The Money Star

by Jon Lymon

  “How do we feel that news conference went?” said the blond guy standing in the corner of the room, clearly addressing Haygue directly despite the all-inclusiveness of the question.

  “I think things will swiftly get out of hand. We need to act fast,” said Haygue.

  “Let’s not be too hasty,” said the eldest of the two women. “We don’t want to rush into anything we might regret.”

  Haygue looked around the room, desperately hoping to find opposition to that stance. As he scanned, he saw the United States flag hanging limp behind the blond guy, one of its red stripes torn from the rest of the material and fluttering under the force of the aircon.

  The younger of the women finally spoke. “This Onamoto issue needs addressing. Anyone any clues as to who the hell he is?”

  ‘”I’ve befriended him on Facebook,” said the blond guy.

  “Say what?” The broad shouldered, bespectacled black guy couldn’t hide his shock.

  “Know your enemy, right?”

  “Sure, know him. Don’t get into bed with him.”

  “Can we force Facebook to reveal Onamoto’s identity?’ Haygue asked.

  There were headshakes from everyone, the consensus being that you couldn’t force an organisation that big to do anything.

  “The only solution is to hire a private dick to take him out. Agreed?” The bald guy spoke for the first time, revealing his southern roots.

  Five hands, including Haygue’s were immediately raised. The elder woman fiddled with her bracelet. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable sanctioning this. It’s, it’s pretty heavy.”

  Haygue thumped his grey haired fist on the table. “Whoever this Onamoto guy is, he’s a risk to this whole programme. We can’t afford any more of his leaks to get into the public domain. We need to act now. We need to either shut down all the social networks or shut Onamoto the fuck down.”

  All around the table were takenaback by Haygue’s aggression.

  “I think we should avoid letting emotion get into this,” said the older woman.

  The blond guy tried to calm down proceedings. “Things are progressing well, and sure, we could have done without Onamoto, but our programme is well advanced. I can’t see where the threat’s coming from.”

  Haygue launched himself out of his chair, deliberately scraping the legs along the floor for maximum impact. “Let me tell you where the threats are coming from. China, for starters. They have the best-funded space programme on the planet and some of the best technology and the hardware.”

  The Chinese had offered to pool resources with the Americans, and Haygue had been present at meetings in which this offer was seriously considered. ‘The American public’s appetite for another space race is severely compromised,’ someone Haygue thought suspiciously Chinese (but who was actually from Tennessee) had said. ‘There’s no longer the enthusiasm for space travel. The colonisation of Mars has been an unqualified disaster.’

  ‘Unmitigated,’ Haygue corrected him, but the guy was adamant it had been unqualified.

  ‘What have we got to lose by joining forces with the Chinese?’ someone else ventured. There were no immediate answers from any of the faces around the table, so Haygue stepped up.

  ‘The USA was the first nation to land on the moon, the first to colonise Mars and while there’s still air in my lungs and a NASA… SEC badge on my jacket lapel, we’ll be the first to achieve the next great astrological landmark, whatever that may be. And we’ll do it alone. There will be no alliance with the Chinese or anyone.’

  Back in the Houston boardroom, Haygue wasn’t finished with the discussion about possible threats to the success of the current programme. “As well as the Chinese, there’s every manjack who’s seen Onamoto’s picture and thinks he can get to the belt and back with a ship-full of diamond that’ll make him the richest man on Earth.”

  “I don’t see the man on the street as any kind of threat,” said the bald guy.

  Haygue shook his head. “Don’t underestimate anyone, especially the little guy. Right now, the world and his wife are thinking about ways to get there.”

  “Sure there’s ways, but most of them will lack the means.”

  “It’s true Errol,” said the black guy. “Ninety-nine per cent won’t make it out of the mesosphere. The one per cent who do, how many of those make it to the belt?”

  “All I’m saying is we can’t afford to talk down anyone’s chances. You’d be surprised by the lengths people will go to land some diamond. Some would launch in their car if they could afford to fuel it.”

