The Next Continent

by Issui Ogawa

  “What a beautiful welcome.” Those were his first words.

  One by one, three more space-suited figures clambered down to the surface—Yamagiwa and two Gotoba engineers. Six months had elapsed since Apple 7’s tragic mission. Sixth Continent was a year behind schedule. Now, at last, they were here.

  “The contrast between light and shadow is unbelievable,” said Yamagiwa. First words, but not for the history books. It wasn’t that they were indifferent to the historic nature of their mission—they simply didn’t much want to be noticed. In fact, they had done everything they could to stay inconspicuous. The main focus of Sixth Continent’s publicity was another mission taking place at this same moment. That was the mission Tae had chosen.

  “Do you wish she were here too, Sohya?” Yamagiwa put his hand on Sohya’s shoulder.

  He shook his head inside his Manna suit. “It was her decision. Her mission has a higher profile. At least we hope it does.”

  “This mission is at least as important.”

  “Technically, sure, but…” Sohya looked at the descent stack. Their first landing was a major step forward; there was no doubt about that. Instead of a standard hydrazine-fueled engine, they would be using LOX and hydrogen extracted on the surface to return to orbit, something never attempted and, indeed, impossible till now. The new descent engine was temperamental but had a longer operating life. If everything went well, they would travel back and forth between lunar orbit and the surface without ever depending on Earth for fuel again.

  “All this new technology is not of much interest to our customers,” said Sohya. “No one cares what the bus they’re on is using for fuel.”

  “I’d stick to the science and let Marketing do their job.”

  “Just remember, if they don’t come, Gotoba and TGT go down together. We don’t have the kind of financial backing we used to.”

  Having completed his walk-around check of the descent stack, one of the engineers joined them. “Not only that, but our costs keep going up, thanks to that stuff.” He pointed toward Earth, or rather, to the space around Earth. Yamagiwa shook his head.

  “Phase E is a service to humanity. If the mission goes well, we should be seeing contributions from space agencies around the world.”

  “I think you’re being optimistic,” said Sohya.

  “Let’s quit jawing and get to work.” Yamagiwa clapped his gloved hands and frowned when he realized they made no sound. “First we have to get Xiwangmu’s environmental control system booted up. Multidozer repair, regolith decontamination, fuel synthesis—we’ve got a mountain of work to get through.”

  “I’m going for a drive first,” said Sohya.

  “You’re kidding. You’re not setting a very good example for the rest of us, Mr. Site Supervisor.” Yamagiwa was about to say more when he noticed the direction of Sohya’s gaze.

  “I want to pay my respects.” He was looking up at a tiny, glinting point of light atop the crater rim, which was the height of a low range of hills. “You go ahead. I’m going to leave some flowers and a picture of his parents.”

  Sohya climbed back into the core. When he returned with a small package, Yamagiwa was checking over one of the rovers. He got in and patted the passenger seat.

  “Come on, let’s get moving.”

  “You’re going to drive me there?”

  “This is what I do. We have to test this thing, you know.”

  Yamagiwa stared straight ahead, as if impatient to start right away. He would stay on the surface with the first team as another cost-cutting measure to keep the number of Eve launches to a minimum. He was eager to prove he could be just as useful on the ground as in space. With an extra team member, work would proceed more quickly, but one of the four crew members would have to spend his sleep periods in the core module.

  “All right. Drive carefully.”

  “Roger that.” Yamagiwa nodded and pushed the starter switch.

  The rover sprang forward.

  APPLE 10 was in low earth orbit, crossing over the Horn of Africa.

  “I have a visual fix. Standard Object 38124. Type: spherical, attached valve. Metal finish. Looks like a thruster pod. Object is within size limits.”

  “Orbital analysis complete. Puffball is in range.”

  “Proceed,” said Tae.

  The image on the monitor, magnified by a zoom lens, showed a gigantic spherical object lit ash blue by earthlight. The sphere jogged into its new path with a nimbleness that belied its size. A few minutes later, light gleamed briefly at the edge of the sphere and a cone of fire seemed to pierce its semitransparent interior. An instant later the light winked out.

