Confrontation

by William Hayashi

  One good thing about the job was that the scenery always changed. One day he’d be in Houston, the next, San Francisco. So far the only trip he’d taken out of the country was to Nagasaki, Japan, to perform a site survey of a new microchip manufacturing partner. He enjoyed the fact that the culture was entirely different from anything he’d ever experienced, and had taken the time to learn the usual phrases of polite company. He carried himself with quiet dignity, winning the cooperation and praise of top tier management of the computer chip firm.

  No matter what he was assigned while in the employ of GST, John always went about his day expecting the other shoe to drop; he was nobody’s fool.

  * * *

  “Well, Debra, it doesn’t look like we’re getting beat up very much in the press about the mission specialists selected or our choice for mission commander,” Laughlin said as the chief of staff entered the Oval Office.

  “I’m getting the usual grousing about having women on the mission and whether or not Dr. Roscoe is capable of playing hardball with the separatists if needed,” Dawkins began. “Although dropping that f-bomb on CNN didn’t hurt at all. She’s obviously nobody’s pushover.”

  “The only thing I didn’t like was her mentioning the soldiers stranded on the moon. The reminder doesn’t help,” Laughlin said with a wry chuckle. He took off his glasses and tossed them on the desk, turning his chair to look out the window and rubbing his eyes in fatigue.

  “NASA is getting ready to announce the new GST hybrid shuttle. It’s going to get those men on the moon back to Earth and open up the moon to the United States once and for all, Stuart. That’s not a bad legacy to leave behind,” Dawkins said, trying to cheer him up.

  “True. But as you know, we’re already getting back-channel warnings about the US trying to claim sovereignty over the moon. Madam Secretary even mentioned it in passing last week in her speech in Germany. By the way, did she send you anything on their ambassadorial candidate?” he asked.

  “No, although her admin mentioned that they’re looking for a female candidate as well.”

  Laughlin burst out laughing. Dawkins waited him out, knowing she’d be let in on the joke soon enough.

  Laughlin turned his chair back to the desk, his eyes still twinkling with amusement.

  “Oh, that is rich. Madam Secretary playing gender politics, rather transparently I might add. I’m betting she’s going to choose a representative from one of the countries that’s already offered up safe haven to those folks, counting on the fact that they’re just as interested in what goes on here as we are with them out in the belt,” Laughlin explained. “Unfortunately, we have no idea what’s been going on with them. They’re just as much an enigma now as they were when they were discovered. We, on the other hand, must be the noisiest planet in this sector of the galaxy. We’ve been pumping out radio to the rest of the galaxy for over a century, television over half that time. I’m betting that’s the reason no one from another planet has visited us. What the hell would some other civilization think of us from watching Howdy Doody? Or just the news for Christ’s sake?”

  “Or, they may see humanity struggling to overcome its baser instincts. Although considering what passes for reality TV, you can’t really blame them for passing us by. Imagine if you had to explain to a representative of some higher civilization what’s up with all these TV shows,” Dawkins said, laughing.

  “At least I’m not the Prime Minister of Japan having to justify why their insane game shows are so popular!”

  “Lucky you. By the way, Dr. Roscoe is flying through her astronaut training, and becoming quite proficient in mastering the functions of all the departments of the mission. She’s scheduled to visit the ship shortly, if you want to get out in front of an announcement.”

  “Good idea. Call Paul and set it up. Anything else pressing?”

  “The independent senator from Vermont has floated a bill to tax stock and commodity transactions at a half a percent. It’s getting popular play with progressives and independents. Mainstream Democrats are cautiously looking into supporting the idea and Republicans are indignant at the very idea of leveling a tax against the ‘job creators.’ I think it’s dead on arrival, but you never know. I don’t think it’s something you should mention, regardless of the fact that it would erase the National Debt in under a decade; the idea’s toxic to Wall Street and Congress is quite fully populated with political cowards,” Dawkins summed up, almost sneering.

  “Whoa! Did you have some raw meat for breakfast this morning?” Laughlin said, chuckling.

  “No, just fed up with political cowards who simply can’t get anything done because they’re always kissing someone’s butt for money,” she said. “But no big deal, it’s been that way forever. Oops! Look at the time. Gotta run, meeting the ball and chain for lunch.”

  “Does he know that’s what you call him?” Laughlin asked.

  “No, it’s usually much, much worse. I’ll be back around one-thirty. If something comes up I’ll have my mobile,” Dawkins said as she breezed out of the office.

  * * *

  Dr. Roscoe was standing in a sleeveless T-shirt and bikini briefs as two technicians were measuring her every dimension. The room’s temperature was comfortable, but she was completely unused to being so casually handled. She was amused thinking that every astronaut had to suffer the indignity in order to be fitted for the most advanced suit of clothing made for a human being.

  “You’re really lucky, you know. We’ve had so many technicians and engineers in orbit for the Jove project we’re no longer recycling suits. Yours are being built brand new from the ground up,” said the engineer whose badge simply said, “Sarah.”

  “I can see it both ways, I guess. One that’s been used before has been tested,” Roscoe replied.

