Everyone scrambled for the cut cement floor. Abigail got down, the smell of antiseptic welled from the floor. She looked about – the new patient wasn’t there. Then the door to the pharmacy opened, and he walked out. In his arms was a white box the size of a large microwave. He spoke to the gunmen.
“What are they saying?” hissed Elena.
“I don’t know. They’re talking in Banjar now.”
“Is that it?” asked one of the masks.
“Yes, it’s the pharma maker,” Sukarno handed it carefully to another gunman. “With this we can produce every drug that GlaxoSmithKline makes.”
“So what do we do?” asked another mask. “You have spoken and acted plainly, without your mask, brother.”
He bent down over Abigail and took the tablet from her hands.
“They have kept records on the patients. With this,” he brandished the tablet and looked about the room. “If anyone says anything to the government,” he said loudly in Bahasa, “We will come to your home.” He motioned to the old Malay. “He looks Chinese. Take him outside, ask him some questions. If he is Chinese, then kill him.”
“What about the two women?” asked the mask. “Can we teach these Christian bitches a lesson?”
“Teach them a lesson. Then bring them outside, and we can behead them.”
Evan Stockwell
FBI, Directorate of Intelligence, Washington DC
“Agent Stockwell?” The woman stood in the open doorway, hand on the handle. Light poured into the dark office from outside.
The man looked up, his face lit by his screen. Insurgent recruitment in oil-dry Arab kingdoms would have to wait. “That’s me.”
“Agent Pirello, Strategic Information and Operations. Any reason all your comms are off?”
“I can’t concentrate with the disturbances. Besides, anyone who wants me is just outside.”
“Well you’re wanted upstairs. Grab your coat.”
He frowned. “I need my coat for that?”
“You need your coat, because after that you’ll be getting on a plane. Do you have your passport here? You’re going to Indonesia.”
Thirty agents sat in rows in the briefing room. Wall-mounted screens showed bimbo news anchors or infra-red drone feeds. Standing before them were rolled up sleeves and a loose tie. He gestured at a map of Indonesia on display behind him.
“At about twenty hundred hours local time, militants stormed a clinic in the Kalimantan uplands. The clinic was illegal, run by Australian evangelical Christians. The militants shot two of the staff, and then raped and beheaded two others.”
Behind him, the map was replaced by grim video captures. Masked men fired guns into the air, standing over bound corpses. It cut to a bearded man sitting before a black flag. Rifle in hand, he spoke slowly and deliberately.
Stockwell and Pirello entered and sat quietly at the back.
“Who’s leading the meeting?” he whispered.
“He’s Special Agent-In-Charge, Likavec,” she replied. “Your new boss.”
“Who speaks Bahasa here?” Likavec looked round the room.
Several hands went up.
“Special Agent Cho,” he pointed, “You want to tell us what he’s saying?”
“He’s warning away all infidels. He’s mentioning the Indonesian government, calling them traitor. He’s mentioning the Chinese; foreign and local NGOs; Australia; the United States – “ he stopped suddenly, and frowned.
Likavec grinned.
“Uhuh. What else is he saying?”
“He’s not making sense.”
“Isn’t he?”
“Pemerintahan mesin saleh,” called out Stockwell. “Which can be translated as ‘the age of spiritual machines.’ He’s referencing Kurzweil, one of the first Transhumanists. He’s calling on Moslems of all sects to rise up against those machines. Now he’s moving on to condemning emigration. He doesn’t mean from Indonesia, though. He means from Earth.”
“Everyone,” Likavec held out his arm, “This is Intelligence Analyst, Evan Stockwell. You want to tell us what your area is, Mr. Stockwell?”
“Anti-technology militancy in Flooded and Still Third World nations. I can spot the tells in this video Sir, the group is Jemaat Ansar, the ‘Gathering of the Helpers.’”
“Are you sure? They don’t identify themselves in the video. It was posted from a hijacked account.”
“Then I’m even more positive. Jemaat Ansar doesn’t go after NGO-run, free clinics. Knowing it was in their area must have been too much for some of them. These members must have acted on their own accord and then not been able to resist bragging, either. Jemaat goes after technology targets. They’re more interested in beheading space construction moghuls, like Daryl Spectorov.”