  The navigator scanned his array of monitors. “Fragmentation complete. Vaporization 2 percent. Maximum fragment axis, eight millimeters. Good job.”

  “That makes twenty. How much fuel do we have?” asked Tae.

  “Forty-two percent. Maybe ten more objects.”

  “Then let’s go to the next probable orbit.”

  “Roger. That’s three and a half orbits from now, five hours and fifteen minutes.” The three crew members relaxed and floated upward from their flight couches.

  Apple 10’s mission, one of a series planned for Phase E(xtra), was a process of patiently eliminating one piece of space junk after another. The core module, equipped with a sensitive video camera and image processing system, was orbiting near the “puffball,” a huge sphere designed to break space debris into harmless fragments. From a distance, it looked like a two-hundred-meter sphere of steel wool. A closer look would have revealed multiple vortices of fine wire twisted into larger strands like lily yarn. Each strand was perforated with one-centimeter holes.

  The puffball’s perforated strands wound from the surface toward the core in a uniform, weblike spiral. At the center of the puffball was a propulsion module with six-axis thrusters. The thruster exhaust gas flowed out through the web into space.

  The puffball’s unique feature was the nested arrangement of its strands. The entire sphere could be compressed to a diameter of five meters and carried inside the payload shroud of an Adam rocket. Its mass was exactly one hundred tons, Adam’s maximum lift capacity. Once in orbit, the shroud was jettisoned, and the puffball elastically expanded to two hundred meters.

  TGT’s strategy was based on careful planning. Flying along in a spacecraft and simply scooping up the debris would seem to be the most straightforward approach, but this was quickly shot down. To creep up on each piece of debris would call for precise synchronization of relative orbital speed. The huge amount of fuel that would consume made this approach unworkable.

  The solution was to ignore relative speed and rely on position and timing. This meant the debris would be approaching with a relative velocity of several kilometers per second—not something to stop with a rubber bumper. At that velocity, whatever intercepted the debris would also be destroyed. Materials like aluminum, advanced ceramics, or Kevlar wouldn’t stand a chance. The awesome kinetic energy would be instantaneously converted to heat. Beyond a given impactor size, no obstacle could stand up to that kind of blowtorch. Anything in the way would be vaporized or blown apart.

  Anything massive enough to withstand such impacts would be too heavy to loft into orbit, yet the interceptor could not be too small either. If they miscalculated and the backstop wasn’t tough enough, the resulting breakup would simply create more orbiting junk.

  TGT’s answer was a three-dimensional woven structure known as the puffball. Its steel strands were not designed to cushion the shock of impact; space debris would penetrate faster than any network of strands could respond by deforming. Instead, the debris vaporized the strands and broke apart as its kinetic energy was rapidly converted to intense heat. The plasma jet would punch a tunnel through the strands, but the puffball would stay intact. After penetrating a few tens of meters, the debris would either be vaporized or reduced to trapped fragments. The only fragments able to escape would be under a centimeter in size, including shat
tered strands, and would pose relatively little risk to spacecraft.

  The puffball could gobble up debris as much as a meter across, limited only by the fuel for its thrusters. Once that was almost exhausted, it would fire one last time, deorbit, and burn up in the atmosphere.

  One problem remained: how to locate the debris. Pieces larger than one centimeter but smaller than ten—the so-called one-inch devils—were invisible to radar. U.S. Space Command was rumored to have the capability to detect these tiny killers, but their technology was classified. In any case, ground-based radar systems had their limits. The South American spotter’s discovery of a debris cloud around the Russian satellite was a fluke.

