lossiemouth.” He tipped his mug toward Meany. “Besides, I have faith in that AI. It is probably a better pilot than you or I, and it is definitely a better shot than you.”
Thank you for the compliment, Squadron Leader.
“Shut up, Angus,” Meany said. “Nobody asked you.” He turned back to his console, talking to Bear over his shoulder. “If you really had faith in that AI, sir, I wouldn’t be here, would I?”
He heard the door to the trailer open as Bear stepped out again. “The thought had crossed my mind, Flight Lieutenant.”
Meany Papastopoulos had an educated ambivalence toward artificial intelligence systems. The older and more primitive combat support AI systems aboard the late marque F-35 fighters he had flown for the Royal Air Force in the Middle East in the latter part of the 2020s had saved his life more than once, reacting with quantum speed to tactical threats that his own reflexes could not possibly have matched. But he’d also seen how dangerous an AI could be when his aircraft Identify Friend or Foe system had malfunctioned and he had nearly been a victim of friendly fire, his aircraft shot down by an RAF missile under automated AI control without human oversight. The incident had colored his view of the virtues of combat AI ever since, which was not surprising considering he ejected and survived, but with a broken back that meant he couldn’t walk without his exoskeleton. Ironically, it was during his long period of physical rehabilitation that he’d had the time to return to an area of his aerospace engineering studies that he’d always wanted to explore – orbital mechanics. While bullying his body into cooperating with the exoskeleton, he’d occupied his mind with a master’s thesis in astrodynamics, submitting a paper titled “Fuzzy logic trajectory design and guidance,” which had attracted zero attention in the astrodynamics academic world, but did attract the attention of an RAF recruiter scouring personnel lists for pilots to crew RAF 11 Group’s new Skylon spacecraft.
The Skylon had been through a long gestation. Starting as a concept on a drawing board at British aero-engine designer Reaction Engines in 1982, it staggered from concept to prototype, was scrapped completely in the late 1980s, reinvigorated with a new design in the 1990s, and finally took wing when Boeing and Rolls Royce bought into the redesigned hydrogen-fueled SABRE engine in the early 2020s. The Skylon D2 was a half size single-stage-to-orbit prototype that took to the skies in 2025, followed closely by the full-scale D3 commercial suborbital ‘spaceliner’ in 2030 and finally the orbital D4 version delivered to the RAF in 2032. The Skylon D4 could take off from the ground like an aircraft, deliver a 33,000 lb. payload to a 1,200-mile orbit, and then land at specially prepared airstrips either at RAF Lossiemouth, the European spaceport in Kiruna or Guiana Space Center. Using interchangeable payload containers, it could be fitted to carry satellites or weapons modules, or, with a specialized habitation module, could boost a personnel payload of 30 ‘astronauts’ into orbit, making Great Britain the first nation that could put a platoon of light assault Marines into space.
The RAF had searched very carefully for the right pilots to crew its one and only Skylon D4. Depending on the mission parameters, it could be in space for anywhere from several hours to several days. The systems AI handled most of the routine duties, but human pilots were required to make mission-critical decisions, like how and when to deploy payloads, whether to ignore or react to a screwball error message that threatened to scrub a mission, and whether or not to blast or evade approaching space junk.
The RAF needed pilots who could keep their heads under incredible pressure, who were accomplished in working in symphony with advanced AI systems, and who had already proven themselves capable of working long hours in near-total social isolation – or as Squadron Leader Gregory Bear had described to the internal recruiter they put on the job, “We need current or former Air Force pilots, autistic loners with attention deficit disorder, twitch reflexes and a belief that nothing in the universe, literally, should prevent them from achieving their mission objective.”
The recruitment agency didn’t come back with a long shortlist, but Meany Papastopoulos was near the top of it.
“You might not want him,” the recruiter had told Bear.
“Two combat rotations in the Middle East in F-35s, a master’s in astrodynamics? The profile looks perfect,” Bear had replied, flicking through Meany’s file. “Why would I not?”
“He’s a crip,” the recruiter had said. “Broke his back ejecting over Syria, can’t walk without an exoskeleton.”
“It’s a drone, man. He doesn’t have to be able to walk, he just has to be able to fly,” Bear had said.
Approaching Skynet satellite 6C, matching orbit, the AI voice announced an hour later, bringing Meany back to the present with a bump. He’d leaned his exoskeleton back like a built-in armchair and was flicking through a football magazine on a tablet. He wasn’t really a football fan, but he was a gambling man. It was one of his many weaknesses. West Ham undefeated on top of the Premier League? Seriously? This season was going to cost him a lot of money.
He levered himself upright with a mechanical whine and checked a half dozen instrument readouts before calling up a visual of the approaching satellite.
“Good job, Angus,” he said. “Deploy the net and set up for station keeping, followed by bag and drag.”
Confirming, two-knot flyby with target capture, followed by net deployment and stowage, the AI repeated. The day’s mission, which had taken several days and multiple pilots over multiple shifts to set up, was for the Skylon aircraft to ‘bag’ a defunct UK military Skynet satellite in a carbon fiber net mesh at the end of a remote manipulator arm. Once secured, the arm would very slowly swing the satellite into the payload bay so that it could be returned to earth for repair.
