Within a month, dozens of JSA ships arrived at the ‘wormhole’, as the Hakudo Maru crew was calling the gravity fluctuation; again a nod to Takahashi’s reading habits. Exuberant scientists sent more and more probes through, military leaders fretted over possible wartime scenarios, and young crewmembers unhappy with their current positions in life dreamed about limitless futures in another star system.
Over the next year, thousands of probes were sent to scan every corner of the solar system, by every Earthbound government and private corporation, but no other wormholes were found. Hundreds of probes sent through the Jupiter wormhole did the same, and reported back with one additional wormhole point. The scientists posited, correctly as it turned out later, that the number of wormholes in a particular system were based on gravity fluctuations caused by the star itself, with single star systems like Sol having one, binary systems having two, and so on. The home solar system had one wormhole, and Nu Ophiuchi, named Ryokou by Captain Takahashi after the Japanese word for journey, had two, matching the number of stars.
The decision was made to send a manned ship through, and although the JSA vociferously objected, it was Masahiro Takahashi who rode the first shuttle through. The crew of the Hakudo Maru, now considered heroes back home, wouldn’t allow anyone but their revered captain to have the honor. He returned safely from the four minute ride, though horribly nauseous as he explained later, and went down in history with other pioneers like Gagarin, Armstrong, and Chiang Le.
The gates were created to not only mark the location of the wormholes, but also to stabilize the fluctuations. With a combination of electromagnetic fields and particle beam generators, they created a safe corridor down the gullet of the wormhole, allowing ships up to a mile and a half wide to pass through. Smaller ships, such as the Marcinko, were outfitted with special EM field generators which meshed with the T-gate fields and provided a smoother transit.
Gabriel watched the T-gate get closer on the wallscreen and turned to Takahashi, who had dragged one of the chairs closer to the screen, away from the others at the table. “Not a bad namesake you have, Ensign.”
“No sir, not bad at all,” he replied as he took a sip from a water bulb in one hand. His other hand clutched a spacesickness bag.
Gabriel pulled up a chair near the ensign and sat down, watching the screen idly. Not my first transit, he thought, but the first I’ve done in several years. Didn’t really think I’d ever be back out here again. He idly scratched at his scarred leg.
The Marcinko’s chief of the watch called over the intercom, “Crew, prepare for transit. T-gate entry in two minutes, mark.”
Gabriel noticed the rest of the team had gotten quiet and had turned their attention to the wallscreen as well. The blinking towers grew larger, and he felt more than heard the ship’s EM field generators spin up. The fine hairs on the back of his neck and arms tingled and stood on end as the static electricity increased, and the overhead light dimmed slightly.
“Transit in five, four, three, two, one…mark,” the intercom intoned, and Gabriel’s world went blue.
Transit through a wormhole was a totally unique experience, depending on whom one asked. Some people felt nothing, some people blacked out, some people had visions of past events, some claimed to have visions of future events, some claimed to see their god (and in fact, an entire industry was built around religious wormhole cruises), some got violently ill, and in three instances in human history, died. In Gabriel’s case, as it had been years before when he regularly transited, everything turned an electric blue, like he was in a room illuminated by intense cobalt spotlights.
In seconds it ended, and his blue wash went away, fading back into the normal white walls and red chairs. The wallscreen showed the Ryokou Twins, the adjacent system to Sol which was the second step on every interstellar journey. He heard retching next to him and looked over to see Takahashi’s face buried in the bag, his water bulb at the ready for when he finished.
He turned back to the rest of the team, five of whom were getting back into their previous activity, the only exception being Jimenez, who was passed out on the floor.
“He okay?” Gabriel asked, looking down at the prone figure.
“Happens every time to Arturo,” Sowers answered as he picked up his cards to continue the game. “At least it gives us a few minutes without that damned guitar.”
“Broke his nose during his first transit,” Takahashi chimed in, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “And his second one, before he finally learned his lesson.”
Gabriel heard soft snoring from the petty officer on the floor and gave a small smile. “Understood.”
