The Hundred Gram Mission

by Navin Weeraratne

  "But I don’t wanna!" his shoulder’s drooped and he pouted. "It’s so boring. Why can’t we just play with my spaceships?"

  "Daryl, we can play with your spaceships, all you like. But first, you need to work on the lemonade stand. The world is going to be a meaner place when you grow up. The most important thing you can learn is how to make money, and keep it."

  "Mom says you’re too serious about money."

  "Mom’s family’s rich. She’s used to money. She thinks it's always going to be there. You, you’re going to learn the same way I did. Now come on. Put down your space shuttle, and let’s work on your lemonade business."

  2040 AD, the Muddy Charles Pub, 265 Smoots from Harvard Bridge

  "So, what you’re saying Damien, is the Space Elevator is what? Bullshit?"

  It was a weeknight, and sparse inside the dimly lit pub. A few African grad students sat about drinking beer and talking French. On the TV, the Pats were taking on the Miami Dolphins.

  Damien Flores, MIT aerospace engineer, shook his head. "No Daryl. It’s not bullshit. But it’s poorly understood and being misrepresented. Everyone thinks of the Space Elevator, like some railroad into space. But when you talk about costs, it’s presented in terms of airline travel."

  "As cheap as flying on a plane," said the ratty-faced man across from Damien. Elijah Newman wore a Tom Baker-era, Doctor Who scarf. "Let’s say you want to build a skyscraper. You want to airfreight all the cement? All the rebar? The sand? A thousand times cheaper than a rocket, is still too expensive for a big project."

  "For serious space construction, materials have to be as cheap as they are on Earth. The Elevator won’t do to that, but it doesn’t need to. Everything you need to take to space is already there in abundance."

  "You mean energy?" asked Darly Spektorov. The venture capitalist looked like he’d been born wearing a sports jacket.

  "I mean sand, water ice, iron. Everything," said Damien. "There are thousands of Near Earth Asteroids. We’re used to seeing them as a threat, but they’re also an opportunity. The closer they come to Earth, the lower the cost of reaching them." [i]

  "And these mass drivers ," Daryl said the words slowly as if they were foreign, "they can bring them in, safely?"

  "The mass drivers are just electrified rails," said Elijah. "They’re loaded with buckets, full of rocks from the asteroid. The buckets are accelerated and the rocks flung out into space. The asteroid receives a small nudge. A few nudges at the right points, and you can change their orbits."

  "Is there something here that can be patented?" asked Daryl. "'Cause that's what you need. Patents, proprietary control, anything that keeps out copycats."

  "You can't patent asteroid mining, sorry," said Damien, "It's just an idea. People have been working towards it, for decades. Several companies are focusing on collecting Water Ice. We may as well cede that to them.

  "But, there are two barriers to copycats. One is proprietary. It's clear cut, but not a tremendous barrier to competitors. The other is property. That would make it an absolute barrier. However, it is on shakier legal ground."

  "Property, but on shaky legal ground? You're really selling me here, kid. Let's talk about the first one. That's your catalog, right? The one with the best asteroid candidates?"

  "Yes," said Damien. "Two years of data, sifting through every known NEA and working out their density. It's very crude, but we’ve identified the candidates with the most metals. Some are so dense they must contain particularly heavy metals, like lead. Radioactive ores are not impossible."

  "And you two, Sun Star Prospecting, own this catalog, one hundred percent?"

  "Yes," said Elijah. "The problem though, is that anyone else can put together their own one. The information needed is publicly available. It’s a fair amount of work though; it will take them some time. Unless they hire an astronomer or mathematician, they’ll likely fuck it up, too."

  "Like I said, it’s not a considerable barrier," said Damien. "And, if you want data good enough to start mining, you'll still need to send probes to do proper prospecting. The catalog just buys you time. A competitor needs to do that research to have as good an idea as we do on what's out there."

  "You're right, it's not great."

  "The property barrier though," Damien, "That would be absolute."

  "I like absolutes. Let's talk about that one."

