Who Can Own the Stars?
Mackey Chandler
Twelfth book in the April series
Cover by Sarah Hoyt
Chapter 1
It might make sense to build this way, Irwin Hall thought. What it lacked was the lovely vision presented in completed architectural renderings with props like attending spaceships and suited figures to give one a sense of scale. The hub of Beta hung there as attractive as a length of pipe with holes hacked in it. There wasn’t anything to show why it was worth thousands of solars to get to this point. It wasn’t even rotating yet to at least display some action for a video. At this distance, the dots of workers might be mistaken for rivets by Earthies unaware rivets were an anachronism rarely seen now except in cartoons.
That’s why Irwin hadn’t exactly prohibited real-time pix of the floating hunk of junk before him but had always shown his investors the future end product in promotional documents. Showing the reality of what they had now would be like using the bare chassis and suspension points of a ground car in an advertising brochure. The only people who would appreciate those unadorned sorts of technical details were the kind of fans and enthusiasts who didn’t need to be sold on the idea at all.
“We’ll be closing off those big openings,” Eddie said. “Two will get spokes extended right away, and two will have temporary bulkheads put over them until we need to put spokes on them. That will be right before we finish running the full first ring around.”
“When you cover them up paint the temporary plate a contrasting color,” Irwin said.
“Why?” Eddie demanded. “Pigments are cheap, but the organic carrier and binders will be a couple of hundred bits wasted to no purpose. It will have to be burned off to salvage the plate. It’s kind of obvious where they go. The stress reducing radius sticks out around the opening already.”
“It’s obvious to you. I want it to be obvious to somebody who knows nothing about aerospace architecture and may have a hard time finding three brain cells that can hold hands and work together. Be glad I’m not asking you to outline them in a dashed line and print - CUT HERE TO ATTACH SPOKE – in letters three-meters high. When an Earthie investor looks at it, I want them to be able to immediately see where the spokes are going to attach,” Irwin said. “It’s marketing.”
Eddie had to smile, thinking how silly that would be to do, but he stopped arguing. “Do you want to go over and look around inside? There isn’t much there yet but decks and some bulkheads with no hatches mounted,” Eddie said to him.
“No, a construction zone is hazardous. I might create risk not just for me but to others by being in the area and disrupting their routines.”
“Why did you come over then?” Eddie asked. “I could have sent you a view off my helmet cam that would show everything you are seeing from here.”
“Because now I can write an update to the investors that starts: ‘I was at the Beta site today, watching work progress.’ It makes them think I am right on top of things exercising due diligence, not just reading reports from some project manager who might be self-serving.”
When Eddie looked at him funny, he explained. “That is no reflection on you, Eddie. On Earth, it’s simply what you would have to do at a construction site to make sure you weren’t being cheated. You have to have guys on site watching to see that they put the required rebar in the forms and sampling the concrete to make sure they didn’t skimp on the mix. It makes sense to investors in an Earth context.”
“Better you than me,” Eddie said. Irwin knew exactly what he meant.
* * *
In northern California, spring was starting to assert itself. The snow-cover still came down to the edge of the creek but there were trickles of water running out from under the snow all along the bank. The snow wasn’t the fluffy white of newly fallen snow but the grainy gray ice of old snow compacted by the sun and a few days already above freezing.
Vic pulled on the long handle of a wood splitter while Alice turned the stove length section of the log under the wedge so each pull broke off a new piece of wood. Alice could push the sawn sections around once they were standing on end on the platen but they were too heavy for her to manhandle from the pile. Vic rolled them over and stood them on end for her. They could afford to be a little more liberal with the wood now because they could see they had more than enough for the season. Vic split the last piece in two and stopped
He stood straight and stretched, and turning his hips, looking around and listening. Not from fatigue but from habitual caution. He didn’t think the roads were clear enough to travel very far yet but when they were, bandits would be a danger again.
The creek was free of surface ice and flowing so heavily you could hear it clear to the house now. There was no motion on the hillsides when Vic gave them a scan, but he was staring at the sky now. There was thin contrail being drawn across the clear sky toward the north-northwest. It was far too high to see the plane making it or hear its engines. It abruptly made a wide turn sunlight flashing off a flat surface to make the plane briefly visible. Then it started back the way it came. It was aimed, however, slightly to the west instead of parallel. After thinking about it, Vic had to remind himself the wind so high up might be carrying the exhaust trail away to the east.
He looked to the north to see if anything could be seen approaching to make the jet turn back. He shaded his eyes but couldn’t find anything. The plane could see well over the horizon from that altitude with sensors far better than his eyes. It could probably see well into Oregon. Or maybe that was just as far as it was assigned to patrol. There was no way for him to tell if the plane was North American out of San Diego, Texan out of Arizona, or even a Mexican aircraft, boldly bypassing San Diego to test the North Americans and the Texans.