He rose from his chair, checking his neuretics for the time. Seventeen hundred hours. “I’m going to chat with the captain. I’ll meet you guys for dinner in an hour,” he said, and headed out of the mess, giving Takahashi a pat on the back on the way.
Chapter 12
Ignacio Cáceres whistled as he walked along the Plaza de Maya in downtown Buenos Aires. The warm December wind blew in off the Rio de la Plata as he passed by the General Manuel Belgrano Monument, the Argentinian flag held high by the general on horseback. At the base of the monument he saw several homeless people, wrapped in blankets and lying on cardboard. Some held battered plastic cups aloft begging for pesos, some just stared in stim-induced stupor. His earlier high spirits were dampened by the sight, incongruously at the foot of a war hero who had designed the original Argentinean flag. He passed by the group, eyes averted, and made his way across the Plaza.
After a few hundred feet, the Casa Rosada, the capitol building of the South American Republic, stood before him. Its pink stone was a reminder of a time long past when the most important domestic issue was the opposing red and white colors of two political parties, which President Sarmiento had creatively, and some said spitefully, solved by having the building painted pink. He climbed the steps, his good mood now completely vanished as he began to dread the upcoming meeting, at which he’d be discussing something far more important than opposing colors.
He passed through the metal detector quickly, having not brought anything larger than his wedding ring to this meeting. The guard scanned his neuretics to confirm identity, then asked Cáceres to walk through the chemical sniffer. After a few short puffs of air, the glass door on the far side of the small chamber opened, and he was granted entry into the seat of the South American Republic’s government.
He walked up two flights of stairs, bypassing the elevator as part of his promise to his wife to lose 10 pounds by Christmas, and down the hall to an inconspicuous door. The name in gold on the dark oak surface read, “Juan Martin Tevez, Minister of Finance.” He rapped lightly, and with a soft buzz the door lock disengaged and opened inwards.
He stepped into a brightly-lit anteroom, occupied solely by a small desk with a receptionist behind it, a flag of La Republica de Sudamerica, and a wall mural depicting the South American continent and its constituent nation-states, only the former Peru not matching in color. Cáceres glanced at the map, eyes lingering on the missing nation-state, and felt a sadness many South Americans had never gotten over. The start of the South American nuclear war in the middle of the twenty-first century had left most of Peru uninhabitable for centuries.
He stood respectfully by the back wall, hands clasped in front of him, as the anteroom lacked any type of seating besides the receptionist’s chair. He knew the drill. The minister would keep him waiting a predetermined period of time, during which Cáceres would be expected to reflect on his lowly position, and enter the meeting suitably humbled. I’ll play along, Cáceres thought. Just until I get what I need.
After ten minutes of being ignored by the receptionist, a light tone sounded on the desk. “You may enter, Señor Cáceres,” the receptionist said, never looking up from his flexscreen. A door opposite the one he had entered slid aside noiselessly, and Cáceres walked through.
The door immediately slid shut behind him as he stepped on
to the plush crimson carpet of the office, and he caught a faint whiff of Cuban cigar in the air. He wasn’t aware Tevez smoked, so the aroma caught him off guard, and he idly wondered if Tevez had met with someone earlier in the day.
The Minister of Finance was a large man, borderline obese, who had always projected an unhealthy vibe with his eating and drinking habits. Today was no different, Cáceres noted. The rotund Tevez was reclining on a leather settee near one of the office’s picture windows, a spread of fatty meats and cheeses arranged on the low table in front of him. Even at eleven in the morning, a half-empty tumbler of bourbon sat within chubby arm reach, and if the level of liquid in the crystal decanter on the bar behind him was any clue, it wasn’t his first glass of the day.
Tevez motioned with his free hand, several pieces of chorizo and cheddar cheese in his other. “Ignacio, please have a seat.” His wave indicated the faux velour chair across the table from him. “Drink?”
Cáceres sat and folded his hands in his lap, as Tevez’s ego demanded. “No, gracias, Señor Tevez.”
Tevez polished off the snack, brushing crumbs from his hands and shirt, and picked up his bourbon, leaning back in the settee.
