April 3: The Middle of Nowhere

by Mackey Chandler

  "Oh I totally agree," Ted said. "I'm just reading what they offered. Everybody should hear it. I have no desire to be under their thumb again. I want to market some of the tech we made and held back. You know if we go back they will claim anything we invented is their intellectual property because we couldn't have any private facilities or equipment to develop it."

  "Which brings up another matter. The fellow Beck, who took over environmental services for you, can't get the nitrous oxide generator to run continuously. The catalyst bed overheats and he has to shut it down before the ceramic substrate gets damaged and run it in batches. They would like to know what to do, or pay you to come back and show them how to run it."

  "Unbelievable. I wonder if they have killed off all the hydroponics yet? They were a heck of a lot fussier to keep going than the air machine."

  "Well, he isn't a process engineer. I think he's an architect."

  "Any halfway competent plumber or heating and cooling guy could figure it out. Tell them I'll write out instructions, not the stupid manual the manufacturer foisted off on us, real world how-it-works instructions, for a ten-thousand dollar consulting fee, a bargain! Paid in advance, because once they see how easy it is they will balk at paying for it," she predicted.

  "How long do you think it will take you to write it if they agree?"

  "I can tell them everything in a half page, sweetie," she said smiling.

  "Ouch."

  "Anybody crazy enough to want to go back?" she asked.

  "No, but we also noticed that despite all this supposed openness and freedom not a single one of our co-workers has sent a message or expressed any interest in joining us. You'd think that if they were free to speak now there would be some message if only a hello or asking how we are doing," he thought.

  "Not a thing has changed," she surmised. "They either can't send a message or are terrified to do so."

  "You're the third person to say so," he agreed. "After twelve years of giving me a hard time, my lab tech Carl would have called just to harass me, if he was free to send a message along. I'd bet our old associates don't even know the administrators are communicating with us. Heaven only knows what they have been told."

  "A moment though," she said holding her hand up. "Perhaps we are too well trained. Have any of us tried to call our old friends and coworkers at Armstrong?"

  Ted looked shocked. "It never occurred to me to try. It won't go through," he predicted.

  "Why don't you do so?" she suggested. "Now."

  There was a sat code for Armstrong, then he just punched in the normal internal number that would ring his old assistant Carl. Instead of Carl he got a tech at the communications center. He recognized the man's face but didn't know his name. "Calling Carl," he said abruptly, hoping to brazen through.

  "Carl is on his work shift. We don't pass through com to people at their duty stations," the tech informed him.

  "Fine, Vincent works off shift and I'd be happy to talk to him too. Connect me please."

  "But he may be sleeping and I'd wake him."

  "He's a big boy, he can set his own com priorities to wake him or take a message. I'd be happy just to leave him a voice message too."

  "Sorry, those are not my orders," the tech told him.

  "Sorry, connect with this," Ted told the tech, gathering his straight fingers at the tips and lifting them with a very dramatic rude Italian gesture. The fellow disconnected.

  "Lying bastards," he said to the blank screen.

  "Whatever tale they have been told, the big thing they can't cover up is that the rovers Loesher took out after us never came home. They know that can't be a good thing. Tell the lawyers we want to see some of this new openness in action and have some of our old friends and work-mates call and chat us up. And tell Heather what just happened. I think sometimes she may think we are exaggerating."

  "I'll do that, but I wouldn't hold my breath," Ted told her.

  * * *

  "We are going to proceed to the Canary Islands," Papa-san informed his guests over dinner. He had not plainly told them he was giving them transport for April until they had their bags aboard and were seated to dinner.

  "They have a launch center that is very little influenced by politics. We can lift on a passenger shuttle with little chance anyone will object even if your name shows a hold by Interpol. They make their money not by convenience or economy but by discretion. We also have quite a bit of mass to lift and can get a cheap lease of an entire automated freight shuttle."