  "There’s not a whole lot of space real estate laws. The 1967 Outer Space Treaty[ii] is what most space law is based on. It forbids state ownership, but doesn’t say anything about private ownership."

  "Now this I know about," said Daryl. "The ASTEROIDS Act[iii] allows ownership."

  "Actually, it only allows ownership of resources obtained from an asteroid. It doesn’t say that the asteroid itself can be owned."

  "Or what happens if the entire asteroid is ‘obtained’," said Elijah. "Legislation is going to lag until ownership and occupation become real issues. When the lawyers join in, they'll argue that simply claiming land is not enough. There needs to be demonstration of intent to occupy."

  "Are you going to ask me to sign a Non-Disclosure Agreement?" Daryl asked. "Cause it sounds like you're about to tell me something I can't unhear."

  The scientists looked blank.

  "Well, maybe next time," said Damien. "It doesn’t really matter, it’s just an idea. It’ll take a lot more than just an idea for this project to work. However, you will want to keep this to yourself."

  "Okay, spit it out."

  "We pick an Earth orbiting NEA with an elliptical orbit. Something that goes as far out as possible," said Elijah. "We fly over at its closest approach, and set up mass drivers."

  "So you can change its orbit and park it over the Earth?" asked Stockwell.

  "Yes, but that's actually secondary. If there's a problem and we can't do it, it doesn't really matter."

  "This I have to hear."

  "There are easier ways to steer an asteroid," Damien picked up. "If they have ice, you can use focused sunlight to superheat it, to steam. It can give you higher impulse than hydrogen burning rocket."

  "So why not just do that? Why bother with mass drivers?"

  "They’re space launchers. We can use them to deliver payloads to anywhere else in the inner solar system. That's why we need something with an elliptical orbit. It'll take us further out, and cross more orbits. We'll set up the mass drivers and leave. From Earth, we'll direct the mass drivers where and when to aim. Launch windows will open to the most lucrative asteroid prospects. The mass drivers will send instrument packages to them."

  "Instrument packages? What kind?"

  "Nothing fancy. Simple, cheap devices like transponders, cubesats, and pocket rovers. They’ll study the asteroids and do some simple prospecting."

  "You demonstrate intent to occupy!"

  "Exactly. Capturing the asteroid in the first place, is secondary. Perhaps it's useful for demonstrating intent, proof that we can actually do it."

  Daryl sat back and frowned. "But this isn't new. Asteroid prospecting companies have been sending probes out, for decades."

  "Yes, but their approach is very limited," said Damien. "They confine themselves to what they can most easily reach."

  "That seems reasonable."

  "It's very reasonable. They launch them from rockets on Earth, or push them out of space stations. But, this confines them to the volume of space immediately around Earth. It's a small volume, and fewer NEAs pass that close. Certainly not most of the ones in our catalog."

  "That smaller volume still gets plenty of asteroids," said Elijah. "But they tend to be small. Small ones aren't detected till it's too late to do anything about them. You'll have a launch window of days, or even hours.[iv] And what's your return on that readiness? Something twenty meters across? Who cares?"

  Spektorov nodded and said nothing for a while.

  "You have a business plan?"

  "We do," said Damien.

  "Can I see it? I just want to see the mis
sion cost estimate."

  Damien texted the file to him. Spektorov swiped through it on his device, frowning.

  "The cost is much lower that I expected."

  "We plan to use off the shelf components," said Damien. "Bigelow modules and a SpaceX engine. And a lot of money is saved by the crew. It’s just me and Elijah, we both have pilot’s licenses with instrument ratings. We’ll fly without pay, but instead a corresponding share of the new equity. All Spektorov Investment would have to do, is pay for the parts and the launch."

  "If it goes well, you’ll part own a company with the single biggest reserve of high grade ores in the inner solar system," said Elijah. "And if it goes very well, all the best reserves in the inner solar system."

  Daryl beamed and looked between the two, nodding.

  "Gentleman, this has been a great meeting. Thank you for taking the time to explain the specifics of your business plan. I’d like to fund your venture. You’ll have the contract in the morning. Please look it over and let me know if its agreeable to you."

  He turned around and waved at the bartender.

