The Hundred Gram Mission (29 page)

More applause and cheering.

"E8 is being built as the UN's eighth, space, refugee camp. Instead let's make it America's first interplanetary city."

"That was quite a speech," Herrera smiled and nodded. "Maybe you should have been a politician."

"Who says that I'm not?"  Spektorov sipped from his flute. "It was easy, it was what they wanted to hear."

"Well you certainly made more friends than enemies today, at least in this room. But you've just set yourself up against some pretty powerful people in Congress and in industry. But I suppose that's nothing new for you eh?"

"It's not them I'm worried about," he shook his head. "It's the FBI I'm worried about."

Herrera frowned. "What have you done?"

"It's what I have not done. Von Neumann research. The FBI Weapons of Mass Destruction Directorate has begun investigating the program."

Herrera facepalmed, his good mood coming away in his fingers. "Christ. Is this public?"

"It's bullshit, it's all politics. Can you help me get them off my back?"

"I don't have that kind of power, but I can speak up for you wherever it will help. As long as you can prove you're not actually building the damn things, I'm happy to make my support public and put the public relations staff of my office, at your disposal."  He raised an eyebrow, "You
aren't
making von Neumann machines, are you?"

"Currently, no I'm not."

"Currently? What the hell does that mean?"

"It means ‘currently.’  We have to build these things, Congressman. It has to happen."

Herrera stared at him for a few moments.

"There is no way on Earth," he began slowly, "that that's going to happen. No way on Earth."

"Who mentioned Earth?"

Ronald Reagan Shipyard, High Earth Orbit

"What people just don't realize, even today, is that every job created in space means more dollars spent on Earth."
[lxiv]

Like his three fellows, the senator wasn’t wearing a suit today. Not a business suit, at least. On one shoulder was a patch marked "visitor." On the other was the American flag. He did have a podium though - which may even have been of real wood (unlikely though). He gripped it gently, the air currents in the hangar were enough to cause embarrassment.

"When this shipyard opened for business, there were eight air force engineers here," he continued. There were no chairs for all the attending jumpsuits and shirt sleeves. Chairs didn’t matter up here. "Now there are over four hundred personnel, both military and civilian. You build satellites that help farmers know when to plant their crops. You launch laser-equipped probes that steer asteroids away from the Earth. You make systems that help and protect our troops on the ground and those of our allies. Space is the most dangerous posting there is, and your service here helps us down there, breathe easier. For this, from myself and my fellow senators here today, I say thank you."

Applause and some cheering. Smiles flashed and so did cameras. It was a younger crowd: the old preferred cushier assignments than High Earth Orbit. The nicest restaurant here was a Wendy’s.

"And, most important of all, you build the homes for the world’s most desperate. Those who have had to give up everything, just to survive. People who need help from our nation, to recover from the collapse of their own.

"I spoke recently with Tariq Rahman, a Bangladeshi who’s lived on a raft with his dog for the past seven years. Every night he said, he looks up to see his sister’s family passing over. They’re on E5 - Hope Orbital, built right here at Ronald Reagan," more applause. "He said to him it was like seeing a beacon lit by God to show the world He hasn’t forgotten us. If giving hope to billions isn’t God’s work, I don’t know what is." applause again, and some cheering. The other senators clapped as well.

"Now, there are some who think that this program is a waste. That our country could be doing something different. What they don't understand are the years of work that brought us here. Bipartisan negotiation at every level.  Binding international agreements that keep the peace. It's not the kind of investment you throw away overnight, for a cool idea. That's not sound policy, that's not how you send a message to your allies that you can be depended on.

"And that's why my fellow senators and I on the Appropriations Subcommittee on Defense, have come here. To send all of you a message. To tell you that your jobs are safe," the loudest applause and cheering yet. "That your firms will always be welcome here, and that the United States government is a proud supporter of the United Nations Orbital program. Thank you, and God bless you."

"You gave an amazing speech today," said Rao, smiling. "Is it like that every day in the Senate?"

"Oh gosh no," said the smiling, white haired, R-Ohio. He floated like a small bird against the viewing cupola. Beyond it, Earth was a little beach ball. "The Senate is dead boring, Ms. Rao.  We all try a little harder if we know we're not just going to be on C-SPAN."

"I didn't know we brought that many media with us."

"Did you notice how small they are?"

"I did.  is there something to that?"

"High Earth Orbit is expensive to get to:  shorter reporters cost less to fly.  You want a long career as a Stringer in space?  Become an amputee or a midget."  He laughed at his own joke. Rao smiled politely. "Don't you worry about that Spektorov punk. Every few years his type comes along. Some incredibly rich person who thinks they can do whatever they like, and that the whole world is made for them."

"I'm not too worried," Rao shook her head. A shuttle designer-turned waiter offered them wine out of plastic bags. "But I find it best not to underestimate such people, especially if they seem somewhat mad."

"You think he's mad?"

"He's an egomaniac: there's nothing he won't do or wouldn't put others through, for his own glorification. If we were in Imperial Rome, this would have ended on the Senate floor, a long time ago."

"We don't carry daggers if that's what you're saying," he arched an eyebrow. "Though some days I wish we did."

"I think in this case a sword would be better."

He laughed. "You have quite the bloodthirsty streak in you, Madam."

"I'm Sorry, Senator. Trillionaire playboys bring out the worst in me."

Evan Stockwell, Jansen Henrikson, VI

Pathfinder Antimatter Research Facility, Paul Dirac City

"So this spaceship you're making - it's going to be what, 50 grams, 100 grams?"