  The puffball needed an escort to locate the objects and guide it to them. Optical sensing was the optimal approach: there was no atmosphere in orbit to attenuate visible light, and its short wavelength compared to radar was better for detecting small objects. Monitoring was automated with high-resolution CCD sensors and computerized image analysis. The system scanned the entire horizon every two minutes as Apple moved through its orbit. From 350 kilometers up, Apple could scan 2,200 kilometers of horizon. Orbits would be calculated for any debris detected; objects in high or eccentric orbits were out of reach but did not pose a significant collision risk. Some debris had complex orbits that could not be evaluated. There was nothing to do but let these objects go.

  Once a piece of debris was designated for fragmenting, simple pursuit was not an option if fuel was to be conserved. The debris was only followed long enough for its orbit to be calculated. Then a new orbit for Apple would be worked out, one using the least amount of fuel. This might mean orbiting Earth several times before the final encounter.

  The crew returned to the habitat module. The hours till the next encounter would be filled with work. Clearing low earth orbit of debris yielded no profit, so the habitat module was crammed with microgravity projects waiting to be tended by the crew.

  The navigator made his way to a workstation where his task was to cast ultrahard drill bits using a steel-aluminum-silica alloy. The bits had been ordered by a machine tool company.

  “These things sell for 150,000 wholesale,” muttered the navigator. “If we make a thousand, that’s 150 million. Our share is fifty million. But this mission is costing us three billion. It’s like trying to fill a swimming pool with an eyedropper.”

  Tae was adding hot water to freeze-dried food pouches. “Just keep at it. Reika went to a lot of trouble to get that order.”

  Microgravity manufacturing was nothing new. The real profit was in taxpayer-subsidized scientific work, but such projects were typically years in the planning, and there had been no time for lengthy negotiations. The only projects they could take on were those where the manufacturing process could be implemented immediately. Reika was now a TGT employee and had searched high and low for accessible work of this kind.

  But being in the subcontracted manufacturing business meant dealing with clients who pushed hard for lower prices. To make things more difficult, ISS and Vardhana had already had years to establish their grip on this market, so the only way to get clients was to offer deep discounts.

  The pilot pushed off from a handrail to float toward another workstation. The navigator yelled in frustration. “You just spilled my alloy! I was in the middle of pouring.”

  “There goes fifty thousand. Sorry, I’ll be careful. But this whole thing shakes every time we move.”

  “Just let me know, okay?”

  Apple’s habitat module was not designed for microgravity manufacturing. Compared to the much larger modules used by its competitors, its smaller mass made it vulnerable to tiny vibrations that caused transitory gravity fluctuations, enough to impair the functioning of the equipment.

  “Maybe we should rethink this whole operation,” said the pilot, dejected. “We can’t solve this on our own. We should be investing in getting the base completed.”

  “We’ll do nothing of the sort. Phase E is vital for attracting customers.” Tae gave him a steely look. “You know what Joyful Homeland is saying. They’ve turned us into a poster child for the problems with space development. We’re going to generate more debris with our launches—over a hundred before Sixth Continent is complete. With enough objects, you get a collision cascade, and the Kessler syndrome kicks in. Debris hitting other debris will create so many fragments we won’t even be able to put satellites into orbit. Unfortunately, the science says they’re right, or pretty close to it. We’ve got nowhere to hide. We lost 20 percent of our reservations in the past six months.” She pointed out the window. The silvery gray puffball loomed a few hundred meters away. “That’s the only way we can neutralize people’s fears.”

  “But we can’t clean up all of it.”

  “Trying is better than nothing. When you buy a car, you go for the eco-friendly model even though one car, or even a whole car company, isn’t going to make a dent in the world’s pollution.”

  “But how do we cover the costs? Phase E wasn’t in the budget.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s not a problem.” Tae smiled. The pilot returned to his task. He didn’t seem convinced.

  Tae wasn’t convinced either. In fact, she was extremely worried. Phase E was putting serious pressure on Sixth Continent’s finances. At this rate, they would run out of funds before the base was complete. To make things worse, construction was running a year behind schedule. Even her supporters were beginning to voice doubts.

  But this was no time to give up. If she threw in the towel now, she’d have to go crawling back to her father. Proving him wrong was the whole point of being here.