“Not the kind of group you hear about every day, folks. Mr. Stockwell, welcome to the FBI’s Counterterrorism Fly Team. These people are trained and ready to fly anywhere on Earth, or Earth orbit, within hours of a terror attack. You’ve been selected for your special knowledge to join us on this deployment.”
“It’s an honor, Sir. Thank you for selecting me.”
“No, I didn’t know of your work,” he shook his head. “Your recommendation came from a Self-Transcending System.”
“An AI?” Stockwell raised an eyebrow.
“It’s called the Sun Tzu.”
“I’m sorry, I’ve never heard of it.”
“That’s because it’s not one of ours. The Chinese have asked for our help. But really, I think they’re asking for your help.”
Everyone turned to look at the new kid.
“They want me? Why?”
“The Sun Tzu is a military STS. Its functions are intelligence gathering and strategy. That’s likely to be a lot of anti-terror work, from Xinjiang, to Angola, to Brazil.”
“But there hasn’t been any anti-tech militancy in Indonesia. Oh.”
“Exactly. I’m going to guess the Chinese are surprised as we are, to hear some asshole referencing Ray Kurzweil in an execution video. Speaking personally, this is most fringe terrorist activity I’ve ever come across in my time at the Bureau.”
“Sir,” Pirello spoke up, “Do we know if the Ministry of Public Security is taking lead on this?”
“That’s still unclear, Agent. But, I expect that to be the case. MSS isn’t exactly forthcoming with data, but they’ve got better over the years.”
“Sir, why would anti-AI militants conduct attacks in rural Indonesia?” asked another agent. “Why not corporate or higher education targets in China, Korea, or Singapore?”
“It’s not just AI,” said Stockwell, “He also referenced emigration. Central Kalimantan is where Tiantang De Jieti is.”
“Get me an encrypted line to the Ministry of Public Security,” Likavec said to an assistant. “We need to tell Beijing someone is targeting their Space Elevator.”
Four Hours Later, 50,000 feet
“This seat taken?”
Stockwell looked up from his tablet. Pirello settled into the seat across from him, drink in hand. He raised an eyebrow.
“Just soda,” she rattled the ice cubes in it. “That was quite a performance back there.”
“I don’t know about that. I spent most of my career studying ‘offbeat’ threats like Jemaat Ansar. Never imagined I’d end up on the Fly Team.”
“Excited?”
“I think terrified is a better word.”
She laughed. “You’ll do fine.”
“You seem pretty comfortable. I take it this isn’t your first time?”
“Third. Egypt in ’44. Nigeria in ’48. Counter terrorism, I get moved around as an advisor from time to time, too. Few months here, few months there. It all adds up.”
“The husband must hate that.”
“Hated, he certainly did,” she held up her ring. “I just wear this now to stop younger men from hitting on me in the bars.”
“I thought getting hit on by younger men was the whole point.”
“That’s ‘cause you haven’t dated one. It’s like babysitting. What about you, Stockwell?”
“Call me Evan. A dentist in Alexandria, but I don’t think I’m allowed to say we’re officially dating. Nice parents, though. I think they see me as a safe bet.”
“Are you?”
“Not once I got on this plane, no.”
“Well, dating a girl because of her parents may not be the best bet, either.”
“You got me there. This is my first time in the field, that isn’t research.”
“When was the last time you fired your gun?”
“The academy.”
“Well hopefully it’ll stay that way.”
“I was hoping to at least line up some bottles on a wall.”
“So you can tell your dentist-lady that you did some shooting?”
“It’s expected.”
“Would she approve?”
“Hell no. What about you? I bet you’ve shot hundreds of people.”
She laughed. “I don’t know about hundreds. But when you’re instructing foreign law enforcement, you can’t lead from the rear. If you don’t impress them, they won’t take you seriously. Especially if you’re a woman.”
“Do you find that leads you to take bigger risks?”
“No. But you do worry about the example you set. You end up representing more than just the United States, you know what I mean?” She looked over at his tablet. “What are you reading?”
“Country report for Indonesia. Chinese influence. Agreements with Australia. The movers and shakers in the Junta.”
“Anything that stand outs?”