A net ‘bag and drag’ operation was high-risk, because the spacecraft had to close within 20 feet of the target object to bag it, and thus approached it very carefully, at very low speeds.
Meany was alone in his trailer with Angus, but he knew that a dozen eyes were watching his every move on remote monitors inside the RAF Lossiemouth main mission control center. He didn’t mind. He’d told the psychologists who had designed the pilots’ trailer he could stay focused on his mission in the caldera of an exploding volcano if he had to, but they had convinced themselves that their Skylon pilots would perform better in simulated solo-cockpit environments, where extraneous distractions were minimized. So Meany had just shrugged a ‘whatever’ kind of shrug and got down to the business of learning to fly the Skylon together with Angus in simulated solitude.
“Mission control?” Meany said, speaking into the mike at his throat. “Am I clear for capture?”
“Skylon cleared for capture of Skynet satellite 6C,” a disembodied voice told him. “Station keeping looks good; you have a go for final approach, you are at 1,720 feet, close at 0.46 knots.”
“Zero point four six confirmed, Skylon beginning target approach,” Meany repeated.
Deploying mesh.
“Check roll bias please, Angus,” Meany said, frowning at a readout.
Roll bias within acceptable parameters.
“I don’t like it. Mission control?” Meany wasn’t happy and asked for a second opinion. The rotating manipulator attachment at the end of the Skylon’s capture arm was su
pposed to match perfectly the slow roll of the defunct Skynet satellite so that it would float serenely into the metallic mesh capture bag. If it was rolling faster or slower relative to the bag, it risked snagging and tearing it, requiring a complete mission reset as the bag was discarded, a new one loaded and a new approach vector calculated – which could take days. He didn’t want to hand this part of the mission over to another pilot.
“Confirming roll bias at the upper end of nominal, still within acceptable range, pilot,” his mission controller confirmed.
“Nah. Still don’t like it. Try to optimize the spin on the capture arm further, please,” Meany said, ordering the AI to adjust its roll manually by a fraction.
Adjustment of zero point zero two five RPM on capture arm possible, confirm?
“Yes please,” Meany said. As he watched his display, the roll bias figures for both the rotating bag and the target lined up to within two decimal points. “OK, Angus, bag it.”
On one of the Skylon’s external cameras, he saw the bag flick out from the remote arm, open wide like a spider’s web and then wrap itself around the satellite as the Skylon drifted past. There was a visual jerk as the spacecraft adjusted to the added mass of the satellite and it followed obediently along beside it, attached to the robotic arm.
“Manipulator release systems check.”
Manipulator systems green.
“Mission control, I am ready to stow the baggage,” Meany said.
“You are go for mesh docking, pilot.”
“Fire up the grapples, Angus,” Meany commanded, having coded the AI with his own preferred jargon to order the AI to prepare to engage the magnetized payload deck once the bagged satellite had been lowered into the payload bay. The net was wound with metallic thread and, together with the magnetic metals in the satellite itself, would be held tight to the floor of the payload bay during the hammering the Skylon got when re-entering Earth’s atmosphere.
Mesh docking maneuver A3 initiated.
As he watched, the massive robotic arm moved slowly left to right across his screen, swinging the satellite in an arc before lowering it into the payload bay. His instrument panel confirmed the magnetic grapples had been engaged and he retracted the manipulator arm and closed the payload door.
“And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how we collect the garbage, Skylon-style,” Meany declared. “Great job, Angus.”
Thank you, Flight Lieutenant Papastopoulos. I am glad you corrected that roll bias error, it greatly increased the likelihood of success.
“Ah, shucks, Angus, stop it, you’re making me blush.”
The compliment from the AI was also something he had programmed it to do, but he had learned to take his compliments wherever he could get them, even if they came from himself.
Despite the fact that a livid Russian energy minister had stormed into the lift with his bodyguards and left her standing in the corridor with a dismissive glare, Roberta D’Antonia was also complimenting herself.
Nicely played, ragazza. You just confirmed Russia is serious about going to war with Saudi Arabia.
She turned back to the terrace doors as Al-Malki’s personal assistant came out looking for her. “That went well,” the man said with deliberate sarcasm. He licked his lips and stroked his thin beard. He was just dying for Roberta to trip up so that he could step up into her place. But he had even less business acumen than Al-Malki himself, and that was saying something. All he had going for himself was Saudi citizenship and a penis. Roberta had spent eight years maneuvering herself into a position of influence and access in OPEC; she wasn’t about to lose it now at the very moment that she would be of most value.
“Shut your trap, Sahed,” she said, pushing past him. She’d learned how to navigate relations in the Kingdom the hard way. What she’d told Lapikov was true. Saudis reacted poorly to threats, and backing down wasn’t in their vocabulary. But she’d also learned that subservience or meekness was scorned. As a foreign woman she was at an automatic disadvantage in the Saudi oil business, but being Italian rather than Arabic seemed to give her a license to speak and act more boldly than would otherwise be allowed. Within limits. She could set a fool like Sahed in his place in private, but he would react murderously if she tried to do so in front of other Saudis, or worse, in front of a woman of any nationality. Of course, none of that would be true if she wasn’t useful to Al-Malki, but D’Antonia had built up a network within OPEC that could be matched by very few other outsiders.
