Worlds in Chaos

by James P. Hogan

  “Yeaaah!” Keene whooped, smacking the armrests of his seat. “Was that a bird? Was it a plane? No, it was us, guys. Hey, look at that thing. It’s like a dead duck in the water out there.”

  “Eat our dust, General,” Ricardo sang.

  The APU went into a slow curve. Joe altered thrust parameters and stayed with it easily. He ran an eye over the monitors and gave a satisfied nod. “Okay,” he said to the others. “Take her up to full burn. Now let’s show them what we can really do.”

  As the NIFTV accelerated along its continuing spiral course, a white haze of more distant light appeared along the top edge of the screen, moving slowly down to blot out the starfield background. It grew until it became part of a vast band extending off the screen on both sides, losing the APU spaceplane in its brilliance as it became a background to it.

  2

  The planetoid had come out of Jupiter. It was christened Athena.

  For more than half a century, there had been astronomers dissenting from the mainstream view of planetary origins, trying to make themselves heard. The generally accepted nebular theory, in which the Sun, its planets, and their satellites all condensed together from a contracting cloud of primordial gas and dust, they maintained, was not tenable. The observed distribution of angular momentum did not fit the model, and tidal disruption by Jupiter would have prevented the accretion of compact objects inside its orbit. Some proposed an alternative mechanism for the formation of the inner planets based upon analysis of the fluid dynamics of Jupiter’s core. According to this theory, the giant planet’s rapid rotation and rate of material acquisition would result in periodic instabilities leading to eventual fission and the ejection of surplus mass. The bulk of the shed matter would most likely be thrown out of the Solar System, but lesser drops torn off in the process could go into solar-capture orbits.

  In the main, the reaction of the scientific orthodoxy was to dismiss the suggestion as too much at odds with established notions and find arguments to show why it couldn’t happen. Then, after the onset of sudden irregularities in Jupiter’s rotation followed by several weeks of progressive deformation in shape beneath the gas envelope, it did.

  Rivaling the Earth itself in size, white-hot from the energy that had attended its birth, and blazing a fiery tail tens of millions of miles long, Athena had been plunging sunward for ten months, all the time gaining in speed and brightness. Spectral analysis showed it to be composed of a mix of core and crustal materials trailing an envelope of ionized Jovian atmospheric gases. Currently crossing the Earth’s orbit sixty million miles ahead of the Earth, it was visible to the naked eye across a quarter of the sky before dawn and after sundown. During the next month it would accelerate into a tight turn around the Sun, bringing it to within a quarter of a million miles at perihelion, covering more than a million miles in an hour and practically reversing direction to pass little more than fifteen million miles ahead of the approaching Earth on its way back to the outer Solar System. It was predicted that the spectacle would dim into insignificance any comet ever before seen in history.

  3

  Space Dock was built in the form of a short, fat dumbbell passing radially through a cylindrical hub. Cramped and dirty, noisy and oily, it normally accommodated between twenty and thirty people. It had been built several years previously as a joint venture by a consortium of private interests, of which Amspace was one of the principals, to provide an orbiting test base for space vehicles and technologies at a time when depending on government to provide facilities had been too fraught with delay and political uncertainties to be reliable.

  A stubby-winged surface lifter lay docked at the far end of the hub when Joe attached the NIFTV at one of Space Dock’s ports. A minishuttle bearing the Amspace logo was standing a short distance off. It was forty minutes since the NIFTV parted company from the Air Force spaceplane, by which time it had pulled fully a hundred miles ahead despite having traced its circular pattern continuously. The three crew were jubilant as they hauled themselves through the lock into the cluttered surroundings of pipes and machinery to the welcoming shouts and back-slaps of their waiting colleagues. Keene, coming first, waved and grinned in acknowledgment. Behind him came Ricardo, his mouth frozen wide, setting his teeth off white against his Mediterranean-olive skin, with Joe making a double thumbs-up sign as he floated out last. They were making the best of the enthusiasm around them while they had the chance. It was not exactly representative of the reaction they expected from the world in general, which for the most part would no doubt be shocked rather than appreciative. But that, after all, had been the whole idea.