  “How about we commission some research, assess the vibe on the street?” The older woman looked pleased with her suggestion, especially when she saw the bald guy nodding enthusiastically.

  “Yeah, good idea, let’s see what the people are really thinking.”

  Haygue violently shook his head. “Fuck focus groups. There isn’t time. We need to act fast and act smart. Right now, nobody out there believes us when we say there’s no diamond asteroid. And right now, we’re facing the biggest civilian mobilisation since World War II.”

  “There’s nothing we can do about that,” said the younger woman.

  “Oh, but there is,” countered Haygue. “Instead of us being perceived as the bad guys, we could help them out.”

  Confusion reigned around the table.

  “Let’s put the entire space shuttle fleet up for sale,” Haygue explained, “and all the shitty space vessels we’ve produced with taxpayer’s money that don’t stand a chance of making it past the moon. Let’s really make it look like we’re doing our bit to help. And raise some money in the process.”

  “Why would we want to help people get to the belt?” the black guy asked.

  “Because we’re Americans. And because right now every manjack out there blames us for both the double-dips this century, and if they see us trying to help people realise their dreams, maybe, just maybe they won’t want to kick our asses so bad. Plus, the shuttle fleet will take some major league adapting to get anywhere near Mars. But just in case anyone’s stupid enough to try and get there, we’ll have planted incendiary devices on board each ship.”

  There was much exhalation of breath around the table. Haygue calmed down and sat down, necking a couple of tablets, sensing he may have gone too far.

  “Look, that’s just an idea,” he said in a more measured tone. “Fact is, we need to get the world off our backs. And we need to realise that we can’t control what people are gonna do.”

  “OK, thanks for coming out to see us, Haygue,” said the bald guy. “I think we all agree that a few issues have been raised that we need to consider.”

  “But we’re all agreed something needs to be done about Onamoto, now, right?” Haygue insisted.

  Everyone’s attention switched to the older woman whose urge to fiddle had now spread to her necklace. She nodded slowly, without conviction.

  Haygue’s nod was far more vigorous. “Good, good. I want Onamoto,” he said. “Leave him to me.”

  Haygue stood abruptly, nodded to the room and left.

  The blond guy checked he was gone and quietly shut the door. “How do we feel that went?”

  “Predictably,” said the older woman

  “Let’s face it guys,” said the younger woman, “it doesn’t matter what Haygue thinks, what we think, or even what the President thinks. It only matters what he thinks.”

  “We should find out,” said the bald guy.

  There was agreement around the table and the blond guy pressed a few buttons on the portable keyboard, causing a giant screen to descend from the ceiling. He then dialled a number and everyone around the table waited anxiously for the connection. But still no one was prepared to make the first move for a sandwich.

  11

  Sanj was surprised to see Remnant back in his shop with ten pounds in his hand. He was even more surprised to learn that Remnant wanted to replace his card in the window with a new one, which Sanj read.

 
“You want scrap metal now? You’ve given up on idea of going to asteroid, Mr Sye?”

  “Something like that.”

  The newsagent frowned, and not just at the spelling, but directed Remnant to swap the cards. His window was providing him with a handy income, so he didn’t really care what was written on each card as long as it wasn’t offensive, and as long as he got his five pounds a week.

  After swapping cards, Remnant bought a coffee from the café next to DT’s jewellers which was now open again for business, the staff inside on edge, fearing the next customer might don a mask and draw a weapon. Remnant sat at the same seat he’d occupied that Sunday, alone again. He glanced down to the corner of Greville Street, where two new shaven-headed Polish security guards stood in the fading light, eyes searching the browsing shoppers and striding office workers.

  The warm polystyrene cup shook in Remnant’s hand as he watched the familiar and unfamiliar faces pass by. A faultless black Bentley pulled up outside DT’s, its occupants able to afford to disregard the parking laws of the area. A middle-aged man and woman exited simultaneously from either side at the front, post-argument it looked to Remnant, as neither acknowledged the other and both slammed their doors.

