"Plenty of gas," said Pieter.
"I'm turning it off."
Pieter squeezed the neck and removed the rubber tube. Henrikson pushed the payload tubes in. With zip ties he squeezed the neck shut. Pieter sprayed it with what looked like grey paint. It turned black as the epoxy sealant set.
"Is it on?"
Henrikson pulled out his phone. "Yes," he swiped. "Transmission is strong."
"Is it carrying anything?" asked Anneke. "Instruments, I mean."
"It has the basic stuff - thermometer, barometer, cosmic ray detector," said Henrikson. "But it also has an infrared camera, tuned to picking up volcanic ash."
"The Philippines eruption?"
"It'll gather data on the spread," said Pieter. "We may as well do some real science. Otherwise, this is just an ego project."
"Isn't it anyway?"
The balloon was a wide as they were tall. It looked like a giant disco ball, trying to flee.
"The wind is picking up," said Pieter.
"And he," Anneke pointed, "Is a policeman."
Henrikson snipped the nylons.
They craned their necks as it leaped into the sky. It sparkled like a star, and soon disappeared against the others. Pieter held Henrikson's hand and gave him a kiss.
"Well done," said Pieter. "But now you have to tell your parents. And about the fifty Euros."
"I can't tonight. They are at ESA, today JUICE gets its final instructions for entering Ganymede's orbit."
"You're parents are working on the Jovian Icy Moon Explorer?" asked Anneke.
"Yes," he nodded. "They met during the selection process, in 2012. I've watched them work on this, my whole life."
"You there!" the policeman yelled, getting closer. "Stay right there!"
"Are we in trouble?" asked Anneke.
"Maybe," Henrikson let go of Pieter and started rolling up the tarp. "But the crime, if any, will soon reach the edge of space. If we're lucky, it'll stay there for years."
"What," the policeman's face was red, "The bloody hell did you lot just do here? Eh?"
"We just launched a suborbital satellite," said Henrikson.
"What?"
"I said I started a space program."
"And I helped," said Anneke.
2050, European Space Research and Technology Center (ESTEC),
The Netherlands
"Everyone, I'm sorry but I have some bad news," the director's suit marked him out. The engineers and scientists filling the conference room wore mostly (geek) tees. "I know many of you suspected this might happen after the last rounds of cuts," he looked from person to person. "It wasn't an easy decision by any means. ESA has decided to cancel the Kuiper Navigator mission."
Groans and exclamation. Not really so many, thought Jansen Henrikson. Who could really say they were surprised? Most remained quiet.
"I know, I know. I wanted you to hear it from me."
"I just want to say to you all," an elderly scientist began," in case, in case I do not get another chance, that I have greatly enjoyed my years here. Working with such amazing people -" and then she started crying. An engineer with an inappropriate shirt gave her hug. Other people started hugging and shaking hands.
"We should be hearing it from the Director General."
People stopped and turned. Henrikson stood in the doorway, arms folded. "I have questions for him."
"Well Jansen, you can ask me," the director's smile thinned.
"Kuiper Navigator is the only 'Large Class' mission we have left. If we cancel it, then what's ESA's commitment to science?"
"We of course remain deeply committed," said the director. "Kuiper has cost a billion Euros. A billion. It would cost at least as much to complete. That kind of funding can't be justified anymore. Not when we're competing for funds with refugee camps, all along the Mediterranean."
"Without big science projects, we stand still. As a culture, as a species. We don't drive technology. We stop making crossover breakthroughs. That's not how we'll fix the environment or help the North Africans and English to go back home one day."
The director tried smiling again. "You're preaching to the choir, Jansen."
"Am I? You were supposed to protect us. We're engineers, you're a lawyer."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Without inspiring science, young people don't go into STEM. The brightest will become lawyers - or even bankers."
"Fuck bankers," said someone. "Seriously. Fuck them. Remember 2008!"
The director sighed. "Does anyone else have anything they would like to say?"
Permitted anger, they all began.
Jansen Henrikson walked out the doors of ESTEC, for the very last time.