  Warren Fassner, in track pants and a red T-shirt, was waiting in the suiting chamber past the lock, where a technician began helping Keene out of his flight garb. Fassner had red hair with a matching, ragged mustache, and a large frame with an ample fleshy covering that gave the impression of sagging slightly when in gravity. Here, it was more evenly distributed, making him appear sprightlier, if maybe a little bloated, compared to normal.

  “Great show, Lan!” he greeted. “That should make the high slots this evening. Looks like the baby performed just fine.”

  “Just as much your show. It’s your baby.” Keene pushed himself forward to make room as Ricardo and Joe crowded in at the end of the chamber behind. “And how goes it with our friends?” He meant the branches of officialdom connected with the APU test.

  Fassner pulled a face, grinning simultaneously. “Mad as hell. Corpus Christi has got lawyers from Washington on the line now.”

  “Already?”

  “Probably being aimed by wrathful agency heads. Marvin says they’re trying to come up with some kind of permission or approval that we should have obtained first.”

  It had been expected, even though nothing had violated any explicit prohibition. Thanks mainly to the reticence of the Russians, Southeast Asians, and the Chinese, the world had not actually banned the launching of nuclear technology into orbit. It was just that nobody had thought that any organization outside government would contemplate doing it, while everyone on the inside was too vulnerable to pressure groups and public opinion to want to get involved. Now the regulatory agencies would be vying with each other to placate the eco lobbies by showing who had the most teeth.

  “Anyhow, you’ve done your part,” Fassner said. “The Corpus Christi office can deal with Washington. That’s what it’s got a legal department for.” He clapped Keene lightly on the shoulder and used a handrail to haul himself past to say a few words to the other two. “Hey, Ric, can’t you do something about that grin? You’re dazzling my eyes here.”

  Ricardo’s smile only widened further. “Didn’t we make a meal out of those turkeys, eh?”

  “Joe, you were right on, all the way. So how did the modified RTs handle? Pretty good, I guess.”

  “Like a dream, Warren, like a dream. . . .”

  Keene stowed the last of his gear in an end locker and signed that the technician had retrieved the diagnostic recording chip from his suit. Feeling less restricted now in shirtsleeves and fatigue pants, he exited through a pressure door and transverse shaft outside Number Two Pump Compartment to enter the “Yellow” end of the Hub Main Longitudinal Corridor—the walls in different sections of Space Dock were color coded to help newcomers orientate. More well-wishers, some in workshirts and jeans, others in coveralls, one in a pressure suit, were waiting to add their congratulations as he passed through. He came to “Broadway”—a confusion of shafts and split levels leading away seemingly in all directions, where the hub and the booms connecting the two ends of the dumbbell intersected—and wove his way through openings and between guide rails to the “Blue” well. Several more figures were anchored or floating in various attitudes.

  “You guys made the day, Lan,” one called out.

  “Great stuff, man!”

  “Still ain’t stopped laughin’. Even if it gets the firm shut down, it was worth it.”

  Keene reversed to glide into the t
ransverse shaft feet-first. He pushed himself off, using one of the hand hoops along the vertical rail, and felt the wall to one side nudge against him gently. As he progressed farther, the motion imparted by the rail grew stronger, causing him to move faster with a distinct, growing sensation of heading “down.” By the time he reached the three-level wheel forming the Blue end of the dumbbell, he was using the hoops to retard himself. He began using his feet to climb down ladder-fashion as he passed through the upper deck, and stepped off at the mid-deck to find Joyce and Stevie waiting for him outside Ccoms.

  “Damned good show,” Stevie offered. He was thirtyish, British, and sometimes talked like an old movie. Keene nodded and returned a strained smile. He knew they all meant well, but this was getting a bit tiring.

