by Jon Lymon
Stock stared at Haygue. A place on a SEC ship would be the making of his blog. He was already excited by the increase in hits it would get. He’d definitely have to monetise.
“Where’s the ship going? Stock asked.
“To the belt.”
Stock gasped.
“But if you leak this news before the launch, you lose your seat. Or worse”
“What’s the purpose of the mission? And what did you mean by worse? I didn’t like the sound of that.”
“Just report to the Cape in two weeks. Bring a change of clothes and you’ll get your scoop.”
Stock was nodding excitedly. He wasn’t sure how much he trusted Haygue, but knew if he blogged about his every move, there was little chance of being taken out into the desert around Cape Canaveral and shot in the back of the head and buried in a shallow grave.
“How do I know this is for real?” he asked.
“You don’t. But let me tell you, you and Onamoto have made enemies of some pretty powerful people. I’d either watch your back, or get the hell off the planet.”
“Is that a threat or a warning?”
“It’s a threatening warning.”
“Can I quote you on that?”
“Not if you want the best scoop of your fucking career. Now, if you don’t mind… this one’s over, Stock.”
Stock stood and looked around the cold, stale janitor’s office with distaste.
“I can’t believe the government let NASA come to this.”
“It’s SEC. And it’s a crying shame. But let me tell you, SEC isn’t finished, and won’t ever be finished. Not on my watch.”
Stock shot a respectful nod in Haygue’s direction as he prepared to leave.
“Oh, there’s one more thing before you go,” Haygue added. “Your seat on Prospector III comes with one condition. You bring Onamoto.”
16
Remnant stared at his landline, dust still in his hair from the explosion the night before. There was no room left on Chloe’s answerphone for any more of his messages of sorrow, regret and disappointment in himself.
He walked into his kitchen and opened his fridge, the stomach-aching sight of absolutely nothing to eat causing him to slam the door shut, which caused DT to stir on the sofa.
Remnant crept back into the lounge, the thin carpet accentuating the floorboard creaks with every step. He walked over to the window and viewed another overcast early morning London sky with a heavy heart. Somewhere out there his daughter was nervous about her forthcoming big day, preparing to let someone else other than her father lead her down the aisle. To give her away to another man for the rest of her life. Someone to look after and provide for her like he had failed to do.
Behind him, DT groaned and sat up clutching his lower back. He looked down at what he’d been sleeping on and immediately realised why some of his vertebrae felt so chronically misaligned. He pulled out the little hard-hatted toy figure the young girl had given Remnant. He frowned at it and threw it onto the coffee table.
“I did warn you it wouldn’t be a comfortable night,” said Remnant.
DT waved away the apology and asked the whereabouts of the toilet. Remnant pointed him in the right direction and turned back to face the outside world.
He couldn’t afford to give his daughter away, and now she didn’t even want him to. Maybe he’d ask DT for an advance, get her something special that wouldn’t look out of place on the wedding gift table alongside all the presents from her rich husband’s friends. Maybe DT had a suit he could borrow too, a designer one that would hold its own in the fashion parade that would be the big day.
Having attended to his toilet, DT joined Remnant by the window and experienced a view of Hatton Garden he’d not seen before.
“Sorry, I’ve got no food to offer you,” Remnant said.
“Shopping day due, yes?”
“Something like that.”
They both stared at London, the big city they knew they’d never totally get to know.
“Do you want to go down and see what we can salvage?” Remnant asked.
DT checked his watch. Its screen was shattered. “I expect we’re too late. The looters will have taken everything by now.”
Remnant nodded. “I’m really sorry.”
“Ah, look. It is all insured. The brokers will have to pay up, but they will take their bloody time about it, I have no doubt.”
Remnant stayed staring out at grey London until DT broke the silence. “Listen, I have had a text and this pilot friend of a friend is driving up to meet us.”
Remnant swung to face him, the excitement evident in his expression and voice. “When, now?”
DT nodded. “Shall I say The Old Mitre?”
“Er, how about we try somewhere different for a change?”
“Anywhere is good with me, my friend.”
They arranged to meet Mitch Bettis, in a cafeteria a few yards from Farringdon Station, not realising that their prospective pilot had elected to drive. He told them when he arrived that parking his vehicle had been an expensive nightmare and that his reasons for driving into central London were based on the fact that he never liked to travel under someone else’s ‘steerage’, a word Remnant was convinced didn’t exist, but vowed to check later with Edgar.
After giving the waitress specific orders on how his coffee was to be made and served, Bettis spread his arms out wide and invited the two men to furnish him with details of first themselves and then their mission.
DT spoke briefly and occasionally movingly about his parents who seized the first opportunity they could to escape the literal, actual and political heat of Nigeria and head north to Europe, winding up in Peckham, an up and coming area (they’d been told), slap bang bang siren siren in the middle of the racist late-Seventies. Out of one fire and into another.
