He was looking forward to meeting them.
105
‘Two hundred and fifty year leases? Without the reviews? Are you sure?’ N’Bomal couldn’t believe it.
Nicholas Orbatan, the Lynthax CEO, had recently arrived from Earth, to update the local operation on developments at home. He was now giving N’Bomal a briefing on their progress with the Thing.
‘Yes. At a minimum. The board’s confident ISRA will give it to us, so long as we accept these interplanetary flights and eventually give up the New World mandates.’
Carlo Ratti, Lynthax’s Chief of Science, flipped through his briefing sheet and laid out some of the other conditions:
‘... in addition to deeper space exploration, funding the cost of eco-engineering and terraforming, committing to longer-term development, and so on.’
The previous year’s report had also followed Orbatan’s visit to the centre, but there hadn’t been much to report at that time, or any reason to plan for the longer-term: the insurgency had expanded across the Outer-Rim interrupting shipments, and the Thing had offered up nothing useful. Then 11 months ago, Makindra had made a breakthrough, the details of which N’Bomal was unaware of—until today.
‘All true, of course?’ N’Bomal asked.
Ratti was as certain of the outcome as he was in his science.
‘Of course,’ he continued. ‘Except we’ll be in deeper space than anyone anticipates when the deal is done, and there’ll be no need to terraform a damn thing. We just pick and mix the planets that best suit our purposes, whether they’re for migration, minerals, and/or crops. Any place we visit that’s not up to standard, we discard.’
‘Sorry, Carlo. Did you say, “Discard”?’
‘Yes. The project office insists on a planet meeting early-day metrics. If a place doesn’t meet eight out of the 12 criterion within three days, it’s to be discarded. We move on.’
‘Discarded?’
“Yes. Ditched. Left alone. Ignored. We move on.’
‘Discarding planets! By Jeeze. I know new technologies open up new possibilities, Nicholas, but I never thought I would hear anyone talk about discarding a planet in my life time.’
‘More true in this case than it generally is,’ Orbatan confirmed, ‘but, yes, it’ll certainly be opening up new possibilities. Rather a lot of them, actually. We’re already talking to ISRA about extending the Outer-Rim to a defined distance from Earth. We’ll concede up to one thousand light years further out. But beyond, say, 1500 light years, we believe Earth can’t exert control or offer its protection, and that defines any one’s right to claim sovereignty. If we’re to develop anything further out than that, and we will, we want the full 250 years.’
Orbatan let that sink in. Their lawyers were already refining the argument about what defines sovereignty, and how to claim it, in anticipation of the upcoming meeting with the Inter-Space Regulatory Aunthority on Earth. It looked as though ISRA was going to challenge the definition, but Lynthax still had muscle on the ISRA Appeals Court. In any case, they were only seeking 250-year leases in space completely out of range of Earth’s protection and well beyond what conventional science felt was feasible. Lynthax was covering all its bases.
‘Sovereignty?’ Again, N’Bomal thought he had heard wrongly.
‘Yes, sovereignty,’ Orbatan confirmed.
Ratti clarified what they meant:
‘We’ll be establishing an empire of our own, Joshua. We’ll populate the planets with people who want to get off Earth, and eventually we’ll wave goodbye to the place. Judging by what’s been going on in the Outer-Rim, 250 years will be more than enough time for us to establish a sense of nationhood. Only this time we know what to watch out for, and we’ll be guiding the debate to suit ourselves. Essentially, it’ll be a free-enterprise universe with us at the top of the tree.’
N’Bomal tried to take that in. He wanted to shake his head and wake up.
Orbatan ploughed on:
‘Anyways, we reckon 1500 light years is far enough out for Earth to believe we’ll never get there and back, and if we do, that we’re investing some serious money and deserve a return.
Ratti thought that N’Bomal might need further clarification. He listed some of the obvious, mostly technical restrictions to exploring deep space in the traditional way:
‘In any case, the wider we go out, the more space there is to explore, and ftl is a very costly business. For a tanker to travel 1500 light years in less than a year it would need to carry more than 20 times its own mass in fuel—and that’s each way! And the further out from the Inner-Rim we go, the slower the top speed has to be—the space maps are less reliable and everywhere needs scanning and checking. Don’t forget: there’s a black hole for every cubic light year of space, and one hell of a lot of space dust.
N’Bomal still wasn’t ready to interrupt. Orbatan could see it would take a while.
Ratti continued:
‘Ultimately, based on our current fuel technology and even if we could store enough of it, civilian tankers would take 20 years for such a journey, and then some. Basically, Earth will do the calculations and come to the same conclusions: it can’t be done, so there’s no harm in granting the concessions in return for peace in the Outer-Rim.’
He then summed up:
‘Whereas in practice we can find a place, visit it, assess it and either claim or discard it in very quick time, and before any one cottons-on to what we’re doing. And if they do suspect something, they’ll have to prove it. To do that, they’ll need the technology—which they don’t have. And if they try to take it from us, we’ll have a finger on the kill-switch.’
N’Bomal was beginning to catch up. The company was going to milk this technology for everything they could get out of it, and before Earth wised up. Nevertheless, it would take careful planning, and near perfect execution.
‘It sounds like we’re preparing a very, very big land grab, gentlemen. When will we have their answer? And when do we start?’ he asked.
‘Soon,’ Ratti said. ‘In the meantime, we continue testing.
‘With living things?’