  Joyce was the senior comtech. She was one of those who did their best to look clean and professional, but her white shirt and sky blue pants, although no doubt clean that day, were showing grime, and there were flecks of grit in her black, close-trimmed hair. That was one of the facts of life that came with the territory. Dirt in zero-g didn’t fall obligingly to the floor and accumulate in out-of-the-way places to be removed when convenient. Despite all the ducts and filters and fans, space habitats tended to be smelly, too.

  She smiled, managing to convey the suggestion of freshness in spite of it all. “Even better than you promised,” she complimented.

  “Always make your surprises pleasant ones,” Keene said, yawning in the close air. “People forget bad predictions that were wrong. But tell them one time that things will be okay and be wrong, and they’ll never forgive you.”

  “Getting philosophical? Is this a new postflight syndrome or something?”

  “I don’t know. But I could sure use a postflight coffee.”

  “I’ll get one,” Stevie said, and moved away along one of the passages.

  Joyce nodded to indicate the doorway through to the Ccoms room. “We’ve got PCN on now, asking to talk to one of the crew. You want to take it?”

  “Sure. Who is it?”

  “Somebody called John Feld from their Los Angeles office. He’s linked through via Corpus Christi.”

  “Uh-huh.” Keene followed Joyce between the communications equipment racks and control panels. “Have we a friendly native?”

  “It’s difficult to say,” Joyce answered as they came to a live screen on one of the consoles. The face showing on it was of a man in his forties with clear blue eyes and straight, yellow hair brushed to the side. He turned to look out full-face as Keene moved within the viewing angle of the console pickup.

  “Hello. I’m Landen Keene—NIFTV’s flight engineer; also one of the principal design engineers involved with the project.”

  “John Feld, Pacific Coast Network news.”

  “Hi.”

  “You are with the Amspace Corporation, Dr. Keene?”

  “In a way. I run a private engineering consultancy that Amspace contracts design work and theoretical studies to.”

  Feld looked mildly surprised. “And does this relationship result in your going into space often?” he asked.

  “Oh, Amspace and Protonix—that’s the name of my company—have known each other for a long time. I go wherever the job demands. A desk has more leg room, but this way we get to have more fun.”

  “As we saw,” Feld agreed. “That was a spectacular performance you people gave up there earlier.”

  “And it was in spite of everything this country has done in the last forty years, not thanks to any of it,” Keene replied.

  “So what were you demonstrating? Obviously you were doing more than having fun. Is it another version of the message we hear from time to time about private enterprise being able to do things better than government?”

  Keene shook his head. “Hell no. What we were telling you has to do with the whole future of humanity, not somebody’s political or economic ideology. The world is still burying its head in the sand and refusing to face what Athena is telling us: the universe isn’t a safe place. For our own good, we need a commitment on a massive scale to broadening what the Kronians have pioneered and spreading ourselves around more of space. What we showed today is that we can start doing it right now, without needing to negotiate any deals with the Kronians—although if you want my opinion, we should avail ourselves of any help they offer. We already have the technology and the industries. The vehicle that we demonstrated today was a test bed for a Nuclear Indigenously Fueled engine. That means it uses a nuclear thermal reactor to heat an indigenous propellant gas as a reaction mass. ‘Indigenous’: native to a particular place.”

  Feld seemed to understand the term but looked puzzled. “Okay. . . . But where are we talking about, exactly, in this instance?”

  Keene spread his hands. “That’s the whole point: anywhere that you’re operating. You see, it works with a whole range of substances that occur naturally just about wherever you might happen to be. Venus is rich in carbon dioxide; the asteroids and ice moons of the gas-giants give unlimited water; others, such as Saturn’s Titan and Neptune’s Triton have methane; you can also use nitrogen, carbon monoxide, hydrogen, argon. In other words, it opens up the entire Solar System by affording ready refueling sources wherever you go. Today we were using water, and you saw the results. Methane would perform about fifty percent better still.”

