by Jim Wurst
The two US stations were the largest. China was close behind; the mission as complicated and the crew as large, but since they had a long history of working in close quarters, the designers had no problem with reducing the size. Russia’s was mostly for prestige, but Moscow was obsessed on spying and monitoring the climate. Europe and Japan were all about research and communications. The UN stations served all the nations that could not launch their own stations, providing them with research, and monitoring of weather and human phenomena, and communications. And all of them were obliged by treaty to perform one vital function away from the stations themselves. They had to clean up space junk.
The Satellite War destroyed virtually every satellite, space station and ship in space that day, except for, mercifully the vital geostationary satellites in the High Earth Orbit of 35,000 kilometers. Most destroyed satellites were in Low Earth Orbit 700 to 1,700 kilometers. The larger pieces pulled back into orbit and crashed into space stations and ships on their way through the thermosphere before burning up. The newly smashed vehicles then destroyed others in their orbit. Those pieces of the past were still orbiting the earth. Some larger chunks got drawn into the Earth’s pull and burned up on re-entry but junk the size of a pin to that of a horse was still roaming the heavens, ready to smash anything to bits.
This was where Ron came in. He had the job embodying the ultimate contradiction: a boring job in space. His tin can was a low orbit garbage truck. Ugly, slow, designed for survival at the expense of everything else, including aesthetics. His ship was the Swiss Army Knife of space. Shaped like a rugby ball with four arms, two equipped with pinchers, two with magnets. It also had a sagging pouch like a worn-out kangaroo.
The ship’s sole purpose was to make excursions from the Roosevelt and search for debris, collect it and return it to the station. Because of their size, the Roosevelt and Glenn had higher orbits, were closest to the debris field but slightly above the worst of it. They had the lion’s share of the collection work.
The sweepers were periodically deployed to catch what they could. If the Roosevelt was geo-synchronist, meaning parked above a single spot of the Earth, then the sweepers could do their work and zip back to its stationary home base. But since the Roosevelt was in a sun-synchronist orbit, the sweepers and the space station were out of sight of each other for approximately 14 of the 29-minute orbit when the space station was on the other side of the Earth. The geo-synchronist communications satellites in High Earth Orbit kept them in radio contact, but for vital minutes of every orbit the tin cans were alone in space. Which was why the sweepers were deployed in pairs.
Once back in the ship, under the supervision of an officer who had a job no one ever said out loud, junk would get categorized and sorted. Ron’s ship was the RV, Recovery Vehicle 3. Leadership didn’t bother to name them, so pilots named them according to their whims. Ron’s ship was Davy. At the moment, he was enjoying the RV’s one perk, large windows. Since the sweepers went straight into debris fields, the designers felt eyeballing space was a useful complement to all the sensors on board thus they had unusually large windows. He found the emptiness of space relaxing and when the Earth floated into view; it felt like a religious experience. “God made two great lights: the greater light to govern the day and the lesser light to govern the night. He also made the stars. God set them in the expanse of the sky to give light on the earth to govern the day and the night, and to separate light from darkness. And God saw that it was good.” And Ron agreed.
A pinging on his console interrupted prayer. Time for protocol.
“Bridge,” he said into the radio, “I’m getting a heading of 00-45-7. Do you concur?”
The Roosevelt’s helmsman, who was monitoring as much of space as was possible, replied, “Concur, heading 00-45-7. Bogie is possibly 100 clicks in front of you. Do you have visual?”
“Negative, but it’s out there.” Watching his panel and checking out his window, he saw nothing. If whatever it was, was 100 kilometers away, he would only see a speck of light. Then a sudden loud thud from outside the ship rattled Ron, not so much for its power, but for its invisibility. Several yellow lights started flashing. He manipulated some controls.
“RV 3, we’re getting a yellow alert. What happened?”
“A bogie hit me, had to be pretty small. The sensors detected nothing. Readings show no damage.” He manipulated one of the exterior cameras and brought the image onto one screen. “There, I see it, minor dent on the starboard side. No breach. But I can’t see the bogie either. Should I try to find it?”
“Negative, focus on the original bogie, it’s moving too fast, it may be out of range soon.”
“Affirmative.”
“Bridge, I have established visual contact. Do you see it?”
“Affirmative. Can’t make it out. Does it look like anything to you?”
“No, and it’s still moving away from me, still can’t get a good fix on it.”
“Don’t take too long, you have a rendezvous with the Roosevelt on our next pass.”
“Affirmative.”
The bogie performed its zero-gravity dance as Ron approached. Alternating between his window and monitors, he tried to get a fix on it. It was big for space junk. That almost always meant metal, so he readied the magnetic arms. He was hoping it would be too big for the claws. He had collected so many scraps of solar panels, tubes, air tanks, but no human remains. Thank God, he felt it was his turn for something big and interesting. Maybe an engine or a ridiculous hope an old-fashioned computer that somehow was still working.
“I see it. It’s a generator. Can’t tell whose. Maybe ours. Maybe from the ‘20s…”
“Roger that, I see it. The calculation on the weight is half a tonne.”
“Agreed.”
There was a pause Ron did not like.