People huddled deeper into their coats. Black clouds were boiling over from the North Sea. A loudspeaker in the car park declared flood warnings in Dutch, Deutsche, and Arabic. Henrikson turned down his aisle and -
"What?!"
Where he'd parked, there was now a different car.
It was black, sleek, and offensively large in an age of micro cars. It had only rear passenger doors - self-driving only. All its windows were polarized black.
He walked up and knocked on the window.
"Hello?"
Nothing.
He knocked again, harder. "Hello?"
The door slid aside like a screen door. Warm air washed out, enough to heat an apartment. Inside was a greying man in a blue suit. Sitting across from him were two suspiciously attractive perhaps-assistants. The man smiled.
"Doctor Henrikson. I've been expecting you."
"Where is my car?"
"We loaded it into the trunk."
"What?"
"It was so cute, I couldn't help myself."
Henrikson stepped back and looked at the trunk.
"It's perfectly fine. Look, I just wanted to give you a ride, so we could have a chance to talk."
"Just who the hell do you think you are? How dare you mess with my vehicle!"
The man grinned. "I'm Daryl Spektorov. Ever heard the name?"
"Please stop harassing me, and give me back my car before I call security."
No, really kid. I'm Daryl freaking Spektorov! Zdenka, show him the diamonds."
One perhaps-assistant opened the mini bar, and pulled out the ice tray. She picked out several cubes that were a bit too brilliant. She offered them to Henrikson. He took one, feeling its cold, its smoothness. He gave the man a hard look.
"If you're really Spektorov, then you won't care about this."
Metal screeched and paint tore. The perhaps-assistants stared, mouths open wide. Spektorov leaned out and inspected the damage on car.
"You've clearly never keyed a car in your life. I'll teach you how sometime, I always key my brother in law's at Christmas, he's such a douche! I pretend it's the alcohol, but it isn't. I think he knows. Here, hand me that."
He took the asteroid-mined diamond from Henrikson, and flung it across the parking lot.
"Now that, is what Daryl Spektorov would do. Am I right?"
"You - you keep giant diamonds in an ice tray?"
"Honest to goodness, I don't know how they got there. Now, my time is worth more than some diamonds. And perhaps, for a few minutes, so are you. I'm here right now because I had it on good authority that today; you'd be out of a job."
"How could you know that? We just learned ourselves."
"What, you thought you were entitled to know first? I have two words for you," he held up two fingers. "Money! Oh look, I don't need a second word now. Now, if I may continue without being interrupted - I want your help, kid. I want your help with spaceflight."
"Spaceflight?"
"Yeah. This little Kuiper Navigator shit you were working on? Fuck Kuiper. I'm going to another star. Now get in, it's cold."
One of the perhaps-assistant poured him a drink. Her charms were wasted on him, but the Japanese whiskey's, were not. The car skimmed soundlessly down the highway. Rain slapped against the window
s and twisted away into tiny rivers.
"Interstellar travel is impossible. You're wasting your time."
"That's not what you said in your dissertation. You said it was impractical. Biiiig difference."
"You read my dissertation?"
"Personally? I think it needed more sex and violence, but I read it for the antimatter."
"It was a highly speculative paper. If all the particle accelerators in the world ran for a million years, we would not have one gram."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Can you build it or not? The engine you designed."
"The beamed core engine?"
"Can - you - build - it?"
"With the right team and resources, yes."
"Sweet, all your ESA friends just got fired. Tell me who you want, and I'll hire them tomorrow morning." Zdenka refilled his drink. "Now what resources do you need?"
"It's," Henrikson threw up his hands. "It's not that simple. The beamed core engine runs on antimatter!"
"So? You wrote about harvesting it from the Earth's magnetic belts. From Saturn.[ix] About purpose-building particle accelerators to shred heavy nucleii."
"My God, we're talking destroying Uranium. Saturn? Really? What do you know about Saturn?"
