by Peter Damon
“I know Lasers, Allan. That is from the cut of an industrial laser-cutter,” she told him. “And it would need to be a bloody big one, too,” she offered. “Peter would know if you don’t believe me,” she challenged.
“From earth? What sort of power would they need to generate that amount of energy?” Matt asked.
“We were at the wrong angle for that hole to have been made from anything based on earth,” Allan said, deep in thought while shaking his head. “Let’s calculate the angle of cut and try working out where it would have come from,” he suggested. “In the meantime; Maddy, can we repair it?”
“For the moment,” she agreed.
“Allan, I’ve just lost another satellite,” Sally told him from her table.
“Another missile?” he asked, quickly looking at his screen.
Sally shook her head. “It just stopped,” she told him, shaking her head in confusion.
+++++++++++++
Samuel strode out onto the loading-bay floor and waited patiently for the two suited astronauts seated in the open craft to unfasten themselves from their life support and communication feeds, then break the seal on their canopy so as to allow them to stand.
“Welcome,” he said. “I’m Samuel Jenkins, Operations Manager,” Samuel introduced himself.
“Harry Hoffman, Commander, US Air Force,” the lead astronaut said.
“Mike Russell, Captain, US Air Force,” the second said. “My, but that was close,” he grinned, like his commander, he was looking about him, clearly impressed by the size of the loading-bay.
“Can you get down from there?” Samuel asked.
“Not without some stairs, or something,” the commander admitted, looking at the 3 metre drop to the floor.
Samuel sighed and opened a channel on his communicator at his collar. “Bert, can you drop gravity in cell number one please?” he asked.
He felt the gravity slide away and smiled as the eyes of the two astronauts widened. “Want to jump out of there now?” he asked, bending with care in the zero gravity to attach the eye of a rope-end to a fastening on the floor, then throw it up to the men so they could pull themselves down to him.
As Matt had predicted, they still wore the multi-layered suit of a decade ago and walked with a shuffling gate, partially because it wasn’t designed to be worn in gravity, and partly because it was so heavy.
Gypsies, all sporting their own skin tight suits, sauntered over to give them a hand in taking their suits off, laughing good naturedly at how long and hard it was, before, clad only in their single-piece under-garment, they were taken to the surgery for a medical.
November 19th.
Freedom One rode their high orbit in a state of high anxiety while Oliver worked to publicise the unprovoked attack on the spaceship and Allan calculated their position at the moment the hull was breached relative to the position of every satellite close to it, trying to establish which one could have been the cause of the damage.
He hoped to correlate his data with the loss of Sally’s satellites, but quickly found that no single satellite had been in the vicinity of both objects at the right time.
“It’s got to be more than one source,” Matt concluded, voicing Allan’s suspicion.
Allan pursed his lips, agreed with a short nod of his head, and ran his trajectories once more, this time treating both attacks as independent occurrences. On the screen, orbiting dots, coloured to differentiate one from another, moved backwards as Allan re-programmed his model, then stopped to run forward once more.
“Yes, there you go,” Matt offered, pointing out the two satellites that had each been in the vicinity of Freedom One and the satellite at the time of each alarm.
“Sally, do you think you can have a satellite sweep down to have a closer look at those two, and not get burnt in the process?”
“It’s going to be a pulse laser,” Leanne offered. “It’s not going to have sufficient power to hold a beam for longer than a pulse. Recharge time is likely to be in minutes or hours, not seconds,” she told Sally.
Sally nodded and set to work programming her smallest satellite, one that only used optical imaging. Allan watched her program a random velocity and chuckled at her methodology.
“Go away!” she told him, blushing as she completed the code, and set it working.
They watched its path, nodding as it moved in a juddering way, accelerating and decelerating, stopping and starting, never with any rhythm and never for any longer than one second. At its speed, it was within 10 kilometres of the satellite for only a minute or so, but in the control-room, it felt far longer.
Sally put the returning images directly onto the facing wall, refreshing the images with ever nearer, sharper images, until she put the largest, clearest image up on the board, her satellite running away to hide behind the spaceship once more.
“There’s no way that’s a communication satellite,” Matt breathed. “Where’s the dish?”
“You could almost think it was a space-telescope,” Sally remarked. Indeed, the long tubular satellite had similarities to a space-telescope.
“Facing in the wrong direction though,” Matt observed. “And that would need a dish too, the amount of data they transmit.”
“Look at those panels,” Allan added, drawing attention to the large solar panels. Whatever it was, it wanted a lot of power.
Leanne stood to walk to the monitor and held up her arm to point to the image. “Yes, the large arrays of solar-panels mean power hungry, and the need for batteries. All of this area is going to be batteries,” she told them, gesturing to a third of the body of the satellite. “Notice the volume of small thrusters to get perfect alignment with its prey?” she asked, pointing them out to everyone. “And hidden inside the long body, hidden and well protected, the laser, probably with a prism too, for rapid and precise changes in the direction of the laser beam,” she told them.
“And they have at least two,” Alan remarked.