The news from the satellite phone told them Texas and North America were involved in a pushing contest to the south of them. The Texans were reported to have shoved a wedge of occupation across New Mexico and Arizona blocking North America from its Mexican territory. So far Southern California seemed to be more than either wanted to deal with. The North Americans still held the military base at San Diego and had cleared a buffer zone around it where civilians had mostly abandoned the territory. They had their own desalinization plant and power. The news didn’t detail things sufficiently to know whose plane that might be and Vic took everything they reported with appropriate skepticism.
Mexico was reported to have purged a lot of Yankee officers from the military. The rumors were that North America had removed all their nuclear weapons without Mexican opposition and several bases were now all but abandoned. Similarly, the Mexicans had withdrawn their police and ceded a lot of territory to Texas. But no formal declaration was issued. They hadn’t backed off on the California side at all. The official border lines on the old maps might not mean much right now and they could change again before they settled down.
Texas still didn’t have any port or port rights on the Pacific, and neither Mexico nor Hawaii were welcoming them in with open arms. However, they were both pursuing trade. The news gave no clue, but what had Vancouver more worried than their Mexican bases not replying to email or radio messages was that people on both sides of the Texas-Mexico border were taking Texas dollars at par with North American dollars. For now, the Texan held USNA dollars were being stamped with a bright gold eagle and serpent that was a simplified Mexican coat of arms any time they were brought to a bank.
North America had pointedly not outlawed private use of the defaced notes, but it was allowed to leak by back-channel means that North American banks wouldn’t take the marked bills for deposit. More ominously, the popular Mexican soft drink Jarritos was suddenly available again in Texas
stores with no big fanfare or announcements. Dallas based ten-and-twenty-dollar stores and Texan gas stations suddenly appeared in ceded Mexican territory happy to take anybody’s money. The border, wherever it was now, was open to trade.
Vic and Eileen had some idea of what was going on, but not the full picture by any means. Even owning a satellite phone, the news reports they watched were often conflicting. Alice couldn’t see why they cared. It didn’t change how much wood had to be split or clothing washed. Their interest in the Spacers and what was happening on the habitats and the Moon seemed even less pertinent to daily life.
* * *
Heather hadn’t expected a call from the Martian Republic’s Nathan DeWalt so soon. Their fundraiser and de facto consul to Europe had to know they couldn’t have designed and fabricated the machines they wanted in trade so soon. Quick fabricating had made huge advances, but there were limits. After all, a human mind had to create the template before the machines got the instructions to make it. Perhaps you could just modify an existing design for something like a golf cart, but a machine to extract moisture from Martian soils couldn’t just be tacked on a golf cart chassis if you wanted an efficient, lasting design.
The last time Heather spoke with DeWalt he’d gone to the extreme trouble and expense of coming from Earth to her court for a personal chat. Apparently, nothing he wanted to say this time was so sensitive he needed to leave Brussels.
“Well hello, Nathan. Are you able to speak in the clear today?” Heather asked.
“Not in the clear,” his eyes flicked to their connection status to make sure she didn’t mean that literally. “I don’t trust normal encryption to be sufficient for our business. I can make arrangements without repeating the details of our previous meeting and agreements if that’s acceptable.”
“Sure, we can speak in generalities,” Heather agreed. “But you want something or you wouldn’t be calling at all. If you will, get right to it, and I’ll tell you yea or nay.”
DeWalt looked stressed. He was used to beating around the bush with Europeans for a couple of hours before revealing what was on his mind. Spacers had no respect for diplomatic niceties.
“My superiors have made a list of those who they are certain they want to send back to Earth. The sooner we can start transferring them the better for easing the burden on our supply and environmental systems. Would it be too burdensome to have a pickup and transfer before you make delivery on some of those items we requested?”
“I don’t see why not. We just made some modifications to another vessel we need to fly overwatch on the pickup vehicle. It needs to be tested anyway, and the crew for both vessels just returned from R&R yesterday.”
That detail was somewhat disingenuous, they didn’t intend to let paid crew command this mission. To tell the Martians that, however, was a needless risk. It was true enough to not trigger any huge deviation in the veracity software.
“Let me check on something,” she said.
Heather split the screen and called up Jeff who would be the one flying on the mission.
“Jeff, how many Martians can fit in the hold of Dionysus’ Chariot to transfer them from Mars to ISSII?”
Jeff smiled and was tempted to ask, ‘Dead or alive?’ But he decided to play it straight. He’d grown socially now to where he understood fanatics had little use for humor.
“The hold is a bit less than five meters in diameter. I can fit a hatch on the hold opening with a coffin lock in a half hour. Or, if everyone is suited-up I’m pretty sure we could fit fifteen flat on their backs on a deck pad. If they don’t mind standing, I can hold down my acceleration to not much more than a standard g and fit twenty-five easily. They will have to be pretty friendly and not mind standing closely. That’s assuming they aren’t idiots and are cooperating, not pushing or panicking.”
“How long would they have to stand crowded together in there?” DeWalt wondered.
“About a half-hour plus loading time,” Jeff said. “I can just open the freight hatch on Mars. They can run on suit air that long. No need to pressurize and pump it down.”
“Couldn’t you attach to a boarding tube and board them in shirt sleeves?” DeWalt asked.