"A thing or two. It's pretty. Enceladus can easily be checked for life but NASA keeps wasting time on Europa. And that its rings act like brick walls to cosmic rays. They collide and produce antimatter. The most antimatter produced, in the entire solar system."
"Saturn is far away. You can't just hop over there."
"You see? This is why I need you onboard."
They got off at the exit. Henrikson watched as they passed the park he had launched his early balloons from. Dying trees poked out of the water. People wanted to pump the park dry, but there wasn't any funding.
"Look kid, I've done everything, I've seen everything, I've met everyone. I even fucked the President - hey don't judge me, power totally makes up for looks. But nothing, none of it at all, matters. I don't even care if I never do any of that, ever again. There's only one thing I want - and every day, I want it more and more. You know what that is? It's sending a spaceship to another star. Henrikson, you listening?"
Henrikson kept staring out at the rain. "Of course I'm listening."
"Of course you are. Because you want this, too. Your whole life you wanted this. You've worked deep space projects like the Kuiper Navigator. You go to conferences on space colonization. You designed an engine for a starship. You and me, we're alike Henrikson. We're peas in a pod."
"I'm not so sure about that."
"No hurry, it'll sink in. You're not used to talking about what you want - most people aren't. Me? I talk about what I want, all the time. I'm very comfortable with it. Talk about it, Doctor. Talk about interstellar travel. Otherwise, no one else is going to talk about it."
"No one is interested in interstellar travel."
"Of course not. Even before the world went to hell, no one was funding it. Interstellar travel is for another time, another people, maybe."
They pulled into a cozy neighborhood. The rain softened slightly. LED lamp posts made bright cones.
"Fuck that shit, that's what I say."
They drew up beside a small house. The door slid open. The perhaps-assistant stepped out and opened a large umbrella.
"I need some time to think about this. I have to go over it with my husband."
"I need your answer no later than 11:15am tomorrow."
"What's then?" he stepped out.
"Here," Spektorov leaned out and handed him an envelope. Henrikson looked inside.
"Air tickets?"
"Just one air ticket, direct to Manaus, Brazil. The other ticket is for the space elevator.[x] Have a good evening Doctor Henrikson. Pack light."
The door slid shut. The trunk opened, carefully lowered, and deposited Henrikson's car in the driveway. Then the behemoth slid noiselessly into the darkness, and was soon gone. Henrikson stood there in the rain, staring after it.
The front door opened. Pieter stood in the light, rubbing his hands on a wash cloth.
"What was that, darling?"
Henrikson kissed his husband and stepped inside.
"A very rude and powerful man."
"Is he rich?" Pieter helped him out of his coat.
"Very."
"That explains it. What did he want?"
"Everything."
Pieter rolled his eyes. "Typical. I hope you said no."
Lakshmi Rao, I
2002, Tamil Nadu, India
"Lakshmi," Ms. Rajasingham’s fingers were white with chalk. "Why have you not done your homework?"
The school was a single room, with only three walls. Three walls were good, thought Lakshmi. In Batticaloa, some were so poor they couldn’t afford any. Rows of wooden tables and benches faced the front. There was room enough for thirty.
"Lakshmi," she frowned and put her hands on her hips. "Don’t look around the class at your friends. They don’t have the answer. Tell me why you haven’t done your homework."
There were just three other students in class that day. Two were the Balakrishnan girls. They always wrote with pens and their mother had a cell phone. Shankari had a boyfriend, but Lakshmi wouldn’t tell or she’d get into trouble. Their father was mean, he would probably hit her. The Balakrishnans would never talk to Lakshmi; she was too low caste. The third was Gautam the Retard. He sat in a corner, drawing on pieces of cardboard. He didn’t seem to mind the UN logos on them. Gautam didn’t bother anyone. He just sat there and drew. Sometimes he did something nice, like the sun with people playing cricket. Mostly, he just did shit. His pictures hung proudly from the classroom walls. That was just to keep his mother happy. She was a crazy bitch, thought Lakshmi. Always creating drama to put herself at the center of attention. Gautam was her prop, he brought her pity dividends. Maybe she had made him retarded by smoking when she was pregnant. Wasn’t that how that happened?