“You’re in danger of tanking. Weight of the bogie, your fuel supply, distance from the ship. You can’t do it.”
“Negative, I can do it.” And as if to prove it, he pumped the boosters and extended the arms as far as they could go. The entire ship spasmed as the magnets caught the junk. “See,” he said, trying not to sound too triumphant. “Yep, about half a tonne. Definitely going to slow me down.”
“Negative. RV 6 has more fuel she will rendezvous with you. Pass it off to her, you can’t handle the weight with the fuel you’ve got.”
The professional pilot’s smooth space jockey voice, poorly imitated by countless other pilots since the Gemini Program disappeared. “What? Come on, man, I’ve been picking up the most boring crap for months. This is the first time I’ve ever had anything that might be worth looking at. I want to bring it in.”
“Negative, we can’t risk you floating off. You can see it when we get it onboard.”
“But…”
“Permission denied. Do I have to remind you the Captain monitors these transmissions?”
Without responding, Ron swung his ship around to face RV 6. That Kate was piloting it only made it worse.
CHAPTER 13
Mr. Lopez addressed a hall full of undergraduates. Since this was the University of New Mexico, the vast majority of the students were Hispanic, with a sprinkling of whites and Native Americans.
“Corn has been a staple of humans in this hemisphere for at least 10,000 years. It is not dramatic to say that without corn, we would not be here.” Professor Lopez was conducting his weekly lecture. He liked these outings. He spent most of his time with graduates in seminars and research projects where a breakthrough if it were to happen would happen. These were the students he wanted, who wanted him. But these weekly lectures were a carnival show where everyone shouted, and the lights flashed. But it was out of this, cattle-call that Lopez could find the next round of hopefuls.
“They cultivated corn in the Valley of Oaxaca 10,000 years ago. Over the millennia, it crossed pollinated both naturally and through h
uman intervention to produce what we estimate to be more than 1,000 variations by the time the Spanish landed in Mesoamerica. Yet by the beginning of the 21st century, 80% of all cultivated corn was only three varieties none of them resistant to climate change. A lack of water, increased heat, and pest mutations led to an inevitable crash in corn production.
“The question becomes what strains of corn can grow here, meaning the Southwest United States and northern Mexico now that ‘our’ corn has migrated north. In the Dakotas, the new Corn Belt, where corn competes with wheat for remaining water, the crops will ultimately die out. Wheat can and has moved north. But corn as we understand it cannot. GMO has proved to be a failure. The rigid structure of GMO makes it impossible to adapt to a changing climate. Therefore, we have to go back to our roots, both biologically and metaphorically, for the answers. We are working with hybrid species and species indigenous to Mexico but have fallen out of favor decades ago. Most of these indigenous strands come from Mexico, but don’t tell the President or he may forbid you to eat it.”
The students caught that. The professor was making a joke. A small, mirthless ripple of laughter followed.
“Many of these species fell out of favor because people no longer liked the taste. For those facing poverty, it is a luxury they cannot afford. These species do not apply themselves well for mass farming. Small family plots, but not on the scale needed to feed much of the hemisphere. It has been nearly impossible to find strains not infected by GMO. The few we have identified are not suitable for large-scale human consumption.”
“If you continue in this field, you will be intimately, maybe even obsessively, involved in developing new species, hybrids, and strains that need to be blight resistant, able to survive on too little rain and too much heat. You will have to increase the size of the kernel while decreasing the size of the stalk and cob. This is no small matter, nor is it a matter for scientists alone. People throughout the hemisphere from the peasants of Oaxaca to, well, you are constantly experimenting. The next great breakthrough could even happen in someone’s backyard. I have four hybrids planted in my yard. I’m letting nature cross-pollinate. The results may be a surprise to all of us.”
CHAPTER 14
Dr. Simon Asanti woke up tired every morning. His first thought of the day always, “how many people died last night?” As the director of the Nigerian section of the World Health Organization, decisions ruled his day. Decisions about who lived, who got medicine and clean water, how much reliable formula was available to nursing mothers beyond help.
A native of Cameroon, Dr. Asanti knew more than any human should have to about misery. Like all of West Africa, climate change had pummeled Cameroon, which resulted in a rise in sea-level, loss of fresh water and reliable growing seasons, and inevitable social unrest. But nothing prepared him for Lagos.
The UN House in Lagos was the largest in Africa. There had been raging debates over whether they should merge all UN agencies to increase efficiency, which would also increase its value as a target or keep them separate to produce the opposite results. The latter option, less tempting and harder to defend. They ultimately compromised but leaned toward consolidation. A single UN House placed within a compound in the traditional African construction. There was a central building and outlaying support buildings in the classic European and North American fort design. The perimeter was not a uniformed rectangular wall but rather an octagon with a protrusion at each angle. Each protrusion was an entry for different purposes: health, food, refugees, security, etc. That way there would never be a critical mass of civilians milling around one entrance, inviting a suicide bomber or mortar attack. Should anyone try to storm one entrance, they could seal it off, and protect the rest of the compound. Such were the lives of people trying to save lives.
