Farmer One

by Christian Cantrell

  "You have to adjust the tracking," Noone says.

  "Leave it," Sarek says. "And everyone shut up."

  The flag transitions into the upper portion of the Chinese ambassador — a young girl with short, spiky, highlighted hair and a thin platinum lip ring. Her hands are folded on her ultra-modern polished concrete desk, and her laptop is off to the side.

  "Good morning. We have just received a full report from our team on the Martian surface, and unfortunately, the news is not good." She speaks with a pronounced Australian accent, but her English is perfect. "The lander appears to be fully intact with no obvious signs of damage or malfunction, although admittedly, we are unfamiliar with American technology. The hatch was found to be open and the surface suit is missing, however after conducting a thorough search of the landing site and surrounding terrain, we have uncovered no evidence as to the whereabouts of Mr. Lockwood. We hope you understand that in order to ensure the successful completion of our mission, and the safe return of our own team, we must abandon the recovery effort. On behalf of the Chinese government and all the citizens of the People's Democratic Republic of China, I would like to extend my most sincere condolences."

  The picture transitions back to the Chinese flag for a few moments, and then switches to a greying, mustached postal worker leaning over a mug of beer on a dark mahogany bar. A laugh track plays for a few moments before The Digital Bitch can find the right button on the remote to shut it off.

  "I'm telling you," Noone says. "It had to be a dust devil. It must have picked the poor bastard up and flung him miles away."

  "That is unlikely," Prabs counters. "Any storm strong enough to carry Austin so far away would have also damaged the lander."

  "Maybe it is damaged," The Digital Bitch says, "but the Chinese just couldn't tell."

  "Half that thing was built out of Chinese parts," Sarek says. "And if a dust devil big enough to carry away a man in a space suit moved through the area, there'd be evidence all over the place. This just doesn't make any god-blessed sense whatsoever."

  "No," the Director says contemplatively. "Actually, it makes perfect sense."

  The Digital Bitch sits back down. Noone lights a smoke and sends the atmosphere swirling over their heads as he exhales.

  "Would you care to elaborate?" Sarek says.

  The Director ignores him. "Who was the lead engineer on the Guardian constellation?"

  "The spy satellites?" Noone says. "What do they have to do with anything?"

  "They didn't detect the Chinese launch because they were compromised, right? Who was the lead engineer? Who requested the Chinese components?"

  "Lockwood," Sarek says. "But so what?"

  "Christopher, could Lockwood have tampered with your nitrox[19] mixture at the NBL?"

  Noone looks skeptical. "I guess, but why would he do that?"

  "Lockwood never showed any signs of decompression sickness, did he? Your mixture was way off, but his was somehow perfect."

  Sarek chuckles. "I'm sorry, Ann, but I have to stop you right there. If you're suggesting that Lockwood actually wanted this mission, I can personally guarantee you that the last thing that little runt wanted was to break his safe little routine and go to Mars. We caught him trying to desert three weeks before launch."

  "Or he wanted you to think you caught him trying to desert."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Think about it," the Director says. "Lockwood was the lead engineer on a project that failed to detect the Chinese launch. Then he comes up with a plan to get us to Mars first, but it relies on the Chinese to get us home. And when he doesn't get picked for the mission, Christopher mysteriously gets decompression sickness, but Lockwood is fine."

  "Where are you going with this?"

  "Farmer One," the Director says. "Do you know what that name means?"

  "It's the name of his cat," Sarek says. "Farmer."

  "It is a fox," Prabs says.

  "Whatever."

  The Director looks around the table. "During the Cold War, the Chinese built a fighter jet called the Shenyang J-6 based on the Soviet MiG-19 platform. The NATO code name for that aircraft was Farmer."

  "So?"

  "So occasionally pilots from the People's Liberation Army flew them into Taiwan or South Korea."

  "What for?"

  The Director can't help but smile. "To defect."

  The only movement in the room is the smoke rising from numerous cigarettes and the incredulous shifting of wide, stupefied eyes.

  "There's only one way out of this country," the Director says. "And that's through space. People, I think we're looking at the most expensive, most elaborate, and I have to admit, by far the most ingenious defection in history."

