by John Ringo
"I'm supposed to be meeting them this weekend," Tyler said. "We're having dinner."
"When I met you they were still kids. I really hadn't realized it had been that long."
"But interesting," Tyler said. "As in we live in interesting times. And on that note, I now have to catch another shuttle so I can make a meeting in St. Louis."
"Have fun," Bryan said. "And, Tyler?"
"Yeah?"
"All work and no play?"
"When I find somebody who's willing to think big, I'll think about taking a vacation," Tyler said. "In the meantime . . . I'm managing."
Eight
"My dad is going to already be there." Steren Vernon had, fortunately, gotten her looks from her mother. And her stature since she was pushing six feet. The name meant 'Star' in Cornish. And it fit her eyes which were dark but with a, usually, bright sparkle. Even more so when she was mad. "He'll probably be talking on his plant, and probably shouting at somebody, which means he looks like he's raving."
"You told me." Thomas Schneider was taller than Steren but had the same general looks. Dark hair and eyes. They looked a good bit like brother and sister rather than fiancées. "Several times. Vernon party?" he said to the maitre de.
"And you are?"
"Steren Vernon," Steren snapped. "The heir apparent."
"Yes, miss," the maitre de said, nodding. "Right this way. I'm sorry for asking but we do try to keep people from bothering our more prominent guests."
It was a very nice restaurant, one of the best in Pittsburg. And that was saying something.
Pittsburg, as one of the larger surviving cities in the US, had become a major financial and industrial hub. It always had been, just overshadowed by bigger names like Detroit, New York and Philadelphia.
With all three gone the money and industry had moved to places like Pittsburg, St. Louis and Indianapolis. They had major traffic problems, though. People were willing to work in and around cities. Nobody wanted to live near them much less raise the increasing number of children.
Western society was still coming to terms with the first baby-boom since the post WWII generation. The Horvath changes took time and technology to eradicate. The full course of treatment was six four hour visits to a clinic that had the equipment. There were, still, less than two thousand in the US and Europe. They were cycling through about ten thousand cases per year.
Over ninety million children, mostly in the US and Europe, had been born from mothers with what was being called Johannsen's Syndrome in the two years since the attack. The approximately forty-five million daughters all inherited it. Absent a huge increase in the supply of advanced medical equipment, and technicians trained to operate it and doctors qualified to deal with the occasional problem, there was no way to catch up.
Worse still, girls who were pre-pubescent when they were infected were still at risk. As soon as they hit puberty they went into heat. Coupled with the prevention of regular contraception, it was a nightmare. Society was just starting to come to grips with a teen pregnancy problem that was simply astronomical.
The effect had been studied and, to the sometimes amusement of males, it turned out that the 'heat' effect was functionally identical to male arousal. Just more varied. For about seven days during the four week cycle, essentially during their menstruation period, women had about normal arousal. During the remaining three weeks they were, in the oft quoted words of some medical pundit, 'Seventeen year old males with choice.'
And there were secondary effects. Since people tended to follow trends, even women who were not affected by Johannsen's were having babies in large numbers. Prior to the attack, 'native' Germans had a birthrate of one point five. Since replacement was two point one, they were slowly going extinct.
Last year there had been one child born for every single female with Johannsen's in Germany. Which was a good bit of the population. That, right there, was seventeen million of the ninety. And the trend was projected to continue until there was a fix.
The situation was much on Tom's mind as they entered the restaurant and he saw his prospective father-in-law for the first time. Steren had stated, in no uncertain terms, that she wasn't going to be the only girl she knew without children. She wasn't sure about the dozens some of them seemed headed for, a friend of hers had the genes for multiple birth and already had six, but they were going to get started more or less on their honeymoon.
He'd said 'Okay' and tried not to wince.
Tyler Vernon was, as anticipated, apparently talking to air.
"Did Gorku give his okay? Okay, then . . . Well, I don't care if the authorizations have to be hand-carried. I don't care if you have to hand carry them. Get them to Granadica now! Because we're going to have the plates by the end of the month and I want spinning to start the day they arrive, that's why! Yes, the end of the month . . . Because we are very good. I've got to go. I'm serious, Ozu, they'd better be there in no more than three days or I'm going to cite failure of contract . . . Because I can be. Buh-bye." Tyler snarled and then looked up and smiled. "Pardon me while I try not to scream."
"Hi, Dad," Steren said, giving him a peck on the cheek.
"Hi, honey," Tyler said. "You must be Thomas," he continued, holding out his hand. "Thomas or Tom?"
"Uh . . . Tom, sir," Tom said, shaking Mr. Vernon's hand. He'd been told he was short but it was a bit of a shock. A guy who had done all he'd done, changed the world, should be . . . taller. He'd heard the snickered references to Napoleon - SNL and other comedy shows had used it as a stock joke for years - but he was still surprised.
"Call me Tyler," Mr. Vernon said. "Since we're gonna be kin. Sit. Stay a while."