Soon after their arrival came another. Being a son of Peckham, DT found himself living in a part of south London that barely tolerated its own back then. It was in this hostile environment that trips to the shops became missions for DT’s mother, who would dodge the spittle, ignore the abuse and steer her little boy in his taped-together paint-chipped third-hand pushchair through the expletives and the mint green still-bubbling phlegm circles. Thrusting him forward, her brave little soldier. ‘Show no fear, my little boy. Never show them fear, even though we feel it. If they spot a weakness or sense any trepidation, all is lost.’
Remnant heard very little of DT’s life history as he was busy mentally preparing a story about his past that wouldn’t paint him as the man he really was. When his turn came, he kept it brief, portraying himself as a rather bland character who had kept himself to himself, had one child and was determined to make the most of what remained of his life.
Bettis then took it upon himself to furnish the other two with details about his background despite them not having asked. He told them he spent whatever money didn’t go on women on his skin, teeth and back, crack and sack sessions. It was all a bit graphic for Remnant, especially from someone he’d only just met. Bettis also told them that any wrinkle that dared cross his visage was botoxed into oblivion and both his eyes had been lasered to ensure twenty-twenty.
“How about telling us about your flying experience?” Remnant suggested.
Bettis thought the interjection inappropriate and said as much, resenting the implication that he’d been waffling. He looked down on this rather common and slightly scruffy man who had berated him. “Twenty-six years a commercial pilot with the biggest names in world aviation,” he said, haughtily. “Eighteen thousand and six flying hours on record and not a single incident to blot that record.”
After the facts came more frills, with Bettis telling them how at the end of each flight he would wander out of the cockpit to flirt with the stewardesses and take the plaudits of relieved passengers who complimented him on a textbook landing. He’d ruffle the hair of boys and shake the hands of men, staring at them a little too long as he assessed whether or not he wou
ld be able to defeat them in a fight, should they drunkenly meet on a deserted beach. “So, where’s your ship?” he asked.
“We’re not in the business of showing it to anyone who’s not involved in the mission,” Remnant declared.
“You can’t surely expect me to commit without first viewing the mode of transport?”
DT leaned forward. “Mr. Bettis, until recently, I felt like you. A little sceptical of this gentleman and the idea of him organising a mission.”
“Thanks a lot,” said Remnant.
“But I have seen the spacecraft,” DT continued, “and I can assure you it is mightily impressive. It has been constructed by a talented engineer, and I have no doubt you will be as awestruck by its magnificence as I was.”
“It’s nuclear as well,” Remnant added. “So we’ll be there and back in nine months, loads quicker than rocket fuelled ships.”
The mention of nuclear power was enough to raise Bettis’ brow. “Gentlemen, you are seducing me. But I must state I will have a few stipulations.”
“Let’s hear them,” said DT.
Bettis reached inside his flimsy light beige jacket for a well-thumbed piece of paper which he unfolded with considerable unnecessary ceremony.
“A private cabin with wash facilities is an essential of course. I will require a heated seat in the cockpit and regular meals for the duration. I reserve the right not to leave the ship for any reason save fire evacuation when we refuel on Mars and…er..”
Throughout the reading of the list, Remnant had been outwardly nodding while inwardly yearning to escape from this ridiculous man. DT, however, was studiously taking notes, nodding at each and every request.
“Anything else?” he asked, sensing Bettis was desperately trying to think of extra stipulations.
“Yes, I would also like a final say on the name of the ship.”
“Why would you insist on that?” DT asked, having already compiled his own shortlist.
“This ship will either be the vessel I die in, or the vessel that makes me a legend. Either way, I do not want to be associated with a foolishly named one.”
“I’m sure that’s something we can sort out,” said Remnant, standing to make it obvious he was eager to wrap things up.
Bettis took the hint. “I expect you’ll want a moment to discuss my suitability in private,” he said. “I shall take a stroll.”
“Watch out for crashing ships,” DT warned.
Bettis waved away the remark and left the cafeteria, glancing first left then right on the pavement outside, before opting to walk straight ahead.
“He was awful,” said Remnant.
“He’s perfect,” said DT at almost exactly the same time.
“What?” they said at precisely the same time.
“He’s exactly as a pilot should be,” said DT. “A little eccentric for sure, but totally single-minded.”
“But what about all his demands, the private cabin?”
“We will tell him he can have them.”
“But he can’t.”
“We will not tell him that. We will give him some money to show we are serious.”
“We?”
“I will give him the money.”
Remnant eyed DT with suspicion. “Why are you doing this? I mean not long ago you were saying…”
“A lot has changed since then, Sye.” He turned to look Remnant in the eye. “You saved my life. I believe you were sent to my shop for a reason, shouting at me to get me out of the office.”
“I wanted to smash your face in.”
“I think it was more than that.”
“Yeah, I wanted to break your legs too.”
DT chuckled. “No, I believe this mission is meant to happen. And I believe I am meant to be a part of it.”
17
Time spent at home on his New England ranch was rare for Haygue, and therefore all the more treasured. He returned there the weekend before the Prospector III launch to gather his luggage, ensure his affairs were in order, and to spend some time with his wife, Bette, who herself was rarely at their picturesque home, being a businesswoman of considerable import in Boston.