  "Are they as reliable as a manned vehicle?" his new passenger Isaac Freidman asked.

  "They are infinitesimally less reliable mechanically, but with an automated shuttle you can have your security watch them from loading until they are slung on the lift jet. Likewise you can have your own security present when they dock and open them up for you."

  "You can't do that with a manned shuttle?" Freidman asked.

  "Sure, if we paid to have it lift two-thirds empty and bought all four of the passenger seats," the manned shuttle rate is much higher even if we could fill it. Also we can lift everything under seal and that allows us to bring all those extra toys you brought along as well as a great many things I don't want the unwashed masses pawing through," Papa-san explained.

  "We don't have the cash with us to buy a lift ticket," Freidman said, worried. "I'm not sure we can access our funds in the Canaries. That's Spanish territory, right?"

  "I already instructed my agent to make all the arrangements for us," Papa-san said with a dismissive wave. "I told Miss Lewis I'd see to your rescue if she was unable. I'm fairly certain she would have stayed on Earth to see to your movement if I had not agreed to take care of it and that would have been very unwise, fatal even I believe."

  "Thank you. We do appreciate the ride," Freidman said awkwardly.

  "That was an excellent meal," Eric Brockman complimented them. "I wonder if we will be able to eat so well on Home?"

  "My daughter assured me they eat very well," Mother Lin told him. "I understand they are expanding and you'll likely have more choices for dining and other things in the near future."

  "Does your daughter live on Home?" Brockman asked, very interested.

  "She is a journalist and photographer, she's up and down – all over the place really. I have no idea from the morning to the evening where she may call me from next."

  "I've traveled with the President, but I've never been on a boat like this before," Eric told them. "We really didn't see much of the places we guarded him, even in the advance parties."

  "Was it difficult in hiding?" Mama-san asked.

  They both looked at her surprised. "It was the best vacation I've ever had," Freidman told her. "We spent a winter in my friend's cabin in the Maine woods. We went hunting and chopped wood. I learned to snowshoe and lost about ten kilos. I haven't been in this good a shape in a few years. I did some wood carvings I've had in my head but no time to do and Brockman here got me as skilled at combat pistol as I am ever going to be. Eric taught me more about cooking than I ever suspected I had in me. It wouldn't surprise me if I always look back on this as one of the best times in my life," he concluded.

  "I read everything Isaac's friend had in the cabin," Brockman told them. "Really good stuff. I read some of it again and thought about why it was good. The last couple months I started on a novel of my own. We are from very different areas and families. We got to tell a lot of stories about growing up and I think I got enough out of Isaac for a different book when I finish this one."

  "It seems to me your story about the war and guarding the President would be a real life thriller that would sell," Papa-san told him.

  "Are you going to publish a tell-all memoir of your career and stir everyone up?" Eric asked.

  "Hmm…I think I see your point there. Perhaps I'll leave a manuscript for my daughter to publish, posthumously. There are people who might take exception to it," he admitted. "If you gentlemen will excuse me, I need to arrange for us to leave
on the tide, early in the morning."

  * * *

  Her grandpa was right, Jeff was real easy to talk to about economic stuff and didn't think she was crazy. "The platinum coin I got from you, is that an indication you want real coinage for money? April asked Jeff. "In my reading a lot of people advocated a gold standard or sometimes gold and silver at a set ratio. I suppose platinum would work just as well. It certainly has a lot of industrial uses like catalysts. A few people even said we wouldn't have depressions if we used real money."

  "Don't believe that," he urged her. "There were depressions, well at the time the word they used was panics, which was probably closer to the truth, back when gold and silver coins were in circulation and paper money could be redeemed at the treasury for gold."

  "Oh, that kind of kills that idea," she admitted.

  "Now modern money is created as debt. The debt has to be paid back with interest. So in theory the people issuing new money keep adding a little bit to the pile as wealth is created and the whole economy grows in pace."

  "I can picture that," April told him.