  Tae stopped, looked out into space, and made her decision.

  “I’m going to EVA for the next rendezvous.” Her two crew members stared in disbelief. “Be sure and get me in the frame when the debris hits. If we just shoot the puffball in action, it might make some people even more nervous. With me in the frame, we can prove that the debris is nothing to be scared of. It’s just another problem we’re solving.”

  “It’s too dangerous! You might get hit by a fragment even from a distance of several hundred meters. If something a millimeter across—”

  “I’m going to EVA.” She went to her locker and opened it. “I want you to shoot me changing into my suit and going through the core hatch too. I want everyone to see the redesign. I want them to understand that what happened to Shinji can’t happen again.” She unzipped her jumpsuit and wriggled out. She was no longer the skinny little girl who traveled to the moon on Sohya’s lap. The navigator gulped and went to fetch the camera.

  Tae pulled her thermal undergarment on. “I’ll do whatever it takes,” she muttered. “I have to rely on myself now.”

  RYUICHI YAENAMI GAVE a low whistle of admiration. “It’s like a chapel in here.” He was in an office in Akasaka in the center of Tokyo. The building was elegant, sheathed in ivy.

  “Miss Toenji insisted. This is the gateway to Sixth Continent. Couples who visit need to be in the right mood.” Reika was leaning with her back against the entrance. When she stepped away, Ryuichi saw that the inside of the door was faced with a mirror. The Sixth Continent logo and its motto—be fruitful and multiply, and fill the moon—were etched into the glass.

  The walls of the office were faced in dignified red brick, interrupted at intervals by slender, Renaissance-style alabaster columns. The furniture was white cast metal. The window opposite the door was stained glass, with a representation of the Virgin Mary. The carpet was scarlet. The room was only fifty square meters, but the atmosphere was simple and refined.

  “This office is all she has now,” said Reika. “We’re trying to compensate for the size with nice decor. We don’t want to spend more on staff, so Tae and I are managing everything.”

  Yaenami glanced toward an elderly woman working at a laptop at the rear of the office, partially shielded by a few potted plants. An elegant shawl draped her shoulders.

  Reika lowered her eyes, embarrassed. �
�I’m sorry. I’m with TGT now, but I’m spending most of my time here.”

  “Don’t be so formal. You’re not an employee. You’re my partner. If you think being here is best, go ahead.”

  Reika whispered Ryuichi and looked at him gratefully. He quickly adopted a serious expression, but there was a twinkle in his eye.

  “Maybe we should get married on the moon.”

  “You can’t be serious. It’s very expensive.”

  “Okay, okay—just kidding. People are canceling, but we’re still overbooked. I don’t think I can wait that long.” He looked suddenly pensive. “But I’d like to visit Shinji.”

  “I would too.” Reika had seen a lot of the two men’s friendship over the last six years. In some ways, Ryuichi had been closer to Shinji.

  “You know…it would be nice if we could at least have the wedding portrait taken right away.” Reika looked shyly at the floor. She was thirty-six. She wanted to be photographed in her dress, and soon; who knew how long it would be before they could travel to the moon?

  She had complete command of the millions of line items in Sixth Continent’s budget. Her take-no-prisoners approach to budget austerity had earned her a fearsome reputation as a cost cutter at TGT and Gotoba. But right now she was blushing furiously and digging at the carpet with her heel.

  Yaenami laughed awkwardly. “Taking a wedding picture is the kind of thing you do when the time comes.”

  “All right.”

  “But let’s go to city hall after we’re through here.”

  “What?”

  Without allowing time for this to sink in, Ryuichi nodded toward the old woman. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

  “Oh…Yes, of course. That’s Ms. Halifax. She’s helping with the office work. Dorothy?”

  The diminutive woman removed her spectacles, rose, and approached them. Her silver hair was carefully coiffed. She smiled at Ryuichi and extended her hand. “Good day, Mr. Yaenami. I’m Dorothy Halifax.”