  “So was today’s effort to get publicity for a new technology that you’ve developed? If so, it certainly seems to have been successful.”

  “New? No way. It was being talked about back in the 1960s. But antinuclear phobia took over, and we’ve been at a standstill. What we’re trying to do is more wake the country up again.”

  “Ah, but weren’t there good reasons?” Feld seemed on more familiar ground, suddenly. “Surely there are hazards associated with taking such devices into orbit that haven’t been resolved yet. Isn’t it true that if the radioactive material from just one reactor were spread evenly through the atmosphere—”

  “It isn’t going to get spread evenly around the planet. There’s enough gasoline in every city to—” Keene broke off as he saw that Feld was glancing aside, as if taking directions from somewhere off-screen. He looked back.

  “Thank you, Dr. Keene. Apparently Captain Elms is standing by up there in the Amspace satellite now, and we would like to hear a few words from him too while we’ve got the connection. That was very interesting. Let’s hope you have a safe trip back down.”

  “My pleasure,” Keene grunted. The screen blanked to a test mode.

  Joyce, who had moved away to talk to the duty supervisor on the far side of the room and then come back, stepped forward from where she had been watching. “See, you’ve scared them off again, Lan. You always have to start getting political.”

  “Hell, the problem’s political,” Keene grumbled. “How is it supposed to get solved if we can’t mention it?”

  Stevie reappeared carrying a plastic mug of black coffee and handed it to him. Keene nodded, sipped to test the heat, then took a longer drink gratefully. “But you’re right,” he told Joyce. “I should know better by now. It’s gotten to be something of a reflex, I guess.”

  “Falling into patterns of habit is normal with advancing age,” she assured him cheerfully.

  “Thanks. Just what I needed.”

  The supervisor called over to them. “They’re on hold now, Joyce. Do you want it through there again?”

  “Yes, we’re done with Pacific,” Joyce called back over the consoles. “You’ve got another call waiting,” she told Keene. He drank from his coffee mug again, as if fortifying himself. “Oh, I think you’ll like this one,” Joyce said. She gazed expectantly at the test pattern on the screen. It changed suddenly to present a face once again, this time a woman’s.

  Keene blinked in surprise. “It’s Sariena!” he exclaimed.

  She was in her early thirties, perhaps, with the finely formed features combining just the right amount of firmness with a softening of feminine roundness that fashi
on modeling agencies and cosmetics advertisers will scour a continent for. Her hair was shoulder-length, richly dark with a hint of wave at the tips, and her skin a clear dusky brown, setting off a pair of light gray, curiously opalescent eyes which at first sight jarred with such a complexion, but produced a strangely fascinating effect as one adjusted to them. Keene could have pictured her as an Arabian princess of fairy tale, or a rajah’s daughter. And that was just from electronic images; they had never actually met. For Sariena was not of Earth at all but from Kronia, the collective name for the oasis of human habitation established among the moons of Saturn. The name came from Kronos, the Ancient Greek name for Saturn, who had ruled the heavens during Earth’s Golden Age.

  “Hello, Lan,” she greeted. “And is that Joyce with you there?”

  “I’m here,” Joyce put in, coming closer.

  “Ah yes, it is.” Sariena’s smile was restrained enough to preserve dignity, wide enough not to appear cold. “I just wanted to let you know that the shuttles are in orbit with us now, and we’ll be on our way down to the surface later today, arriving in Washington this evening.”

  “Sorry if I’ve been out of touch,” Keene said. “I’ve been a bit busy lately, as you’ve probably gathered.”

  Sariena was aboard the Kronian long-range transporter vessel Osiris, now parked in Earth orbit after a three-month voyage from the Saturnian system. In that time, the communications turnaround delay had decreased steadily from over two hours when the ship set out. With preparations for the NIFTV demonstration taking up all his time, Keene hadn’t talked with the Kronians at all during the past week. Now, suddenly, it was a pleasant change to find himself able to interact with them normally.