  “True, I never really looked at it that way. But each suit goes through thousands of tests before it’s certified to be put into service. Lift your arms … Thanks. That’s eighty-six and a half centimeters,” Sarah said to the other woman, Julie, recording the measurements.

  “Deep breath and hold it … Ninety-one and a half.”

  There wasn’t much conversation as Dr. Roscoe was measured, moved and stretched for an hour and forty-five minutes while her exact dimensions were recorded.

  When they were through, Sarah said, “Okay, you’re done with being pulled and prodded for today. There are going to be three suits made for you. The first one will be used for training, the other two are going to be your primary and backup for the mission. We should have the first one done in about thirty days. That’s the one you’ll use to train here in the big tank and to familiarize you with the systems, regular maintenance and emergency procedures in case of accident or component failure.”

  “Does that happen often?” Roscoe asked.

  “Actually, not very. The last problem with one of our suits was a temperature regulation issue with one of the guys stranded on the moon. Your training suit is lighter than the real deal. But since you’re going to be using your primary in space, the weight isn’t going to matter,” Sarah explained as Roscoe dressed.

  “What about repairs once we’re underway?” Roscoe asked.

  “Everyone, including you, is going to be trained in some pretty sophisticated technologies for this mission. No one expects you to become a bonafide repair technician. And there may just be something that crops up no one can fix, that’s why each crew member will have a spare suit along,” said Sarah.

  “These suits are prefabricated; gloves, sleeves, legs, whatever. Then the right sized parts are assembled for each astronaut. There’s no difference between male and female suits except for size, generally speaking,” Julie added. “Someone will email you for the next fitting. Then you’ll actually have something to try on.”

  “I thank you both. I’m looking forward to getting the training suit. I hear the weightless tank is unbe
lievable!” said Roscoe.

  “It is. Both of us have been in the tank, but as support techs only. We only get to wear SCUBA gear, but we make sure nothing happens to you when you’re training. The suits are like big people-shaped balloons and would just bob around on the surface, but we add weights to make sure you’re as close to neutral buoyancy as possible in the tank. It’s really cool,” gushed Sarah.

  “Your real suits will still be somewhat bulky compared to the newest suits they’re designing for use on Mars. Those are lighter and thinner because there’s a little bit of atmosphere on the planet. If you were heading off to the moon, though, you’d be able to use your mission suit with no problem at all. Anyway, thanks for putting up with us. We’ll be in touch,” Sarah said, as the two technicians shook Roscoe’s hand.

  * * *

  Thanks to the insatiable curiosity of the separatist community, the pace of research into every scientific discipline was expanding at a rate never before seen.

  Hydroponic yields at the colony were thirty percent higher than comparable installations on Earth. And thanks to a college recruit named Jaylynn Williams, oxygen production from algae stock far exceeded anything NASA had produced to date.

  A mission into Jupiter’s atmosphere and the upcoming test of interdimensional travel were experiments well beyond the capabilities of the scientists of Earth, who, after a decade of hard research and $31 billion spent on gravitational study, still couldn’t divine the nature of Christopher Wright’s college discovery in the control of gravity.

  The irony of the capabilities of the all-black community, unfettered by the all-too-frequent bigotry of America, was not lost on Earth. Early on, after the colony had left the moon, many detractors insisted that there had to be someone else pulling the strings, making all those scientific advances, someone obviously white. Most of those in America’s government couldn’t pivot around to the fact that without the slights, insults and violence perpetuated against blacks, they had outperformed the greatest minds on the planet.

  This irony wasn’t lost on other nonwhite populations around the globe, many still suffering deprivations from long-past European influences. And the African continent, one of the remaining storehouses of unsullied natural resources, was now in constant turmoil over who would get to exploit those resources in an uncertain global economic future.

  Culturally, the death of the notion of white exceptionalism was a bitter pill to swallow in the United States, and blacks paid the price from angry and humiliated whites in increased racial violence. Legislation was proposed that imposed draconian requirements on welfare recipients even though the majority of them were not black; anything to “get back” at those racially associated with the technologically superior space colonists. And conservatives continued to pass any law possible to prevent African Americans from exercising their right to vote.

  President Laughlin was caught between a rock and a hard place. He realized that the public persecution of America’s black population did nothing more than substantiate the message sent back to planet Earth when the separatists launched into space. It was a message that essentially said, “So long, it hasn’t been good to know you.”

  And yet, all the special interest groups, evidenced by multiple petitions signed by millions of Americans, were constantly pressuring the government to do something. Do something about the widely publicized FBI report that the separatists lived longer than people on Earth. Do something about duplicating the space technologies the separatists possessed and get those soldiers off the moon. Then the United States could build its own installations on the moon and claim it for its own.

  What people were really saying to President Laughlin was do something to restore white superiority in America, because now it was not just a matter of who had the most money. It was now a matter of the United States of America being a second-rate power when measured against a community of several thousand African Americans holding nothing but contempt for their country of birth. And because of the way America treated its nonwhite people, the fear was that the separatists just might want to come back and straighten some things out.