“Of course. You are an aguardiente man, I remember,” he said, a wheeze evident in his voice at the end of each breath. “I have come to appreciate the north’s fine cuisine and unique beverages more often these days, and if you bring me good news, we can all look forward to more, ah, relations with el norte, eh?” Tevez laughed heartily, choking a bit on the last few pieces of chorizo he struggled to swallow. He tossed off the remainder of the Kentucky bourbon and set the glass down on the table, wiping his lips with an embroidered cloth napkin. “Tell me good news,” he said in a more demanding voice.
Cáceres cleared his throat. “Minister, I do bring good news. Admiral MacFarland and his people are on target to make the deadline, he assured me personally. All signs point to an on-time mission to Poliahu, and he has his best people running the mission. He does ask me to confirm that all is on schedule with ‘our end of the bargain’, as he says so often.”
Tevez laughed louder. “You tell that rat-bastard…” He paused. “Lo siento…our partner. Make a one-time mental note for your next meeting for the Admiral’s peace of mind,” he said as he tapped his own head, telling Cáceres to have his neuretics record the information he was about to give him. “Let him know our surface ships are already en route to Toronto. As he requested, six cargo vessels will arrive on the 17th, eleven days from now, via the Saint Lawrence Seaway. They will be fully loaded with our troops, with no traceable IDs of course, and Chinese weaponry. The ships will be under the cover of automotive parts using our contacts within Chrysler-Puma and fully documented for transit.”
Cáceres nodded. “Of course, sir.” He tapped his head. “For the Admiral’s records, the packages?”
Tevez smiled. “All in place. Four 20 kiloton tactical nukes, courtesy again of our friends in China,” he said, his overemphasis on friends an obvious bit of sarcasm. “They will detonate under the specified landmarks just after the ships dock and unload our personnel. During the resultant confusion, the six top NAF leaders MacFarland named will be taken out, leaving our trusted partner in charge of a panicked Federation that has no choice but to take our offer of help. And with MacFarland cleverly finding and eliminating the Chinese terrorists responsible for this horrific attack, he will have full support in declaring martial law and a state of war between the NAF and China.”
He stood heavily and walked to the bar, pouring another glass of bourbon. “We will be needed allies called to the NAF’s side, and when our esteemed leaders refuse, they will be conveniently taken out by the same Chinese terror cell, with more blame squarely placed at Chonglin Liu’s feet.” He laughed, a sickly coughing sound. “I of course will run that operation, and in the end, will have the power of two nations behind me.”
Cáceres felt slightly ill, hearing the full plan once again. Eight months ago when he was called into an innocuous staff meeting and Tevez had pulled him aside, he never thought it would have gotten this far. He thought of himself as ambitious, sure, but now he was rethinking the entire situation every day. Every call to his wife, every vidcomm to see his children, he regretted saying yes to the powerful Tevez. But the consequences of a no may have been even more dangerous.
“Minister, you and I have never talked about what happens after that, except your promise of a Ministry position for me and safety for my family,” Cáceres said. “What do you anticipate China’s response to be?”
Tevez snorted and took a sip of his bourbon. “China will cower at the combined strength of La Republica de Sudamerica and the North American Federation. They are of no long-term worry for us. Besides, even a small war benefits the economy, and Dios sabe we need that boost.” He looked out the picture window at the Plaza below. “My presidency will be seen as one of the most successful in Argentina’s history, or any other southern country. Our people will prosper, our coffers will fill, we will gain technology from the NAF in exchange for our advanced food production, and our military will grow to be the envy of the world.” He walked over to the table and picked up a piece of local salchicha sausage. “We will finally get a foothold in space with the acquisition of Poliahu,” he said, popping the meat into his mouth whole. He raised an eyebrow towards the spread.
Cáceres politely picked up a piece of gouda cheese on a toothpick. “Poliahu, yes, the crux of our agreement. You are leaving me in the dark on that one, señor.” He nibbled at the crumbly gouda, which apparently had been out for several hours.