  "Another round for us, on me. We’re going to take over the world!"

  The bartender smiled. It wasn’t the first time someone had said that in the Muddy Charles, and meant it.

  "Dude!" Damien bounced along the street, "We are in. We’re so fucking in!"

  Elijah shook his head and raised an eyebrow. It was drizzling in Harvard Square. People hopped under awnings or clustered around store entrances. A street performer juggled on, undaunted.

  "What?" Damien stopped, his expression fell. "He said yes!"

  "I don’t know, Man."

  "What’s not to know? He’s the first VC we’ve spoken to who even knows what an asteroid, is. He gets it! He gets the whole business model!"

  "You don’t think that’s a bit suspicious?"

  "Suspicious?! What is wrong with you? He’s a venture capitalist who isn’t some old geezer who only understands nano-bio, and you want to find a problem with that?"

  Elijah shrugged. "Look, we’ve had to jump through a lot of hoops just to get the dignity of kinda-sorta- rejections. He touched on our numbers, but that was it. He didn’t talk about safety. He didn’t talk nearly enough about the legal issues."

  "So? He was excited! He wants this to happen. Why are you raining on our parade here? We’ve finally got a VC who wants to do business with us! Shit, he’s sending us a contract."

  "Yeah. I guess you’re right. I just can’t really believe it’s finally happening, and so quickly."

  Damien patted his arm.

  "Sun-Star Prospecting is going places, Mr. Newman. We’re fucking going to space, and we’re going to fucking own it!"

  One day later, Somerville, Massachusetts

  "God, I hate Somerville."

  The man next to Damien snorted, and poured him more beer. The two toasted, and sat back in their lawn chairs. It was getting late, and the party was getting worse. Ageing hipsters drank PBR and gave them dirty looks through oversized, plastic-framed, glasses. It was a warm night; snooty groups dotted the yard. The barbecue still smelled of tofu dogs.

  "I got the feeling you don’t know too many people here," said the other man. He wore a sports jacket and real leather shoes. He’d already been told off that evening by a pair of vegans.

  "Oh hell no. I’m here because of Elijah, my business partner. These are his girlfriend’s friends. He has to go, but he can’t stand them. So he asked me to come be his wingman at this party."

  Sports Jacket looked around.

  "Well where is he?"

  He rolled his eyes. "Having a fight with his girlfriend, upstairs. Been half an hour and they’re still not done. They’re either still fighting, or they’ve started fucking. Either way, I’m stuck out here with Gentrification’s finest."

  "Well, we’re both stuck out here."

  "What about you?" Damien asked. "What brought you here?"

  "Just meeting up with some friends from Tufts. They wanted to come for this party, so here we are. They’re busy hitting on random women who aren’t interested, so here I am, drinking in a corner."

  "Did you go to Tufts?"

  "Yeah, Fletcher School. I focused on venture capital contracts. A big investor wants to screw you and steal your business? I’m the guy who reads the small print he’ll try and use."

  Damien sat up, eyes wide.

  "No way? Hey, I’ve a contract that I need to go over, one with a venture capitalist."

  "Seriously?" Sports Jacket grinned. "It’s a small world. Have you got someone who’ll take a look at it for you?"

  "I haven’t asked anyone yet. Just got it today."

  "Here," he reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. "I’d be happy to take a look at it for you, on Monday."

  Damien read the card. "Sam Snyder. Good to meet you, Sam Snyder," the two shook hands. "I hate to be crass but how much would that set me back?"

  "You stick around and babysit me till my useless friends crash and burn, and we’ll call it covered."

  "It’s a deal," he held up his party cup. "To highly convenient coincidences!"

  They toasted.

  One Year Later, Asteroid 2034 AT 43

  "I got nothing on number Seven."

  The Bigelow Work Module was large and brightly lit. Equipment was tucked in plastic bags, Velcroed to the walls. Touch consoles docked in handy ports, with ergonomic sliding trays. In a corner was a (vintage) poster of what to do during a zombie holocaust. Elijah had taped a roll-up display screen on a table. Green dots lit up on his wire diagram map. One dot was red.