Vernon paused and seemed almost to fall asleep for a moment.
"Communing with your plant, dad?" Steren asked.
"No, just trying to adjust to family time," Tyler said, looking up and smiling. "I've gotten so little of it I'm sort of out of practice."
"I've been available," Steren pointed out. "Christy's busy, I'll admit."
"I haven't," Tyler said, shrugging. "I quit apologizing a long time ago."
"You've been busy," Steren said, shrugging. "And . . . in case I haven't said it. Troy?"
"Oh," Tyler said. "Did that finally break?"
"That you're making a humongo habitat?" Steren said, caustically. "Uh, yeah. Months ago. And I've been getting jokes from my friends since it didn't come out as large as it was supposed to. 'I guess your dad came up a little . . . short.'"
"Oh," Tyler said, then smiled. "Ah, yes. Troy. Yes, it did come out a bit smaller than we'd planned. Still . . . plenty big enough, don't you think?"
"It's a very interesting project," Tom said. "We did a study of it in my orbital engineering class. But it was apparent that you'd started with too few volatiles."
"A bit, yeah," Tyler said. "But do you have any idea how hard it is to drill into nickel iron?"
"One point two seven four megajoules per cubic meter of melting energy," Tom said. "And then you have to consider dissipation. The thermodynamics are fascinating."
"You two are not going to talk shop," Steren said.
"Just a bit more, honey," Tyler said. "Orbital engineering? I wasn't even aware that was a class."
"It's hard to get," Tom said. "There aren't that many qualified professors. Masters level only at this point. Penn State has a class, though. Dr. Mires. He worked for you, well for Apollo, for about five years on the Connie project."
"Eh," Tyler said. "I'm glad the data's getting out there. We're dying for qualified people. Between Troy and what we're going to be doing with her, and the Wolf projects . . . We can use every damned engineer we can get our hands on."
"Was that a job offer?" Steren asked.
"Can I ask what is causing the somewhat sarcastic mode?" Tyler said.
"I'm sorry," Steren said. "I just . . . We never get to see you and you're talking shop."
"Unfortunately, shop is about all there is in my life, honey," Tyler said, shrugging. "H
as been since . . . Well, since you were ten. I'd much rather talk about orbital engineering than war. Which has been my other preoccupation. So since we're not going to talk about either, what's the plan for the wedding? Are we talking wedding of the century or a private little ceremony at the house?"
"If we do wedding of the century it will be covered up with papparazzi," Steren said. "I still have to occasionally chase them away from the clinic."
"Heh," Tyler said, grinning. "Depends on where we have it."
"Space?" Tom said, grinning.
"All traffic is carefully controlled by Space Command," Tyler said. "And I know people."
"We are not having it on some orbital project," Steren said then paused. "What are you thinking, exactly?"
"Hmmm . . ." Tyler said. "I've been thinking about building a ship for my own uses. I suppose I could get one fabbed up pretty quick. Nice one. Big enough for a fair sized wedding party. Large viewing deck of optical sapphire. We're casting those big these days. I'm not sure about getting an inertial system that permits it to be the dance floor . . ."
"Ooo," Steren said, shuddering. "I don't think I want to do my wedding dance over the moon. Or Earth."
"Just a thought," Tyler said. "I could probably still get a custom yacht built to any spec you'd want from Glalkod Yards. Probably a better choice. Nah, come to think of it they're backed up too. I've been thinking I really need my own ship. This would be a good opportunity. I'd give it to you as a wedding present, but I don't think you'd want it."
"No, thanks," Steren said. "I was sort of uncomfortable the one trip I took out with you when I was sixteen. I'll keep my feet on the ground."
"Could rent an island," Tyler said. "Fly your friends in. Again, I know people. If we did it in certain areas the government would be happy to keep out papparazzi. Stay there for your honeymoon if you want. Please let me chip in for the honeymoon."
"Done," Steren said. "We accept. I'll tell you what the plan is when we decide. But if you want to spring for an island wedding I'm all for it. Sorry, Tom?"
"No problem," Tom said, smiling. "Whatever you want, honey."
"Any idea where?" Tyler asked. "Greece? Carribean? Polynesia?"
"Let me look around," Steren said. "I've tried very hard not to play poor little rich girl. So I don't really know since I don't run in those circles."
"Just let me know," Tyler said.
"Have you been by to see Christy?" Steren asked.
"What you two don't talk?" Tyler said. "She's covered up in work. I'll probably see more of her when she graduates. I'm going to throw her at LFD at first. She's not into orbital, either."
"No," Steren said. "We're not. So what are you going to do with Troy? Inflate it again? Mine it?"
"That is . . . proprietary," Tyler said. "Sorry, but it's a big project. There's a lot riding on it."
"The basic properties were pretty straight-forward," Tom said, his brow furrowing. "The team came to the conclusion that there was no way you were going for a big habitat."