  "If however they are tempted to make just a little too much money all the time, what happens?" he asked her.

  "I'm not sure," she admitted.

  "When they issue the credit for a loan remember it all comes right back to them as deposits. Excess credit spends the same as actual cash money, but the effect is different. It's bad for a couple reasons. First, if there wasn't any real basis in the economy for expanding the money supply we have more money, but no new real goods to justify it. If that sort of loan goes bad there is little or no collateral to recover. Second, the number of dollars out there for the number of space stations and footies and cans of beans is in a new balance. The dollars are worth less because there are more of them for the same old stuff."

  "If I have a couple extra bucks who is to know?" April objected. "I spend about the same day to day no matter what I make."

  "Ah, but you are not a typical Earth consumer who drives the economy. If ten million of your average Joe has an extra ten bucks this week, maybe ten thousand more of them will feel free to stop and buy a beer on the way home. You can't tell which one will do that, but as a group they will very predictably drive up beer sales. Now remember, in this simple model nobody can make more beer. That is usually true to a degree, because companies avoid excess capacity. So that extra hundred thousand dollars is chasing the same number of bottles of beer," he proposed.

  "The bar owners will know it. They are not stupid, they have more money flowing in and they may run out of a popular brand one night before they close. What to do? They will raise the price so they get all the traffic will bear for the beer they can buy. It's called price inflation. There's a lot more to tell you, but do you follow that much?" he asked April.

  "Yes, in fact it makes what Eddie was telling me about running fast couriers make a lot more sense now. He said he could make more money running two less ships. He is over supplying the market."

  "And things are slowing down," he agreed. "We have to be careful not to get caught holding too many ships or any business assets that become a burden instead of a money maker. Even the high end makers of drugs and glassy metals or quantum dot arrays made in zero G may have less of a market than what they can produce."

  "That would be a shocker. They have never been able to make enough," April said.

  "History is wasted on most people. They think just because they have never seen something happen it not only won't, but that it can't. We'll be smarter," he told her.

  * * *

  The Spanish State Airlines orbital space shuttle from the Canary Islands to New Las Vegas was loading hanging from its jet launch vehicle. Naturally it was bright yellow with black trim. Papa-san and Mother took seats on one side and the USNA lieutenants took the seats in back of them. An Oriental couple with children came in and filled two rows on the opposite side. A single well dressed lady came in and sat in front of the children. At the very last minute two very fit young people with elaborate tattoos came in. The buzz-cut hair and camaraderie said they were beam dogs and riggers coming off leave. They went to the front opposite the woman leaving one seat beside her free.

  Papa-san took the tint off his spex and happily gave Mother a loving pat on the knee. "It's been awhile since we did anything so audacious, hasn't it love?"

  The woman got up, likely to use the lavatory and took two full steps down the aisle before she froze in horror looking at Papa-san. "Tetsuo Santos!" she said, starting to sob quietly. "I am nothing, a minor player. Why would they send someone like you after me? I'm done, I'll never bother them again. Look… I have three-million dollars. It's nothing but it's everything I set aside as protection money if I ever had to run. Take it and say you never saw me," she begged.

  "My dear, I have no professional interest in you at all, I'm retired. You'll find Home is very expensive, so hang on to your money and don't throw it away so casually." Seeing her disbelieving look he went on. "Do you think I take my wife on missions?" he asked. "Allow me to present my wife Lin. I assure you she'd give me six sorts of holy hell and probably box my ears, if she thought I made a lady cry."

  "Mr. Santos is so retired he is dead," the Oriental gentleman across the aisle told the woman. "Are you another spy that you think he has an interest in you?" he asked her.

  "I'm just a State Department flunky who stayed hidden after the coup attempt a little too long. Now they doubt my loyalty and there's nothing back there for me but trouble. Do you mean you are a spy or Santos? I've read his unredacted folder, I knew what he is."