“Who are ‘they’?” Matt wanted to know.
“Shall we go catch them and find out?” Allan asked with a grin.
“How?” Matt asked.
They looked towards Leanne and she grinned. “Small and fast. Hit the batteries,” she told them, stabbing at the image.
+++++++++++++
Matt brushed the dust off the old hand-controller from his Play-station and smiled fondly down at it, remembering the good times.
He plugged it into his control-table and tested it, watching the monitor, and grinned with growing excitement as the image on the screen moved, numbers along the bottom crudely telling him its coordinates relative to the first of the laser-bearing satellites.
“When you’re ready,” Allan told him.
Matt used his left thumb to swivel the object out in space, and once he saw the pitch and yaw turn to zero, used his right thumb to send the small projectile hurling towards the first satellite.
There were squeals and whistles from the others as Sally’s following satellite showed the small ball hitting the satellite, small parts of it flying off before the satellite itself began to swivel as a result of the impact on its rear third. Escaping gas appeared at the point of impact and the satellite began to twist too, clearly out of control.
“That’s one time I really would have liked sound to carry in space,” Allan grinned. “Is your toy still working?” he asked Matt.
“Appears to be,” Matt told him, watching the screen as he brought his toy to a standstill and waited for Allan to load the new coordinates.
“Let’s retrieve the remains. I think they could come in handy, once their owner finds they’re broken.”
“Given their low orbit, and the limited range of the lasers, I would imagine there must be at least a couple of dozen up here somewhere, if they planned to cover the complete orbital circumference of earth,” Sally reported.
“Well, Matt’s enjoying himself, and we haven’t got much else to do at the moment,” Allan grinned. “Let’s see if our s
pacemen remember how to collect earth’s garbage, shall we?”
November 21st.
“Allan,” Oliver warned, his eyes fixed on his monitors. “The Federation of Russian States is claiming we’ve destroyed several of their LEO satellites,” he told him, his smile fading as he continued to listen. “They are warning us of further retaliatory action. They’re calling us pirates and advising us that, unless our representative lands immediately to give ourselves, and our vehicle, over to them, then they’ll have no choice but to disable us to prevent more damage,” he recited.
“Sally,” Allan called. “Have you got your satellites up and running?” he asked.
“Sure,” she told him through his inner ear-piece as she worked in one of the garages, constructing a replacement out of spare parts.
“Any movement in Russia?”
Sally glanced at the arranged monitors on the facing wall. “Not that I can see,” she told him. “Mind you, I wouldn’t see a mobile missile launching facility, or under the ocean,” she warned. “I only look where I know they have facilities,” she reminded him.
Allan shared the update with Oliver while Matt added some of the feeds from Sally’s satellites to the wall display.
“What are you going to do?” Oliver asked.
“What any sane man would do under the same circumstances,” Allan told him, tapping his board to open the forward doors of the spaceship. He then turned the ship round on its orbit until he could stop with the open doors directly above Moscow.
“Tell them; anything flies higher than 40 kilometres, we not only destroy the craft, but everything immediately beneath it,” Allan told him.
“Shit Allan, you’re worse than Michael!” Oliver stated, hurrying to type while Matt stared at the view in front of them.
“We may be here for some time, so let’s take the opportunity to return the American astronauts to their spacecraft and get them out of here,” Allan told Matt. “Then I’m going to sit down with the Howards and Maddy and come up with some defensive moves. I’m tired to having to bluff our way past these cretins,” he remarked, clearly angry.
+++++++++++++
The Secretary General of the United Nations looked older, Heather thought, looking at him through one of the monitors in her suite while Wendy-Claire played on a padded mat on the floor. She was sitting up and banging a stuffed toy against a padded cloth building block, both made by some of the gypsy women who doted on her.
“You appear to have been busy while away,” he stated with a thin smile.
“I’m not sure if you mean young Wendy-Claire here, or the riches we tow behind us,” she admitted, recovering the stuffed toy when it slipped from her baby’s little fingers.
“I was referring to the asteroids, but let me congratulate you on the birth of your daughter,” Miguel Ortiz said, bowing his head slightly.
“Thank you,” she smiled.
“What do you intend to do now?” he asked.
“That depends upon you,” she told him.
He blinked. “How so?” he asked.
“We are handicapped,” she told him. “In our dealing with anyone on earth, we are handicapped by our situation,” she explained. “We wish to deal with earth as equals, and therefore, we wish to be recognized as an independent state and become a member of the United Nations.”
Miguel Ortiz frowned. “You realize that this is a question for the general assembly.”
“And we know we would fail, because we will not obtain the votes of all five of the permanent member states,” she told him.
“So you want my help in obtaining this?” he asked quizzically. “I had thought your riches might be used to that end.”
Heather shook her head. “It is at our disposal and we certainly plan to only trade with countries willing to give us their votes. But we fear the more intransigent of the permanent member countries of the UN may see an opportunity to use their position to demand unreasonable compensation,” she told him. “Placating one country may well alienate another.”