“Only that they’re doing well. Rich country, booming population, and successive governments out to exploit them. Fast forward a few decades and you have a typical, Still Third World, country. A large, poor, illiterate, and bitter population. Now apply the effects of climate change.”
“You think they should be a bigger mess?”
“And they would have been. The obvious choice as things got worse, would have been to de-secularize. Indonesia has over three hundred ethnic groups. However, they’re almost entirely Moslem. De-secularization is the choice Still Third Worlds, typically make.”
“And Indonesia didn’t?”
“They tried. Then the military intervened.”
“I hear that’s a tradition of theirs. Wouldn’t that only encourage extremism?”
“It does. But no one wants a failed state of three hundred million, next door. Australia and Singapore give the Junta lots of tech and military aid. China though, is by far their biggest sponsor.”
“Because of the space elevator.”
“Partly. The PLA currently has over twenty thousand ‘advisors’ in Central Kalimantan province. That’s expected to go up. There’s a growing civilian presence as well. Contractors, construction workers, middle men, prison laborers. Makes sense that the Ministry of Public Security would have people on the ground.”
“No,” she shook her head, “It won’t be them. On the way over, I overheard Likavec on the phone with our Chinese friends.”
Stockwell frowned. “If it’s not MSS, then who is it?”
“People’s Liberation Army Military Intelligence. And it doesn’t sound like they want us.”
Daryl Spektorov
2011 AD, Brookline, Massachusetts
“Daryl, what are you doing climbing all over the couch?”
The boy, toy shuttle in both hands, looked at his father in the doorway.
“I’m making my last flight to the ISS!”
“Really? Your last?” Mr. Spektorov pulled off his tie. “Maybe you could get off your Mom’s cushions before she sends me on my last flight, too.”
Daryl jumped down, and ran to his father.
“It’s all cause of stinky Congress,” he confided. “They’re cancelling the space shuttles because they don’t want me to go to Mars.”
“Maybe Congress is on to something, thought about that?” he scratched his son’s head. “There are a lot of problems on Earth. Many of them will get a lot worse, once you’ve grown up. Maybe you want to think about solving those?”
“Nuh Uh!” he shook his head vigorously. “When I’m big, I’m going to space! I’m going to go to the stars! Just like in Avatar!”
“Did you do your homework, Mister Astronaut?”
“Yes.”
“Did you do your extra homework?”
He looked down and fidgeted. “Yeees?”
“Come on. Let’s go to do it.”
“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. 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, and 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 Orbit 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.”
“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. “Patents, proprietary control, anything creating conditions that bar copycats.”
“The idea of mining can’t be patented, sorry,” said Damien, “But there are two things, one of proprietary value. It’s clear cut, but it’s not a tremendous barrier to competitors. The other is of property value. It could be considerable, an absolute barrier, in fact. However, it is on shakier legal ground.”
“The first one is that catalog you mentioned, right? The one with the best asteroid candidates?”
“Yes,” said Damien. “Two years of data, sifting through every known NEO and working out their density. We’ve identified the candidates with the most metals. Some are so dense they must contain particularly heavy metals, like lead. Radioactive ores are quite likely.”
“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. “But the second one, if it holds up, will be an absolute barrier.”
“And what’s that?”
“Ownership. There’s not a whole lot of space real estate laws. The 1967 Outer Space Treaty 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. “Congress passed the ASTEROIDS Act, it 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’ which is our plan,” said Elijah. “Legislation is going to lag until ownership and occupation become real issues. When the lawyers join in, they’ll look to old laws dealing with new- found land. Frontier and land grab precedents. Those hold that simply claiming land, is not enough. There needs to be demonstration of intent to occupy.”
“And here’s where things get interesting,” Damien grinned.
“Are you going to ask me to sign a Non-Disclosure Agreement?” Daryl asked.
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.”
“What is it?”
“The mass drivers,” said Elijah. “They’re not just cheap propulsion. They’re space launchers. We can use them to deliver payloads to anywhere else in the inner solar system.”
“The goal is to demonstrate intent to occupy,” Damien picked up. “Everyone will know we’re using mass drivers to bring the asteroid into Earth orbit. What they won’t know, is that we’ll be using them to launch instrument packages, as well. We’ll be targeting the other, most lucrative asteroid prospects.”
The Ice Moon Explorer Page 4