“Correct, my future minister. Some things must be on a need-to-know basis, as our northern friends say,” Tevez said with a smile, which quickly hardened into a glare. “But you tell MacFarland if he does not produce the fruit of the colony labs for us immediately upon his mission’s return, the entire plan will be called off and he will be left holding the bag.” He drank the last of the bourbon, lifting one fat finger off the glass to point to Cáceres. “You make sure he knows that.”
“Of course, Minister,” Cáceres said, rising from his seat and placing the half-eaten gouda on a napkin lying on the edge of the table. “He has an excellent understanding of what’s required, of both of our parties.”
Tevez laughed as Cáceres headed for the door. “Yes he does! Ciao, Ignacio. The next time we talk, it will be over drinks upstairs, toasting our success and long, long life!”
Cáceres walked out of the door that had slid aside at his approach, ignoring the bored receptionist, and out into the hall, where he loosened his tie and fought the wave of nausea that came over him.
Santander strode into Moravec Station’s departure lounge, his team on his heels, and walked up to the gate agent, a young woman barely out of the university, probably paying her way through post-graduate school by moonlighting here. Santander didn’t even look her in the face as he jostled his way to the head of the long boarding line, stepping in front of a family with two small children and a crying baby.
“Quentin Santander and guests, you have our passes on file,” he said gruffly as he glanced distractedly at the minipad he carried in one hand. The baby behind him screamed its displeasure, and the father gave it a shush after having caught a glimpse of the MarsSec shoulder boards Santander wore.
The harried young lady at the boarding kiosk tapped at her screen, and her eyes grew wide as the information scrolled past. “Uh, yes, of course, Mr. Santander, right this way,” she said quickly, throwing an apologetic look at the family behind the six newcomers. She turned and waved them through the staff entrance, bypassing the detector arch, and pulled the manual door shut behind them. Turning back to the line of passengers, she patted her hair absently. “Good afternoon, welcome to Skyhook Alpha. Your boarding passes please?”
On the other side of the door, Santander and his team made their way down a bare corridor lined overhead with flickering light strips. Santander called over his shoulder to one of the men b
ehind him. “Ran, are you one hundred percent sure all of our gear is loaded in the cargo container?”
The wiry man walking at the back of the group answered. “Everything accounted for and loaded properly. The gear will hit the ship before we do, it’s probably halfway there as we speak.”
“About that,” Santander said. “Any problems in contacting the ship’s crew, Isham?”
“None, sir. They seem to speak enough English for us to get by, Inshallah,” Isham replied.
“Hey, none of that religious shit for this cruise, all right?” Rheaves chimed in.
“No problem, big man,” the Pakistani national said. “As long as you promise to cut out your swearing.”
“Screw you, Indian,” the large mercenary said with an fierce grin.
“Enough, people,” Santander said sharply as he reached to open the door at the end of the corridor. “Save it for the targets.”
The door opened and admitted the group into the staff entrance to the space elevator boarding area, bypassing over a hundred waiting passengers and allowing them choice seats on the ride up.
Skyhook Alpha was the first space elevator constructed on Mars, back at the end of the twenty-first century, as a more efficient way of transportation to and from orbit was needed. Mars offered limited resources to produce rocket fuel, and water as a reaction mass was strictly controlled on such a dry world, so the engineers took an idea from science fiction and began work on a revolutionary form of transportation, one they wanted to ‘test’ on the failing world of Mars for future development on other worlds.
The elevator was more of a vertical cable car, very similar in appearance to what old town San Francisco used before the tsunamis. It was a large car, seating just over three hundred, as well as several tons of cargo. It rode on a carbon-carbon nanotube cable, only sixteen inches in diameter, from the Moravec ground terminal to Bixby Station in low Mars orbit. One end of the incredibly strong cable was anchored over 300 feet below the surface of Pavonis Mons, just outside the city of Bradbury. The far end, extending 462 miles past the orbiting station, was tethered to a captured asteroid as a counterbalance weight. This allowed the cable to remain stretched and taut for the entire 192 mile ride from station to station, as well as keeping it areostationary.
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