“So you have another strategy,” he prompted.
“While our technology places us in a strong position, we are only strong in particular areas. It would be good if we had allies that complement our situation, providing strengths where we are weakest, and vice-versa,” she suggested.
“I still don’t see where I come in,” the Secretary General said.
“We need a broker,” she told him frankly. “An independent arbitrator who can assure the five that their benefits are in balance with the others, while reminding them that aggressive bargaining at such an early stage of the relationship will only sour opportunities for longer term trade,” she explained.
“Ah,” Miguel nodded, and looked towards her shrewdly. “Such a role cannot be undermined by individuals from your ship visiting the five to hold private and confidential meetings. It only serves to swell discontent among the others,” he pointed out.
“Michael Bennett’s trip to China is to conclude an agreement made nearly a year ago, on the sale of the first asteroid,” she pointed out. “That agreement cannot be changed or ignored, but is.”
“I understand,” he agreed.
+++++++++++++
It wasn’t quite the White House, but it was close, Glen reflected, sitting in their suite in the Hay-Adams hotel in Washington DC, just across the street from the North Lawn of the White House. A continental breakfast stood waiting on a trolley by the table while beside him were the newspapers he had ordered, still preferring the feel and structure of newspaper to the tablet forma available on Freedom One.
Diane was not so handicapped and sat absently chewing her toast while adding another entry to her Twitter account. He winced as he thought of what she might be telling her ten million followers and pulled his mind away from it to look towards Pat.
“What are your plans for the day?” he asked his wife.
She took a slice of toast and began spreading the lite-butter on it, the short, quick sweeps of the knife telling him she wasn’t happy.
“Plans? I can’t do anything without the regiment of special-services men telling me I can’t, and then there’s the crowd of people who follow us everywhere,” she told him. “I’ll probably just stay in our room,” she sighed.
“Dad, when are they going to give me my spacesuit back?” Diane asked.
“I don’t know sweetheart. A couple more days I imagine,” he told her.
“They know it’s just that special rubber, don’t they? I mean, they know I didn’t come down wearing the version with the HYPORT, and everything, don’t they? As if I’d be stupid enough to do that!” she rolled her eyes with an expression of exasperation.
“I think we told them enough times,” he admitted, grinning at the memory. Diane had been extremely indignant at having to give up her precious spacesuit and, because she shared everything on Twitter and Facebook, almost all of the world knew too, and shared her indignation.
“When can we go back, daddy?” she asked.
He wondered if she realised that she only used the more childish version of his title when she dearly wanted something, once again deciding not to alert her to the fact, not just yet, anyway.
“I’m not sure,” he told her tactfully.
“And I hope we don’t see that medical team again,” Pat told him.
Glen winced. A team of doctors and nurses had appeared during the previous day, eager to remove the RFID Chips from under their skins. The doctors had seemed very put out to learn that none of the Schroder family wanted the chips removed, and would consider it a violation of their human rights if such an act was forced upon them.
It was just one instance in a series of instances highlighting the difference in thinking between him and his former employers, and he doubted he’d be able to do as Michael had requested, and get the Americans behind Freedom One’s proposals. Nonetheless, he would be back there today, answering questions from a large team of forces, universities, and NASA specialists.
“And you, Pumpkin; what are you going to try and do today?” he asked Diane, pulling his mind from the adversities he faced.
The girl pulled a face at her father’s choice of title for her, then sighed theatrically. “I thought I’d go visit the Smithsonian museum,” she told him, still attentive to her screen.
“Honey, there’s over a dozen buildings in DC that make up the Smithsonian. And it’s an institution, not just one museum,” he pointed out.
“Whatever,” she shrugged, intent on her screen.
“See?” Pat said, her expression completing the rest of the lengthy paragraph for him.
November 22nd.
Miguel Ortiz, Secretary General to the United Nations, looked very tired, Allan thought, watching him from his desk in the control-room of Freedom One as he asked for confirmation that the space-farers had indeed destroyed satellites, the property of the Russian Federation.
“Yes, we have,” Allan agreed.
His answer was clearly a surprise to the man, and his face twitched before he got himself under control once more. “May I ask why?” he asked.
“I’ll send you details of all the satellites we disabled and removed from orbit,” Allan agreed. “You’ll find that all were of a single design; using an industrial laser to target and destroy spacecrafts, and in particular, this one.”
If his previous reply had unsettled the secretary general, this one had even a greater effect. Miguel Ortiz looked openly astonished.
“You have proof of this?” he asked.
Allan nodded. “We recovered every one of them, and were able to plug into their logic and recover their programming,” he explained. “Mind you, I’ve seen better programming from first-year students at Cambridge,” he added, recalling the code he’d been forced to read through to understand the Russian’s purpose.
Oliver nodded, an indication that the files had been sent to the Secretary General.
“Our ship suffered minor damage. We’ll be sending the bill to the Russians and expect a full apology and payment, otherwise our fingers may just fumble, and one of those asteroids may just escape our control.”