"Lakshmi? I’m waiting."
"There’s no point, Miss."
Ms. Rajasingham seemed taken aback. "No point? No point in doing your homework?"
"No, Miss."
The teacher sat on the table, her bright blue sari trailed to the ground. The Balakrishnans smiled evilly at each other: Calculus had definitely been derailed.
"Why do you say that?"
"My mother works in a shop. She works twelve hours a day, I see her after the sun has gone down, and before it comes up again. Do you know what we have to show for that? I had two dosais for breakfast today, with a little bit of coconut. I had that same breakfast yesterday, and every other day. Once a month, we’ll have potato curry as a treat. Next door, Harini eats that every day, and fish curry, too. She has new clothes from town, and lipstick. She also lost her father in the war. But, do you know what her mother does for money?"
The Balakrishnan girls tittered. Gautam looked up.
"She’s a whore, Miss. She spreads her legs, and she feeds her family."
"Lakshmi, desperate people do what they must to survive. You shouldn’t judge them."
"I’m not judging her Miss, I think she’s right!"
"What? Lakshmi!"
"You said it; she is doing what she must to survive. Pahal’s mother makes drugs. Udita smuggles guns for the Tigers in her sari. They are all doing better than my mother, in the store. I don’t want to grow up to be like my mother."
Ms. Rajasingham’s face softened.
"That’s all true, Lakshmi. They do all these things, and they make money. They can take better care of their families than your mother can," she paused a moment, "or than I can. But do you think they like doing what they have to do? Do you think you would like doing it?"
"No, Miss."
"Drugs, prostitution, gun running, these are all aspects of one thing."
"The war in Sri Lanka."
"The war in Sri Lanka. But not just that one, but any other war as well. They are the symptoms of the male, military, model. Women always suffer
under that model. Women are weak all over the world, Lakshmi – but we are very weak in Asia."
"No we’re not," said one the Balakrishnan girls.
"See?" Ms. Rajasingham pointed. "Why do men need to control us, when we will control ourselves, for them? The war in Sri Lanka is a male agenda – no woman wanted that. We have to refuse it. A prostitute feeds her children, Lakshmi. But is she protecting them? What world will they grow up into?"
"It is easy to be noble, when you are not hungry, Miss."
"You can eat from my lunch packet."
"No."
"You are proud, I understand that. It is right to have your pride. But you must learn to accept help as well, when you have to, and when it is given without strings."
"No."
"Women must work together and support each other. How else will we succeed in a world stacked against us? You can eat from my lunch and do your homework, Lakshmi. Or, you can become a whore. What do you think would be worse?"
Lakshmi said nothing. The Balakrishnan girls looked down, quietly.
"The lives of women are always hard. You are old enough now that this can’t be hidden from you. It will not get any easier. But it may as well be hard in your favor, Lakshmi. Not the person who wants to keep you weak."
2051, UNHCR Field Office, Chennai, India
"Some of the staff are asking if they can work from home, tomorrow. They are worried about the storm."
Lakshmi Rao, UN High Commissioner for Refugees, swung open the French windows. The hot, humid, city streamed in. Besant Nagar had been one of the city’s richer neighborhoods. That, like everything else in the city, had changed.
Salvagers in just shorts and good luck charms smiled from across the street. Their boat was moored to the top of a billboard. The murky water censored whatever the smiling actress had promoted. A swimmer burst forth, they pulled the gasping man aboard. A waterproof flashlight was tied to his arm. In his hands was a net filled with silt and dirty china. An elderly man began sorting them between stacks of abandoned homeware.
Out of glass-stripped windows, urchins sat by fishing lines and played games on their phones. Pirated, Kollywood soundtracks boomed from rival speakers. A woman cursed as a passing police boat splashed her fruit stall. The solar-powered craft whispered down 17th Street, it’s Khaki-garbed crew, unconcerned.
The Hundred Gram Mission Page 4