  Noone hits the table with his fist hard enough to eject cigarette ash into the air and cause coffee to breach the rims of several cups. "That goddamn monkey-fucker could have killed me. What are we going to do?"

  "We have to contact the Chinese," Sarek says. "We have to demand they give him back. He has to pay for this."

  The Director is shaking her head. She is smiling in a way that suggests both loathing and reverence. "We can't take him back. The last thing we want is for the man who is about to become one of the most famous Americans in history to turn out to be a traitor. We have to let him go."

  Noone stabs his cigarette into an already overburdened ashtray. "Then how the hell do we explain the fact that he's gone?"

  "You said it yourself," the Director says. "It was a dust devil. Lockwood landed safely on Mars, made history by walking on its surface, and then was tragically killed in a sudden violent dust storm. From this moment on, Brother Austin Lockwood is not a traitor. He is an American hero."

  "His contact," Sarek says with sudden revelation. "That's how he set the whole thing up. That's how he was communicating with the Chinese this whole time."

  The Director's smile gets broader. "Find him," she tells Sarek. "Lockwood might be untouchable, but his contact most certainly is not."

  Chapter 12

  Dillardsville

  Friendswood, Texas

  Just after dark

  A man in a suit and a long wool coat raps with a single gloved knuckle on a pine plank door, then anxiously checks his flanks. Not just this house, but the entire settlement is clearly fashioned out of dubiously appropriated construction site materials: scrap 2x4s, plywood, shingles, foam board insulation, cinder blocks, prefabricated windows of all sizes, multiple compositions and shades of synthetic siding. It is done with surprising fastidiousness and discretion, however. You'd probably think twice before calling it a slum or a ghetto. Rather than straight-up squalor, the homes that form this community manage to convey a sense of resourcefulness, and somehow even a proud defiance.

  When the door opens, the man finds himself looking down at a little Chinese girl cradling a ball of rufous fluff. She is gently kneading the animal's belly while resolutely standing her ground.

  "What do you want?"

  "Are you Min Liu?"

  "That depends."

  The girl's thick Texas twang and southwestern bravado have caught the man off guard, to say nothing of the fox in her arms. "If I have some good news, then are you Min Liu?"

  "Just say what you came here to say," the girl tells him, "and say it quick."

  "Yes, ma'am," the man says. He is probably fifty percent taller than the girl, but somehow she is the one calling the shots here. "In that case, I'm here to congratulate you. You've won yourself a trip."

  "Mister, if you're here to try to sell me something, you're in the wrong part of town. Do we look like we need magazine subscriptions or carpet cleaning services?"

  "No, ma'am. I'm not here to sell you anything." He pauses to take another quick look around. "You know, it would really be better if we could talk about this inside. Would you mind if I came in?"

  "Yes, I would. If you're uncomfortable standing out there, I suggest you try talking faster."

  "Fair enough," the man says. "
Let me start again. Have you ever heard of Beyond the Blue?"

  "Are you selling toilet bowl cleaner?"

  "It's not toilet bowl cleaner, ma'am. Beyond the Blue is a private space tourism company based in San Antonio with its primary airfield just outside of Victoria. It's an American company, but it has — how should I put it? — substantial Chinese financial backing."

  While it would probably be too much to say that the man has fully piqued the girl's interest, it seems he has at least bought himself some time. "Go on."

  "I represent Beyond the Blue, Ms. Liu, and I'm here to inform you that you've won yourself a free trip into orbit on one of our nicest and newest spaceplanes."

  Min looks up at the man with as much incredulity as her little face can possibly hold. "Mister, that may very well be the last thing in the world I was expecting to hear you say."

  "I understand, ma'am, but I guarantee you that this is no gimmick. I'm being quite sincere."

  "I'm sure you are, and I appreciate you coming all the way out here, but I didn't enter any contest, and I can't say as I have any interest whatsoever in leaving this planet. My life is plenty dangerous right here on the ground."