  "Was," Papa-san insisted gently.

  "Yes," Chen agreed ambiguously.

  "Chen," Papa-san said tentatively, looking at the Chinese gentleman hard, scrunching his eyebrows up in mock concentration. "Chinese agent," he remembered. "Are you here to assassinate me?" he asked so calmly it was bizarre.

  "See how paranoid we all are?" Chen protested, "I'm just trying to retire too and get off this stupid rotting ball of insanity just like you. Are those your bodyguards?" he asked, looking over the Santos at the lieutenants behind them. They certainly seemed alert and interested.

  "Actually they are under my protection, not the other way around. When the history is written they will eventually be far more notorious than any of we three," he said indicating Carol Jordan, himself and Chen with an inclusive little motion of his hand. "I'd really rather not name them at this point. Someday I may tell you the whole story. I think the space workers up there are the only honest folk we have here not trying to escape someone."

  They looked forward and the two beam dogs were peering back around the edge of their couches, big eyed at the sudden drama.

  "Don't be concerned," he told them with a big wink. "We're just going over our lines for a play we're doing."

  "Yeah, right and we're the King and Queen of England traveling in disguise man," the smaller said, turning away.

  "My wife Huian, since we are all friends here," Chen said presenting her to the Santos, "and our fine children I'd rather leave unnamed too."

  Santos started giggling and couldn't hold it back and erupted with laughter.

  "Would you care to share what is so humorous," Chen asked, mildly irritated.

  "We are like rats on a mooring line," he said, drawing an imaginary arch with dancing fingers going down it, like nimble little feet, "fleeing the sinking ship because we were in the bilges and realize she is going down," he explained wiping away the tears. "The important people are all still schmoozing, browsing the buffet and enjoying the music, oblivious to the fact a few wet rats have more sense than they do. It's hilarious. When they finally wake up and notice the deck has taken on a slant it will be too late for most of them," he predicted.

  They thought about it and one by one caught the infectious laughter until every one of them were laughing themselves sick. The riggers looked back at them again like they were insane.

  When the laughter died out there was a new se
nse of camaraderie. "Why don't you switch seats with my wife?" Santos invited. "We can talk and allow the ladies to become acquainted also while we lift. I can explain how very hard this retirement you seek is to attain. I've been trying to convince various people I sincerely want it for years. We are going to be neighbors it would appear, so we might as well get to know each other, perhaps even find common cause. We can appreciate our shared circumstances better than those who have never been in the belly of the beast."

  Carol heard the words, but didn't really believe them, until she became aware she was being ignored. Then she finally decided to accept the gift of it and went back to her seat like the mouse she had called herself, seeking its hole still unsure why the cats hadn't eaten it.

  "Very well," Chen agreed, making a small affirmative gesture for his wife to accept the arrangement. She appeared agreeable with it.

  "Do you think the workers up there will make a problem for us when the flight crew comes aboard?" Chen asked in a low voice once he was seated.

  "Not at all. Did you hear how the little fellow addressed me? Sarcasm only bubbles forth in an absence of fear. We are going back where they are in their element and Earthly affairs are beneath their concern. I'm convinced that is going to become the dominant attitude of spacers. Earth and its problems are becoming something with which they do not want to complicate their lives and are just an irritation that is more trouble to accommodate than ignore. This will be a problem when Earth governments find all their pronouncements and self importance meet a wall of indifference. Nobody likes to find they are sliding into irrelevance. They may not accept it with any graciousness."

  "Hasn't that always been the way of things?" Chen asked. "What empire has looked around and made a formal announcement they were no longer the power they had been in the past? They all retain the titles and trappings of power long after it has died."

  "Indeed in a technical sense Home has defeated both North America and China. North America gave them a formal surrender and now pretends that as long as they are not occupied and their institutions not set aside, they are still unconquerable. China had its hands severely slapped and is playing the same game of pretending if it doesn't say anything it didn't happen."