  As they were about to enter the jewellers, their attention was drawn to the sky by a huge red streak of flame. The pavement and walls around Remnant turned blood orange as the neighbourhood was rocked by a huge airborne explosion. Projectile smoke shot off in a trident towards Holborn. The rich couple, drinkers in the King of Diamonds pub, and office workers all pointed skywards, some shaking their heads in disbelief, others running for their lives.

  A burning fuselage trailing yellow tipped black smoke roared overhead, too small to be a commercial aircraft. As the vessel rapidly plummeted, men with drinks in their hands and women with children pointed to the cockpit windscreen of the stricken ship, its toughened glass melting in the extreme heat, the occupants inside struggling, flapping to unclip themselves from their burning seats.

  The ship fell and the ground shuddered from the impact of it hitting the lower two storeys of an office block on the south side of Holborn. Remnant hardly noticed, being as he was enjoying the quality of the suspension, the comfort of the upholstery, the smoothness of the engine, and the frequency of the stares he was attracting as he calmly cruised northwards up Hatton Garden towards Clerkenwell Road in the Bentley, going against the grain of the crowds flocking to the crash scene.

  Remnant was surprisingly relaxed considering it had been at least a decade since he’d pulled something like this. He turned left onto Theobalds Road, the soft clicking of the indicator impressing him. He turned left again onto Grays Inn Road. What a vehicle. Such a shame the fate that awaited it.

  He pulled up outside Edgar’s lock up, checking his wing and rearview mirrors twice, catching glimpses of groups rushing towards the plume of smoke from the crash now billowing above the high rises and spreading up and along Leather Lane. He knocked three times and the door was soon raised. Quickly, Remnant accelerated inside and screeched the Bentley to a halt by the desk. Edgar shut the doors as rapidly as he’d opened them.

  Remnant got out of the car and beamed at Edgar who was looking in some amazement at the vehicle in front of him.

  “This beauty is killing several birds with one stone,” Remnant said. “Engine parts, metal, comfortable seats for the cockpit, reinforced glass for the screen.”

  Edgar looked concerned. “You’re wanting me to handle stolen goods?”

  “It’s not so much handling as dismantling.”

  “And what if the police find out?”

  “They won’t. They’re gonna have more important things on their plate tonight. You heard the crash, right?”

  Edgar nodded. “That’ll be the first of many. Mark my words. Badly designed, badly planned. What’s that cliché – fail to plan, plan to fail.”

  “Our ship ain’t gonna crash, is it?”

  Edgar shook his head.

  “You’re building in an ejector seat, though?” asked Remnant.

  “Escape pod. It’s more useful. An ejector seat is no good in space.”

  Edgar downed his tools, wiped his brow and headed for his desk, brushing bits of metal and wire from the floor with a broom along the way. “The car’s good, but we’re still a long way off,” he said. “There’s some really technical bits of engine I need to get my hands on before we go anywhere.”

  Remnant felt another surge of disappointment. After all he was doing to help make this happen, it still wasn’t enough. Edgar sensed his disappointment. “You’re doing amazingly well, don’t get me wrong. This isn’t easy.”

  Remnant looked around the lock-up for inspiration, at the tools and the brush Edgar had just leant against the wall. He sat up suddenly. “Can you do an early start tomorrow?”

  “Every day’s an early start for me right now. I haven’t left this lock up for four days.”

  “Right. I’ll be back here at five-thirty. Sharp. You’re sleeping here?”

  “Of course. What’s in here is so valuable, you can’t put a price on it.”

  “Well, tonight you can sleep in luxury. In there.” Remnant pointed to the Bentley. Edgar examined the bodywork, then tested the passenger seat for comfort, audibly exhaling as he reclined.

  “My word.”

  “Can that be my seat in the ship?” Remnant asked.

  “I don’t see why not. The pilot can have the driver’s seat.”

  “You had any thoughts about pilots?”