  With the majority of the country’s population scheduled to change racially in the coming 2040s, the possibility that whites were going to be treated exactly like they treated nonwhites, was becoming a full-blown dread; especially so when public proof of the separatists’ capabilities was so apparent.

  Do something!

  Like what? thought Laughlin. Despite his having selected Roscoe to lead the expedition out to the belt, he had little confidence they would be coming back to Earth with anything of substance to show for their effort.

  Chapter 14

  MEA CULPA

  John was used to being summoned or sent off around the country on short notice, so he thought nothing of Weston calling him in Houston and informing him that there was a morning meeting in New York he was to attend.

  At Weston’s suggestion, John packed light, just for overnight, and arranged an early morning GST flight to New York. He was met at LaGuardia by a GST car and taken to GST’s corporate headquarters.

  “Hey, John. Thanks for coming,” Weston said, meeting John in the lobby.

  “Sure thing. What’s up?” John asked, wondering what the meeting was about.

  “I’m not exactly sure. But we’re going to be in some stratospheric company, that’s all they said.”

  “They?” John asked, eyebrow cocked.

  “The people I directly answer to. They constantly get on my ass about heading up the department and still gallivanting around the world. It seems like I’m supposed to be able to see and hear everything going on with the company and Project Jove sitting behind a desk in an office upstairs. All I can say is that it must be important,” Weston explained.

  John nodded as they swiped their ID badges through the sensors on their way past the security desk and onto the elevators. He wasn’t too surprised to see Weston press the button for the top floor. The other shoe was about to drop.

  When they arrived at the top floor, Weston led them around the corner to a reception desk manned by a male and female uniformed security team.

  The woman said, “Go right in, gentlemen. You’re expected. I can take your bag and keep an eye on it for you, Mr. Mathew.”

  John handed over his carryall, noting that she obviously knew exactly who he was, and entered the conference room right behind Weston. The room was nearly the size of John’s house. Two sides were floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking Manhattan with the Statue of Liberty off in the distance.

  “Good morning. John, meet Beau Templeton, Kenji Sakamoto, Bridget Manchester, Nathan Simeon and Leo Cho,” Weston introduced, each nodding their head in greeting. “This is GST’s board of directors.”

  “Good morning. It is a pleasure to meet all of you, although I ’m not exactly sure how long that’s going to last,” John said, drawing polite chuckles as he took the seat next to Weston.

  “I assure you, Detective Mathews, the pleasure is all ours,” Manchester said. “I can imagine you are a bit more than curious about why you were summoned to this meeting,” she said in a pleasant British accent. “And please excuse Tom for not having informed you what this is about, he was not privy to our agenda. We wanted to interview you for a very special assignment, one that I’m convinced only you can successfully execute.”

  John was silent, not offering any comment.

  “You don’t appear to be at all surprised, detective,” said Mr. Sakamoto. “May I inquire as to your thoughts on our desire to offer you such an assignment?”

  John smiled, and said, “First of all, I’m no longer a detective. Frankly, I’ve been waiting for something like this since Tom offered me the position. Don’t get me wrong, he hasn’t said a word or given any hint of your plans. I doubt if you let him in on what they are.” John caught the shake of Weston’s head in his peripheral vision. “Bu
t his offering me this position, a semi-retired flatfoot, happily tending bar and living off a pension when there’s plenty of guys, and gals, out there younger and smarter, seemed a little too … what’s the word? Suspicious, I guess, is the least offensive word I can come up with.”

  “Mr. Weston warned us when we authorized him to make you the offer that you were sharp as a tack,” said Manchester. “And, in reviewing your job performance, everything he described was right on the mark.”

  “Mr. Mathews, then. Given your native investigative talents, do you have any idea what we’d like to offer you?” asked Templeton.

  “I can only conclude that it must have something to do with Sydney Atkins and/or that group of separatists out there,” he replied.

  The room was silent, the members of the board glancing back and forth at each other as Weston let out a quiet snicker.

  “I told you. John’s one of the smartest investigators I’ve ever worked with. His reading of people is damned-near telepathic.” Looking at John, Weston added, “I chose you for my own reasons, but I was somewhat surprised by how enthusiastic the board was once they had read the background on you.”

  “So I’m right, then?” John directed his question to the board members at the other end of the table.

  “You are correct, Mr. Mathews,” began Sakamoto. “It was your relationship with Dean Atkins that piqued our curiosity. Without prying into anything personal you don’t want to share with us, could you tell us the circumstances surrounding the last few days of the Dean’s time on Earth?”

  “It’s all personal,” began John, visibly pissed.

  “Please, we are not trying to pry. What we’re looking for is insight into the people who your country have named separatists, their mindset as it were, maybe something of the motivations they may have had at the time. Their farewell message was hardly vague. We have spent an incredible amount of time investigating everything we could find on the people listed in the roster, and in President Bender’s administration. You were the last person on Earth to have any contact with one of their group. We mean no disrespect,” said Sakamoto, bowing his head respectfully as he concluded.