  "Nothing?" asked Damien.

  "Nothing. I can’t get a ping, and I’m not picking up the transponder."

  "It is still drawing power?"

  "That it is."

  "Thank God," Damien untensed. "We can’t lose another mass driver."

  "Can you check if there was a microquake there? Even if it’s still drawing power, it could still be damaged or knocked out of alignment."

  Seismographs sprung into the air above Damien’s tablet.

  "Yeah, we had a one point six near there."

  "It’s that fucking hydrocarbon ice. We’re too close to the sun; the alcohols boil every rotation." He took off his baseball cap and got up slowly.

  "What are you doing?"

  "We need Seven back online," Elijah said over his shoulder. "I’m going to suit up and head over there."

  "There’s not enough time," said Damien. "Sun’s coming up in an hour. It’s not safe with the ice melting."

  "We have to get Seven back up."

  "It can wait."

  "What about the 0740 firing?"

  "We can make adjustments to fire without Seven."

  "What are you, nuts?" Elijah’s smile was threadbare. "That’ll throw all the calculations. We’ll have to rework every single firing, and then get FAA approval. You want to do all that before 0740? What if the FAA says no? Damien, we’ll lose the whole mission."

  The engineer said nothing for moment.

  "Well," he said slowly, "we’d both better go."

  "No, you should stay and monitor Seven," Elijah climbed into his pressure suit. "We don’t know what the problem is, and we might get control back. Also, you should start reworking all the firings. If I can’t get Seven working, it’ll be our only option."

  "It’s not safe, Elijah," his arms were folded.

  "Sure, if we waste the rotation, arguing. I have to get done and be out by sun up. Now are you going to help me with this suit, or not?"

  Elijah Newman clipped himself to the safety line, and hopped across the ground.

  2034 AT 43’s surface was a grey with patchy black intervals. Mica and quartz dusts reflected his suit lights, like peeking buried diamonds. He floated for meters, his weight barely a percent of its Earth value. A hundred meters away, a green light flashed from a steel piling. The first waypoint on his trip around the world.

  He looked up, the stars filled h
is helmet and tried to get in.

  Focus on the mass driver, focus on the mass driver, he told himself. Getting distracted can wait till 0740.

  He remembered Joey Yen, an engineering student from Guangzhou he’d had classes with. Yen had borrowed money to buy luxury properties in Burma, betting on the Chinese tech bubble. He’d been right, and now lived in Monaco with his three (possibly four) girlfriends. But it had been a near thing. Joey had been ready to jump from a tower he said, if he’d bet wrong.

  He reached the first piling, a monolith rising out of a slag hill. Its green lamp spun, pulsing like a lighthouse. There would be flights and landings on AT 43. A body large as a naval anchorage needed hazard lights.

  "Reached the first beacon," he spoke into his helmet radio. "It’s pretty dark out here, would have been nice if we had some floods. I can see the second beacon, its working fine."

  He looked down. An ancient collision cracked and fissured AT 43, putting a valley between him and the second beacon. The safety line flew across it, disappearing in the darkness.

  Be ready to jump from the tower.

  He pushed off again, a human dirigible.

  It was 4.56 billion years old, leftover packaging from the birth of the solar system. It had failed the gravitational draft of the protoplanets. Except for pity-taps of gravity, it was all alone. After eons even the inner solar system becomes a small town, though. Sooner or later, it would run into the Earth.

  Halfway across the ravine, Elijah was still rising. He looked down and saw only darkness. In that darkness was palladium, iron, even water ice. It was a miner’s buffet table, and it would allow truly obese constructions.

  "How are those calculations coming along?"

  "If I’d known we’d be running them all again, I’d have written a damn program."

  "We should write that program anyway. That’s at least five frours work." He pronounced it frowers.

  "Five frours, easy. Seven or eight if we made it user-friendly."

  Mental work and puzzles passed time. This mattered when basically sealed in a small room for a month. They had become very good at finding problems to frown over, for hours. A frowning hour was a ‘frower.’ A frowning day though, was a ‘whole fucking day.’