"Nine kilometers is pretty darned big, Tom," Tyler said. "And let me note, Steren, that you were the one talking shop."
"I know," Steren said, grinning. "I just could see you getting uncomfortable talking about the wedding."
"Decide what you want to do and I'll just write the checks," Tyler said, smiling. "I'm really looking forward to it. Seriously. But about Troy. I really can't talk about it for another . . . two months. About."
"When it's cooled?" Tom said.
"When it's cooled," Tyler said. "Then we really get to work."
"Sorry it took so long," Tyler said.
'It' was a two kilometer in diameter steel washer with divots already cut out for the support lines. Six tugs were maneuvering it carefully from the gate to Bespin. Which was going to take about a week.
Because there wasn't an intelligent species in the system, the Grtul had just set up the gate to orbit naturally. Thus it was rarely near Bespin. Travel times were going to be a pain.
"No problem," Byron said, chewing on the end of his pipe. "We've got the spinners and carbon ready to go and Granadica has been turning out parts like nobody's business. We also set up a portable separator system in the meantime. We're not at independence from Glatun fuel supplies but we're at about sixty percent in the system. Doesn't quite cut down on cost because the portable is pretty expensive. But it's something."
"We're going to need to talk about tankers," Tyler said. "Fuel in this system is great. We need it in Sol. A lot of it."
"Well . . ." Byron said, pulling out his pipe and contemplating it. "The Glatun method for producing tankers is to put them together not too much unlike a regular ship. I've worked on 'em. I think we can do that pretty well with Granadica's help. Been looking at it."
"Which takes, like, forever," Tyler said.
"Yep," Byron said. "Or we could use the Liberty ship design. But we'd only be pushing 90,000 tons of fuel in each ship. That's a lot of fuel, but not what you're talking about."
"No," Tyler said.
"Or, and this is just at thought," Byron said, staring through the crystal wall at the giant washer that was about to become the upper portion of a giant space elevator and which had been constructed in about three weeks. "We could do what you did with Troy. Blow up a nickel iron asteroid. Thinner and smaller, mind. Just a big grape looking thing. Slap on one of the engines and crew quarters from the Liberty ships. Depends on the size of the asteroid and the amount of fuel, but you could get some boost there. Be slow but steady."
"That is more like it," Tyler said. "How soon can you get started?"
"We're about done drilling. I figured you'd like it and I know how you hate to wait."
"This had better work," Tyler said.
"We're going to be learning by doing," Nathan said. "Get used to it."
"Yeah, but if we really mess up, we can't just fix it with duct tape," Tyler pointed out.
The first thing that had to be done was get Troy moving. And once they did that, it was going to be apparent where it was going.
That Troy was a DoD project was bound to hit the news sooner or later. The line item had finally made it into the budget. Questions were already getting asked on the 'white' side of Congress, the part that had to vote on a multi-billion dollar military line item but hadn't yet been briefed in. The fact that it had taken this long was surprising.
Moving it was the next problem. They'd stabilized the asteroid with pumped fusion bombs. But even though they were very clean in yield, they'd been counted out for this evolution. Let an enemy irradiate the surface of the battle station.
Instead, a poor, lonely, nickel-iron asteroid that was so miniscule it didn't even have a name, had been chosen as the accelerant. After stabilizing the six hundred meter diameter asteroid's rotation it had been fitted with the largest pumped fusion bomb ever created by man, adjusted to point at the target, and then the bomb had been set off.
The man-made super-missile was about to hit the Troy at 90 kilometers per second and, with luck, send it on a course for its eventual home, just outside the three hundred mile 'no heavy weapons' interdiction circle of the gate and 'up' in the plane of ecliptic.
"No," Nathan said. "But the worst that's going to happen is Troy will be out of pocket. Then we'll just have to drop back to plan B."
"Nuclear attitude adjustment," Tyler said. "I'd prefer to avoid NAA."
"Same here," Nathan said. "But we have bigger problems. We've done the rotational equations and we're probably going to have to use some nukes. With every tug in the fleet pulling, which means shutting down every other project, it will only take seventeen years to get the rotation out. And until we get the rotation stabilized, we can't really do anything with it. We, especially, can't poke a hole in it. The atmo inside has to be under pretty severe pressure. When we pop it, it's going to apply delta-v."
"And if it's spinning . . ."
"The delta-v is going to be a bit like a balloon that you open up the spout," Nath
an said. "Especially since when we burn through is going to be a guess."
"I know a guy who says all these equations are easy," Tyler said.
"He's either an idiot or a student," Nathan said, watching the numbers from the asteroid's trajectory. "This is looking too good."
"Student," Tyler said. "Steren's fiancée. Seems like a good kid. I'd, frankly, dreaded who Steren was going to pick for a husband. Love her to death but . . . Dreaded. As it turns out, another dread I could put aside."
"Who's Steren," Nathan asked.
"My daughter?" Tyler said. "I mean, really, we've been friends for how many years?"