It wasn't that Paul Dirac city was a shithole, thought Stockwell.   It was like any other 'Tin Can'
[lxv]
space station or mining base.  It was well-lit, had plenty of nice handholds, smelled of clean plastic and lemon yellow warning labels.  It was that it
felt
like a shithole. The inmates with their tattoos and glares were not the problem, not by themselves. The Department of Corrections robots were not pleasant, but they were rare. The radiation tags on every wall and door were ultimately something you just tuned out. But all together, it was like being in a fallout shelter, with people you'd rather not be in an elevator with.

"Yes," said Henrikson, looking up from over the console. The other scientists regarded Stockwell as if he was an annoying but dangerously large dog. They looked back down at their diagrams. "Plus or minus of course, but hopefully more minus."

"
More
minus? You want this to be even smaller? You trying to save on mass?"

"We are always trying to save on mass, we are building spacecraft. No one wants a heavy spacecraft."

"I'm just curious as to what you expect to be able to do with a vessel that weighs less than a dump, taken by a small cat."

"There's a lot we can do with that."

" Uhuh? With perhaps nanomachines?"

Henrikson stiffened. "Yes, with nanomachines.  We just don't have the fuel we need to send anything heavier."

"So how many of these cat-shit spaceships do you plan on sending? You're probably going to need quite a few to do anything interesting. You know, all the way at Alpha freaking Centauri."

"My job is not to think about that, Agent Stockwell. My job is to work out how to get there with what we have. Others decide what mission is possible, within those parameters."

"Sounds nice and  compartmentalized."

"No," he shook his head. "Just division of labor. Nothing more."

"Uhuh. Division of labor, right. That's why you just
happen
to be designing a spaceship so bullshit small, that it only makes sense if its cargo is self-replicating machines.
Of death
."

Earth, Four Days Earlier, FBI, Directorate of Intelligence, Washington DC

"Daryl Spektorov Is making weapons of mass destruction? I fucking knew it. He even looks and sounds like a comic book villain."

Special agent Likavec motioned to the seat before his desk. Through the window behind him, the leaves were all turning yellow. Trainees jogged paths along the lawn, Drones at the checkpoint let a Tesla in.

"Spektorov hasn't built any Von Neumann weapons yet, at least as far as we know. But he's a man who likes to do whatever he wants, and is not known for letting things like the law hold him up for very long. He's going to try and find a loophole, and he has the lawyers to do it. I want you to catch him before he does. He's going to slip up, his people are going to slip up. And if they don't, just having you there snooping around and asking questions - "

" I object to the word snoop, Sir."

" -  having you snoop around may be just what they need to stop a great American philanthropist with many smart minds around him, from doing something that's going to have them all in orange jumpsuits for the next 20 years of their lives. Do you think you're up for it?"

" Oh hell yes, I'm up for it."

" You sure? I have other people I can go to with this. I just thought you'd like first crack."

" Sir? Why wouldn't I be up for it?"

"Well, this soon after Colombo. I thought you might want to take a couple of days off."

Stockwell shook his head vigorously. "Nah, I am so over Colombo. I can't even find it on a map  no more."

Likavec pursed his lips and nodded. "I've made several complaints, and so has the head of the department. State has complained as well, through the proper channels. The Chinese won't even acknowledge that they did something wrong."

"Hey, whatever.  At least now we know the sons of bitches are a bunch of unreliable backstabbers. Let's see what happens the next time they get into a problem and need us to try and bail them out."

"Well they certainly won't be getting any help from this department, or if I can help it, anyone else in the FBI. You have my word on that."

"I appreciate that Sir. Can we get green tea off the menu at the canteen though? It gives me the shakes, like an old veteran." He grinned at his own joke.

"The bureau will be sending you off-planet for this. You ever been off-planet?"

"Does the Hayden Planetarium count? I went to Mexico City Disneyland, once. Once is enough, you know what I mean?"

"Spectorov has researchers on three different orbitals, and a facility on Earth. But, the place we really need you to take a look at, is an asteroid they towed into High Earth Orbit. It's where they're doing their high-energy physics experiments to create antimatter. In bulk."

"You know, forget about the Von Neumann machines. if you want to be afraid of a terrorist using high technology, it's the crazy trillionaire who's making antimatter where no one can touch him."

"The antimatter research is all kosher, he's working closely with the military. He's a businessman first and foremost, the USAF will buy all the antimatter he can sell them, and the engines to use it."

"So you think, being the good businessman that he is, he has a client lined up for his Von Neumann machines that he's not supposed to have?"

"He is not the most ethical man in the world. It's not a chance we're comfortable taking."

"Hey, if he's dealing, I'll bust him."

"That's the spirit. Dempsey will arrange the travel details for you, you'll take the space elevator to Low Earth Orbit, and then a rocket to Paul Dirac City."

Pathfinder Antimatter Research Facility, Paul Dirac City

"You're not going to murder me or something are you?"

Stockwell squeezed into the back seat of the asteroid hopper. It was more a bubble spaceship with huge crash-roll-landing pads. A microgravity altimeter figured out which way to spin the cabin. Henrikson was already strapped into the front seat.

"Agent Stockwell, are you uncomfortable being around a European scientists at a secretive, distant, science facility, that may be building a weapon to threaten the entire world?"

"Do you expect me to talk?"

"No, Mr Bond. I expect you to speak more freely here, as I am fairly confident that there is no way we are being overheard now."