  "Oh, the whole thing is really quite safe, ma'am," the man reassures her. "The way it works is you get air-launched from something called a mother ship. The spaceplane sits on top, like this, and the mother ship flies you up as high as it can go, and gets you going as fast as it can, then it releases the spaceplane, dips down out of the way, and the spaceplane fires its own thrusters and takes you on up into orbit. When you're done seeing the planet from space, you just glide right on back down to the ground and land just like any other airplane. Simple."

  "Sounds like quite the adventure, but I still think I'll pass."

  "I've never done it myself, but from what I'm told, it's an experience you'll never forget. An opportunity of a lifetime, in fact. The only thing is that every once in a while, the spaceplane doesn't land exactly where it's supposed to. Every now and then, it's just a little off target."

  "Mister, you're welcome to my ticket if you want to try it out for yourself."

  "When I say a little off target, ma'am, I mean 'little' relative to astronomical distances, of course."

  "Of course. Good night. I trust you can find your way back to the bus stop."

  "In fact," the man says with increasing urgency through the diminishing gap in the door, "one time it was off by over twelve thousand miles. It landed just outside of Xichang City."

  That stops the door. "Xichang City? As in Xichang City, China?"

  "I believe that's the one, ma'am."

  "Sometimes these space-whatevers land all the way in China?"

  "It's been known to happen. It's no big deal, though. They got another mother ship at the spaceport there, so they just fuel her up and launch her again. When she gets back to Texas, nobody even knows she missed her target."

  "Tell me something," the girl says. "How did I get entered into this contest?"

  "It seems someone saw fit to enter on your behalf. Someone by the name of Al, I believe."

  "Al," the girl repeats. "As is A.L.?"

  "Could be."

  The girl nods. "I'm in."

  "I'm glad to hear that, Ms. Liu. I think this will make Al a very happy man."

  "When do we leave?"

  "As soon as you're ready. From what I understand, I'm not the only one trying to track you down. It seems you've won yourself more than one trip, but I reckon the other one won't be nearly as luxurious or hospitable."

  The girl looks down. The fox cradled in her arms reminds her that her hand has gone idle by putting its paws together and waving them.

  "What am I allowed to take?"

  "Everything you need will be provided," the man says. "However, on this one particular flight, I've been told that we are allowing pets, so you can bring your cat if you like. I'll wait out here and we'll leave as soon as you're ready."

  "She a fox," the girl tells the man. She steps out of the house, pulling the door closed behind her. "And we're ready now."

  Footnotes

  [1] The white-footed fox, also know as the desert fox, is a subspecies of the red fox, and has been scientifically classified as one of the cutest animals on the planet. It is indigenous to the deserts of India, Pakistan, Iran, and Iraq, so how one found its way into Texas — much less into Lockwood's lumpy twin bed — is anyone's guess. [Back]

  [2] As it turns out, we experience climate change as pretty much the exact opposite of global warming. As the temperature rises, so does warm air, creating huge vacuums in both hemispheres which get filled by the dry frigid air of the Arctic and Antarctic Circles. Therefore, at the same time the ice caps are melting, the deserts and tropical rain forests are freezing, so in the end, it's mostly just a wash. [Back]

  [3] Lockwood and Prabs have both undergone state-sponsored, court-ordered copyright re-education on multiple occasions, but so far, it hasn't taken. [Back]

  [4] The main points of the text are as follows: zero gravity toilets direct waste using air flow and suction, and are therefore not recommended for individuals with moderate to severe hemorrhoids. Solid waste is exposed to the vacuum of space in order to remove liquid, pathogens, and other unpleasantries while liquid waste is collected through anatomically correct "urine funnel adapters" which are not to be shared among crew members, and are particularly unflattering in the context of female astronauts. Urine is either vented into space where it immediately boils then freezes into sparkly yellow crystals which orbit for centuries, or it is collected and stored in bottles. Waste collected on space stations can be disposed of in expendable Russian freighters which are de-orbited and destroyed in the atmosphere, or it can be returned to Earth where it is seen to either by the most recent intern, or the last software engineer to break the build. [Back]