Lagos had suffered terribly from climate change. The fragile combination of low laying lands interlaced with waterways was always under stress as the population of the city grew. But with increased storms, rising sea levels and pollution from multiple sources, it not only lost land but lost its natural buffers from the ocean. As a result, those islands and small bodies of water: Badagry Creek, Snake Island, Tarkwa Bay vanished, as did the eastern neighborhoods wedged between the Atlantic and Lagos Lagoon. Without its natural barriers from the ocean, the Lagoon got pummeled by saltwater washing in from the Atlantic. Pollution increased and by 2052, Lagos Lagoon was a dead zone. The city itself suffered grievously: besides the ecological upending caused by the loss of shoreline and the Lagos Lagoon, poverty increased as temperatures increased, old diseases resurfaced, and new diseases found breeding places in the fetid soup of one of the world’s largest, and poorest cities.
This was where Dr. Asanti woke up every morning.
CHAPTER 15
George Cranston Sr. was a wonderful old man. A lifetime in politics made him an expert in reading people. He could make the most cynical, smile. The most insecure, relax. And the most pompous, accept him. He was the man you wanted him to be. He was also a cobra in a very expensive suit. When he said, “I am your friend,” he meant “I won’t hurt you.” That made him a fixture in Washington for five decades, but someone who never held elective office. His son went further, largely because his dad knew where they buried the dead bodies. He often put them there. Yet, he was backing the losing team. He could have switched sides, Ailes would have given him anything he wanted, but he remained a leader of a dying party.
Everything everyone needed to know about US society was that in 1960 the richest metropolitan area was Detroit, in 2000 it was Washington. In 2050, it was still Washington, only more so. Government was business. The citizens would rail against it as they cashed the checks. For decades, an entire class of professional grew in Washington who got rich attacking Washington. If they ever succeeded, they would not have known what to do. It would have been as if a turtle constantly complained about its shell, and then the shell magically disappeared. The inevitable result was that the turtle would die. Government could rob industry, but industry could not rob government. Industry could own government, but only as long as they pretended it didn’t. This was why George Cranston Sr. survived and George Cranston Jr. wasn’t a laughingstock.
This was also why the Cranston family had an extremely lovely and permanent home in Washington. Georgetown. It was always an elite neighborhood, but since it was on a cliff and not the lowlands made it even more special. George Jr. could not live in Washington his entire life, he had to be part of the great American landscape. So the family set up residence in California, George attended college there, had a few appointments overseas and ran for Senate. He had to be a senator from California. A senator from the District was the worst job in politics but one with the toughest competition. So this Georgetown house way the center of the Cranston solar system while the son had to pretend it wasn’t.
These days the house was also the unofficial campaign headquarters. There was the party headquarters, but this was where they made the essential decisions. Partly because the HQ had to be near the Senator and partly because it was much easier to secure a house than an office building. As Cranston’s 360, his personal security expert Sean swept the house regularly, mixing frequencies for communications, setting up dummy routers and planting booby traps for spies. It was a safe place.
The old man’s library was the favorite room. Antique books and the best computers shared space with mementoes of past and current glories. This evening’s council was the usual team: the two Cranstons, Nancy, Sean, Mei Rosen and Maggie O’Malley, Cranston’s campaign manager. O’Malley should have been a Cranston. She shared the love of the hunt and the kill. She was lean, not lean as in skinny, but lean as in disciplined. Her film star face helped her move through this world. Rosen, the chief legal advisor, was younger than O’Malley. Like Lilly, she was an Expendable, but unlike Lilly, she embraced the rage that propelled her career. There was a pattern among the people who worked for the Cranstons.
They were waiting. On the main screen in the room, Lilly’s interview was running, a clear sign for whom they were waiting for. The door opened and Lilly walked in, followed by Elena. Everyone acknowledged everyone, but only Elena and Sean touched a gentle, chaste hug.
“Oh, for God’s sake, you two,” the king of the house roared, “You know what you want to do. Go ahead.” The pair shared the romantic kiss they wanted. Nobody teased, nobody smiled. Now the meeting could begin.
Cranston leapt in. “Didn’t any of the coaching take hold?” he said to Lilly, “They’re provoking you. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter what you say, they’re make it fit their narrative. But for God sakes, don’t make it easy for them!”
“I’m sorry. I was trying to talk about policy, not my personal life.”
It was Maggie’s turn. “You’re a candidate for vice president of the United States, you don’t have a personal life.”
Volley back to Cranston. “No one will listen to you to if you concede any of their points, accept any of their premises, start sentences with ‘but’ or ‘however.’ You must prove from the first impression you can be in charge.”
“Stick to your strong suit you’re not a professional politician,” Maggie said, “Look for the solutions in the certainties of science…”
Mei added, “I still don’t like ‘certainties’ too fundamentalist.”
“Good alliteration, though,” said George Sr.
Maggie countered. “No one can get any traction with the idea that she’s a fundamentalist.”
Cranston added, “A key piece of our constituency is comfortable with science. They see it as part of the solution, not part of the problem. The Doctrinists are incapable of co-opting that. That’s her one strength.” He could have said “one of her strengths,” he could have said “Lilly,” and not “her,” but he didn’t.