The secret of her success wasn’t just that she was bright; she was modest enough to realize that. The secret of her success was her unique access to confidential information.
Intelligence, to be accurate. Roberta D’Antonia had been born in Sicily but had a master’s in international business from Milan University. She’d joined a large multinational oil conglomerate headquartered in London as a graduate at the age of 23. At age 25 she’d been recruited by the Agenzia Informazioni e Sicurezza Esterna (AISE), Italy’s external intelligence agency, to provide them with economic intelligence from within the oil industry, at a time when the energy industry in Europe was desperately trying to adjust to a future where oil was increasingly being supplanted by renewables. Led by a Milan industrialist who had partnered with a Californian entrepreneur, Italy had stolen a lead over Germany and France as a producer of autonomous electric mass transport – driverless trains, buses, trams and metro carriages – and found itself fighting an economic war against countries with coal and oil-based economies such as Russia, China, India and the OPEC nations.
D’Antonia wasn’t motivated by patriotism. Her country had done almost nothing to help her make her way in life, providing her with the barest of education and employment opportunities, and if she’d stayed in Milan, she’d almost certainly have ended up as one of the thirty percent of young people unable to find work. Nor was she motivated by money. She had been paid handsomely in her industry roles, while AISE paid an almost insultingly small allowance into an Italian bank account, which barely covered the expenses she frequently incurred on their behalf.
No, D’Antonia was motivated by the hunt. Her AISE controllers set her one challenge after another, and she went after them like a jaguar hunting deer. We need to know what the company is going to announce at its annual meeting next quarter, they told her. It’s something big. Find out what. She had been working in the company’s branding team at that time, far away from any corporate secrets. But she had a friend in the corporate strategy team who was an insider. She took her friend to see Palermo play Liverpool and got him drunk. The company is shutting down North Sea platforms and ceasing all Arctic oil exploration activities, she told her AISE handler. They are about to announce the acquisition of a pumped hydro technology firm.
It wasn’t her intelligence alone that impressed her handlers; it was her analysis. This has major economic implications, she wrote in her report. The Arctic oil exploration effort was a joint venture with Mozprom, Russia’s largest oil and gas exporter. Mozprom was relying heavily on opening new oil and gas fields in the Arctic to enable it to compete in an oversupplied market by cutting transport distances to its key European customers. Without the new Arctic fields to drive it, the Mozprom collaboration is threatened.
She had proven prescient. Within six months of the announcement, the giant Mozprom conglomerate pulled out of its alliance with her UK employer. Italy, which still drew forty percent of its natural gas supplies from Mozprom, used Roberta’s intelligence to renegotiate a very favorable contract with the Russian supplier knowing it was in no position to play hardball on prices.
Roberta D’Antonia was an asset too valuable to waste in corporate communications at a private UK energy conglomerate. The biggest threat to Italy’s new electric vehicle industry ambition was OPEC. Just as they had dumped prices in the early part of the century in a futile effort to crush the emerging US shale oil industry, OPEC Plus countries were now targeting Italy’s key customers across Europe with cheap refined petroleum
and diesel which made it very hard for electrical vehicle manufacturers to make an economic case for their vehicles.
Luckily European governmental environmental targets were still driving demand, but to really take off, Italian vehicle producers needed the cost of gasoline and diesel to rise dramatically. Ironically, in the dying days of the fossil fuel industry, demand was diving and the price of a barrel of oil hadn’t been lower in nearly fifty years.
With the help of one of AISE’s other assets, Roberta got a job in the OPEC Secretariat Research unit, preparing position papers and analysis for its Energy Division. It was a bloodless, sexless job in which a lesser agent would have died of boredom, but Roberta broke through the beige walls of the Secretariat’s research unit by doing a completely unauthorized investigation into Iranian manipulation of oil sanctions through third parties that exposed a State-supported supply route which moved Iranian oil through Algeria to Nigeria and from there into the mainstream market.
She didn’t take the report to her superiors in OPEC, nor did she tell AISE about it straight away.
During a meeting of the OPEC Secretariat at which she’d been enlisted to take committee minutes, she’d approached Saudi Prince Al-Malki, who at the time had been a lowly member of the Legal oversight committee. The man was so dim it had taken some time for him to realize that Roberta was offering him valuable intelligence that would give the Kingdom enormous leverage over Iran just by threatening to reveal it.
Al-Malki had the IQ of a sand fly, but luckily also enough self-awareness to realize it. He had insisted Roberta join him when he informed the head of the Saudi delegation about the information and, from that day forward, Roberta had been at his side facilitating his rise through the ranks of OPEC to where he was today, heading up the OPEC relationship with the ‘Plus’ nations, of which Russia was the biggest.