  [5] In 2011, India's first unmanned lunar probe, Chandrayaan-1, discovered a 1.7 km long cave beneath the Ocean of Storms near the moon's equator which the Chinese later used as the site for mankind's first permanent lunar base. The underground structure provides Chinese settlers with a more consistent temperature than that of the lunar surface as well as protection from solar radiation, micro-meteoritic impacts, and dust storms. When India demanded compensation for the Procellarum discovery, China shipped them somewhere north of 1.5 billion fortune cookies to be distributed as they saw fit, and have since considered the matter closed. [Back]

  [6] Meanwhile, and in incredibly stark contrast, the standard of living in the most populous country in the world (now pushing two billion) rose significantly after the transformation of the PRC (People's Republic of China) into the PDRC (People's Democratic Republic of China). Most historians trace the origins of the Chinese Democratic Revolution all the way back to a 23-year-old US Army soldier from Oklahoma who obtained and leaked over a quarter of a million classified US diplomatic cables over what was once a free, open, decentralized, and global network of interconnected computers and devices. The path from leaked diplomatic cables to revolution in China was a convoluted if highly disputed one involving nothing less than riots, protests, torture, covert operations, decidedly overt operations, propaganda campaigns, sexual allegations, NATO resolutions, highly sophisticated government-sponsored cyber attacks, terrorists/revolutionaries (depending on whose side you were on), cover-ups, exposés, plenty of condemnation in the strongest possible terms, social networking, social engineering, sex (presumably, since what self-respecting controversial event does not?), decentralized internet subcultures, distributed digital currencies, onion routing (a form of largely anonymous communication over a computer network which the United States Congress never could fully grasp, but was more than happy to outlaw anyway), plausible deniability, resignations, assassinations, executions, intelligence, counterintelligence, profoundly disturbing unintelligence, and both summer and winter Olympic athletes. [Back]

  [7] Space-Based Solid-State laser. Naturally, these do not actually exist in any official capaci
ty. If they did, however, there would be one in geosynchronous orbit over the capitals of every country with a leader whose actions the United States has ever had to strongly condemn. The technology would also be several decades old, and in various states of disrepair which means that the results of actually firing one would be anyone's guess. [Back]

  [8] Non-player character. A player in a game that is controlled by a computer rather than by a human is usually referred to as an NPC. Female NPCs in massively multiplayer online role playing games are frequently rendered with an abundance of impeccable polygons which makes the realization that you have been cybering with a bot all the more regrettable. [Back]

  [9] The Poseidon CSM is the underwater version of the Zeus CSM for use in NASA's Neutral Buoyancy Laboratory. The fact that it shares its designation with the P-8 Poseidon — a Boeing 737 heavily modified for anti-surface and anti-submarine warfare which is currently and perpetually (though, of course, very much unofficially) straddling the line between international and Chinese waters — is just a happy coincidence, and not at all intended to send the Chinese a subtle but unambiguous message. [Back]

  [10] Extra-vehicular activity. EVAs refer to any type of excursion outside of a spacecraft. They include spacewalks (performed while in orbit), moonwalks (performed while on the lunar surface), and, at least in theory, planetwalks, as well. [Back]

  [11] Officially, Noone's spacecrafts are all named after his favorite mountain peaks in Texas, but it is common knowledge that the designations are in fact tributes to the various girls he managed to bed while on snowboarding expeditions followed by the number of orgasms he claims to have delivered. He once tried to name a probe designed to analyze the tail of comet Swift-Tuttle "Big Bush" after, he vehemently insisted, the second highest peak in the Guadalupe Range, however the Director would have none of it. [Back]

  [12] Verbification of the word "taser" meaning to cause neuromuscular incapacitation in someone you probably don't like very much. The Taser was invented in the late 1960's by a NASA engineer who named the device after his childhood science fiction hero, Tom Swift (the word is actually an acronym for "Thomas A. Swift's Electric Rifle"). There has been much debate over the years as to whether the proper derivative of "Taser" is "tased" or "tasered" similar to the debate over whether the proper informal shortening of "pornography" is "porno" or "porn" (or, more recently, "pr0n" — but that's an entirely different topic). Given that brevity is the soul of wit, this writer favors both "tased" and "porn." [Back]