  “They’re going to be the most popular people on this planet for the next few months. To get the best, we’ll need to impress them with our ship. We’ve got nothing to show right now, but by my reckoning, the real serious players will be prepared to wait. They’ll not want to rush in and join the first captain who waves a wad of cash in their face. These guys won’t want to go up only to come crashing back down.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on Sanj’s window. There’s been a few pilots advertising there. No idea how good they are though.”

  “Well, that’s the problem,” said Edgar. “You can only tell if someone can fly when they’re on a runway, and by then it could be too late.”

  “Speaking of late, I’m off to catch some sleep.”

  “You going to tell me what you’ve got planned for tomorrow, so I won’t worry all night?”

  Remnant smiled and left.

  After what seemed like seconds of sleep, Edgar awoke to the sound of Remnant sporting a loud, incendiary orange jacket. He thrust one in Edgar’s direction, as the former engineer reclined in the Bentley’s passenger seat. When he’d rubbed his eyes, Edgar saw that not only did Remnant have street cleaners’ jackets for them both, he also had a street cleaner’s trolley, complete with a trio of brushes.

  “Where did you get all this stuff?”

  “I borrowed it.”

  Edgar triple checked he’d secured the lock-up before following Remnant down Leather Lane towards the scene of the crash on Holborn the night before.

  The sky was dawn blue, brighter further east over the City, the new day fast heading towards them. Police tape framed the crash site, but there was no police presence. Remnant had counted at least eight other crashes during the night, and there’d be more today. Too many for the emergency services to keep up with, especially as many working in those emergency services were deserting their posts to build their own ship or talk their way onto someone else’s mission.

  The charred body parts, burnt bones and sinew of the crew littered the street. Fried metallic wings lay bent amid discarded fried chicken wings. The engine smoked over smoked cigarettes, and fire-warped circuit boards and computer chips lay scattered among a greased bundle of discarded cod and chips.

  “Why are we here?” Edgar asked.

  “There must be some stuff we need that we can nick from this ship? And other crashed ships?”

  Edgar looked at Remnant. Though far from fully awake, he was alert enough to realise that Rem
nant could have hit on something.

  He shuffled towards the wreckage, all incendiary orange jacket with tanned brushes of bristle ready like jousting sticks to sift through the wreckage. Edgar pulled out the thickest bristled head and set about the blackened limbs. He tutted and shook his head as he swept a smoking eyeball out of his way and watched it roll into the gutter. The selfishness of those who were rushing up into space without a thought for those they’d come crashing down on angered him.

  Remnant picked up a forearm, wrenched at the elbow from the rest of a torso that he presumed had been incinerated on impact. He was surprised to see the wrist still bore the remains of a watch, a Movado, the smoothness of the still-moving second hand evidence of its value. Not one of those fakes from Leather Lane. Remnant carefully slipped the watch off the brittle wrist and pocketed it, casting the forearm away, as though it were a dog’s bone – a fate that almost certainly awaited it.

  He saw Edgar pulling the entire dashboard from the ship’s cockpit and rushed over to help. Once it had been freed, Remnant held the dash while Edgar examined the wires and connections on the back. He nodded his approval.

  The two men carried the dashboard and carefully placed it in their trolley. Edgar returned to examine the remains of the engine, and was disappointed to see it was rocket propelled. But there were several other parts he was able to free from the wreckage and pocket.

  “We done?” Remnant asked. Edgar nodded and they pushed the trolley back across Holborn towards the lock-up.

  “If we get to future crash sites quickly enough, I reckon we can get all the parts we need,” said Remnant.

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “So you reckon we’ll have a ship?”

  “We’ll have a ship alright, but there’ll still be two big stumbling blocks. Who’s going to fly it and who’s going to pay to fuel it.”

  “Now who’s seeing the obstacles before the opportunities?”

  “I’m just dealing with the realities. I can build it but neither of us can fly it. So we’re going nowhere until we find someone who can. And then there’s the cost of fuel. Liquid hydrogen doesn’t come cheap.”