Haygue chose the Saturday morning to sit on the shores of Nantucket Island and fish. He never caught much, but every time, he left the place feeling better about life.
True to form, he’d been without a bite for hours. It was time during which his thoughts wandered to the challenge that lay ahead, his biggest ever mission. One that would define his career. He tried not to think about the ceremony that would follow his successful return to Earth in a ship loaded with diamond that would not so much kick start the spluttering US economy, as drag it out of the swamp. But he couldn’t help himself. He rehearsed shaking the President’s hand. He imagined taking the plaudits, doing the TV interviews, signing the book deal, achieving the enshrinement, unveiling the statue.
As he dreamed, he watched two fishing boats working in tandem out near the harbour, each pulling one side of a huge net to double their haul, the squawking seagulls circling, looking to pick off any overspill.
It was going to be a dangerous trip, not only in terms of the distance and the terrain. There’d be others wanting to get their hands on the loot, swooping like those seagulls. And there’d be plenty already doing well in the diamond business who’d want to prevent the loot from ever reaching Earth and overcrowding their lucrative market. That’s why Haygue had asked for and secured some formidable hardware. The decision had taken months longer to green light than he would have liked. Had he had his way, he’d be on Mars already. But Haygue had grown to accept that a slow decision was better than no decision.
Fighter craft were to accompany his ship every step of the way. And unlike its predecessors, Prospector III would be armed with lasers. Although Haygue was a not a military man, he was prepared to defend himself. Surrendering hard won loot to some desperado space pirate or embittered diamond baron without a fight wasn’t an option. But as he sat and fished without expectation of success, he realised there was no telling if the security measures he’d taken were far-reaching enough.
After a while, Bette came to join him on the shoreline, quietly and slowly sitting down beside him.
“Caught anything?” she asked, as she’d always asked.
Haygue shook his head, as he always shook his head. “Hope I have better luck up there.”
“I’m confident you will, Errol.”
“I hope so. This nation needs a reason to celebrate. Hell, the whole planet could do with some good news.”
“Let’s not pretend you’re doing this for the whole planet.”
“Well, no. I don’t see why we should do all the hard work and then be expected to share the pay cheque at the end of it.”
Bette breathed in the fresh air and watched a gull fly overhead. “Jealousy is an ugly thing, Errol. And something like this is bound to rouse strong feelings.”
“What the President does with the diamond I bring home is up to him. I’m just doing my job.”
The two trawlers had been reduced to dots as they sailed towards the horizon with their haul, taking the swarm of scavenger birds with them.
Haygue turned to his wife. “Do you think I’m doing the right thing?”
She looked away, back to their ranch, darkening to a silhouette in the sunset, the huge stars and stripes at the gate flapping gently in the cool breeze. “It always seemed strange to me why our nation’s most experienced astronaut never went into space anymore.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
She looked at him. “I don’t know the answer. And I won’t know the answer until you’re safely home with that medal from the President. Though why they haven’t seen fit to award you it before now I do not know.”
“Those in the corridors of power move in mysterious ways. Very slow and very mysterious ways.”
His wife turned away again. “It’s a lot to ask of a sixty-seven year old. Up there in those cramped conditions for so l
ong.”
“I’ll be fine. It’s something I have to do, Bette. But at least one good thing has already come out of this. Space is back in the news. People are interested in exploring our solar system again. Maybe soon we’ll build a proper presence on Mars, not fill it with outcasts and criminals. Maybe we’ll start something on Titan too. Show the Chinese how it’s done. We need to think beyond the confines of this planet. It’s losing its energy. It’s getting overcrowded. We need to spread our wings.”
Bette smiled, more to herself than anything. This was her old husband talking, the enthusiastic man in his thirties fighting to keep interest in NASA and the shuttle programme alive. The man who’d subsequently been rendered powerless and directionless by funding cuts levied by successive administrations. Space travel hadn’t been a priority for decades, and certainly wasn’t after the first double dip in the early part of the century. Now, as the world’s economies slowly emerged from another double dip, it was even less of a priority. How could anyone justify investing billions in space exploration when people were losing their homes and their hope back on Earth? The recent Martian colonisation had been celebrated by a few but criticised by the majority. The previous President had made inhabiting Mars his number two priority, behind fixing the economy. At least he delivered on one count. But the nation wanted economic security now, not guarantees about the future of the human race. So when the White House changed hands, the colonisation of Mars was halted, abandoning ten thousand early settlers on an under-developed planet.
Haygue was dead against any halt in the colonisation programme, but few listened when he said the human race must continue to look beyond the confines of its current home. Even fewer paid attention to his hunch when he saw the bright light on the pictures the Prospector sent back. It took him a year and a half to get agreement for the secret launch of Prospector II, the manned follow-up mission that his wife had promised never to mention again. Haygue felt the guilt every night about what happened to the crew and hoped maybe this mission, his last, would go some way to putting those wrongs right.