“No, I’d never agree to attach to Martian infrastructure. Even if I could take off anyway and just rip the tube off the ship it would be hard to keep track of what was happening outside and stay safe. We’ll have a ship overhead. If you captured our vessel it would reduce the ship and your entire complex to a glowing crater, but I’m not a hundred percent sure you are capable of believing that and might not try to capture our vessel. I’ll set down clear of any of your structures by at least a hundred meters.”
“You have a very poor opinion of us,” DeWalt complained.
“Just because we are doing business with you do not delude yourselves that we don’t regard you as killers. Worse, you are ideologues, and they are the most dangerous people, willing to kill for their favorite ideology as a good thing,” Jeff said. “Every government must be willing to kill to exist. If they won’t do so they cease to exist quickly enough. It’s just that some do so reluctantly, and some positively glory in it. If you’d consider killing your own, how much easier on whatever you use for a conscience to dispose of us?”
“And you won’t?” DeWalt sneered. “At your Queen’s court and she is so afraid of her subjects she holds court with her pistol on the table beside her.”
“You mistake its purpose,” Heather said. She didn’t look angry, she looked amused. “It is there to remind them it is a court of no appeal. They are putting their life on the line to bring any matter before me no matter how minor it seems to them.”
‘Have you ever shot a supplicant dead?” DeWalt challenged.
“No, but I’ve tossed a coin to opponents with an issue and invited them to flip it to decide who I’d shoot dead to resolve it. They declined and withdrew. If you had examined Central’s history you would know I’ve shot my share, just with a 57mm Bofors instead of a silly little pistol. Stop asking stupid questions and address practical matters,” Heather demanded.
“It’s just that’s a lot of pressure suits to lose when maintenance is such a critical issue,” DeWalt said. “Spares and parts for suits are as short as other supplies.”
Jeff shrugged. “So we’ll bring them back next trip.”
“Oh, I never thought of that,” he admitted.
Heather and Jeff kindly didn’t comment on that.
“Let me make one thing clear,” Jeff demanded. “I’m not transporting prisoners. If you have to drag anybody to the ship in restraints, I won’t take them. We’ll transport them to ISSII and they can repatriate anywhere they want from there. We’re not paying for the drop to Earth and if anyone wants to come to Home or Central, we’re coming back here anyhow.”
“Twenty-five suited personnel?” DeWalt asked.
“Have a few extra ready and if they can squeeze them in, we’ll take them,” Jeff offered.
“As many as you can fit in, after the first device we are trading for is loaded in the hold,” Heather interjected. “Crate it up nicely and somebody can sit on it,” she suggested.
“Of course,” DeWalt agreed. As if he had any choice.
* * *
Alice wasn’t exactly adopted. The Foys were de facto parents to her but that had no legal basis. Neither did it have the sanction of the community. Most of their far-flung rural community wouldn’t know she was part of their household until they took her to the Spring Festival Mr. Mast sponsored. Then there was the fact Vic promised her she could leave with her possessions whenever she wanted, so Alice was at least somewhat emancipated. She could walk out the door if she found the Foy’s household rules intolerable.
There were no government run offices of child welfare now and if one wanted to foster a child no state funded reward for doing so. Life was hard enough again that people had enough on their plate taking care of their own. Fostering orphans suddenly lost a lot of its allure without any mon
etary support. The adoption of orphans had reverted to the same casual level with which previous generations had parceled out a fresh batch of kittens.
Neither Vic nor Eileen expected anyone to object to their continued volunteer care of Alice. She’d assured them she had no living relatives closer than St. Louis. She knew her mom had relatives there but couldn’t name them. Eileen expected Alice would object to leaving them to try a different family if it was suggested, simply because she’d already escaped one abusive situation and would be afraid of finding herself right back in those circumstances.
Alice used to live with her parents on the road that ran from their house to Mast’s Festival grounds and on to O’Neil’s general store and private grass-strip airport. When her parents died during the previous winter, she’d had little choice but to go to the nearest occupied home to ask help. The fact the Olsens then came and stripped everything of value from the house wasn’t a problem. Salvaging was expected since The Day and wasn’t regarded as looting.
What was unforgivable was they didn’t take Alice in as one of the family or credit her as having a stake with them for all her family goods they took. They hid the fact they were holding her by keeping her at home under guard while other Olsens went to the Festivals to trade. Not a word was said they had a young girl at home now, which was damning. There wasn’t any way to avoid concluding she was a literal slave.
The Olsens plotted to kill Eileen and Vic on their return trip after they’d passed the Olsen’s home on Mr. Mast’s borrowed motorbike. Planning it in front of Alice, they never imagined she would run away and stop the Foys on the road to save their lives and escape.
Alice described a household reverted a thousand years in civilization to subsistence living and a general lack of hygiene due to sheer laziness. When Alice joined them, she was malnourished and terribly thin. She was filling out now and looking healthier. Eileen was thankful they’d rescued each other. She was pretty sure if they had delayed a year the Olsen’s abuse of Alice would have been much worse. Alice left no doubt of their intentions saying they spoke of it openly with crude humor.
A12 Who Can Own the Stars? Page 1