‘Ah, I thought you’d ask that. No, not yet. We’ve stuck to automated drones up until now. We even considered just using drones, never sending a person: after all, why send workers if you can operate a drone excavator on a world 10,000 light years away using your desktop—from here. Then pass the stuff to Earth—again, using your desktop!’
Ratti gave N’Bomal time to imagine that. He watched N’Bomal’s eyes widen as he saw the possibilities.
He ploughed on.
‘But we do need people to achieve our longer-term goals. People claim sovereignty. People own things, plus we need local people working several planets.
‘At the moment there’s only the one energy source—at least only one that’s capable of driving a hole—so we’re limited to one action at a time. Now that’s OK if we position the main junction on, say, Trevon—everything can then come and go through it. We’d simply throw a hole out to a planet that’s supplying the product, bring them here, then throw the hole out to Earth and send them through. However, controlling mining equipment on several planets at the same time may be a stretch. So people are next.
‘We’d worm them in and let them control the mining operations locally, occasionally throwing one out to collect their goodies, deliver stuff to keep them amused, and bring them back for a little R&R.’ Ratti paused, and looked briefly at Orbatan before adding: ‘Though, given the reputation it’s got, I doubt we’ll get too many volunteers.’
‘What reputation?’ N’Bomal asked.
‘It seems to freak people out. Even Williams and Xin find it hard to stay in the room with it. Petroff was game enough to try when he visited last year: he got up close and personal for all of three minutes then lost his bottle. Anyhow, it doesn’t matter. We’ve built our own, and the only thing we’re using from the original is its power source, which is like nothing I
’ve ever seen before,’ Ratti claimed, smiling with joy. ‘It’s phenomenal.’
Orbatan saw N’Bomal raise an eyebrow, but it was true. He had seen it for himself, and it was phenomenal.
‘What’s more phenomenal than a wormhole, Carlo?’ N’Bomal asked.
‘When a power supply is inexhaustible, it’s pretty damn phenomenal,’ Orbatan said.
‘Impossible! It was almost dead when Petroff pulled it out of space.’ N’Bomal remarked, frowning. He wasn’t in direct contact with the research centre on Prebos, but he did receive an unofficial quarterly briefing, of sorts, from Lombardi. Though it appeared he was right not to trust Lombardi to offer up the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
‘Yes, I grant you that,’ Ratti said. ‘It was exceedingly close to failure, but for some reason, it wasn’t tapping into a separate source of energy at its core. We found it by accident. We’re using it now. Again, that was Makindra. And everything we know about it, which isn’t much, says it defies all the laws of physics. But it’s real and, as far as we can tell, it’s not at all dangerous. It never loses energy—no matter how hard we flog it, or how far we throw a hole: it’s unbelievable.’
‘Maybe there was a reason for that, Carlo,’ N’Bomal cautioned. ‘Have you found out why it was where it was, or what it was meant to be doing?’
‘No, and I doubt we ever will. In any case, it doesn’t matter. We’ve got everything we need to throw a hole—the rest of it can be left alone.’ Ratti was referring to what the science team called “Pandora’s Box”, a rectangular-shaped object, deep inside the craft, that defied all forms of scanning. ‘We considered it—believe me—but it was a huge and expensive distraction. In any case, the original reason for its existence might never make any sense to us, even if it told us. Trust me when I say we’ve the interesting bits. The rest can be left for another day.’
N’Bomal had to ask:
‘Do Bradbury and Makindra agree with you in this?’
‘Yes. They do,’ Ratti said, a little too quickly. ‘And they’re as keen as mustard to move on to the next phase.’
N’Bomal doubted that those two could ever agree on anything and Makindra had never been as keen as mustard. Ever since the man had touched the damn thing, he had been wary of it. He even claimed at one point the damned thing had tried talking to him. Since then he had been happy conducting his research from a respectful distance, on the fourth floor of the research centre that Lombardi had built over the original Thing in The 7.
‘Where do you conduct the trials with the duplicate?’ N’Bomal asked out of curiosity.
‘Can’t say, sorry,’ Ratti said. ‘But it’s a long way off, I can assure you. We’re mindful of attracting the wrong kind of attention: either from the rebels or from ISRA. Our future leases depend on the regulator not being aware of just how we’ll be getting to the stars over the next few years.’
‘Well, be mindful of the fact that the Station Commanders resent that the area is off-limits,’ N’Bomal cautioned, ‘and their people are getting curious. But more importantly, we’ve employees who you’ve kept on the project for five years and want out. Our excuses for keeping them there are wearing thin, and increasing the end-of-contract bonuses and extending the payment date to some mythical day in the future isn’t working any more.
‘When can you clear out and leave the place to be mined properly again? And when can we release these people so they can go home?’
Orbatan knew the “lockdown” was a running headache for the Trevon operation, but there were developments in that area, too:
‘Soon. We’re thinking of moving the whole shebang to Runnymede. HR is working on incentives, and the psych department is analysing employee profiles: the project needs to be expanded, and we need workers who’ll stay loyal to it.’
There was a knock at N’Bomal’s door, and the familiar swish of a door opening out over a thick carpet.
‘Ah, Petroff! Come on in,’ Orbatan said, rather presumptuously, given this wasn’t his office. Again, N’Bomal raised an eyebrow. It was obvious Orbatan had invited him. He looked happy, at least happier than he had for the past six months. More confident, too.
‘Good evening, sirs,’ Petroff said, taking a seat.
‘OK, then Jack,’ Orbatan said. ‘Let’s hear it. I want you to explain to your boss just how we can put this rebel thing behind us.’
Petroff took N’Bomal through his plan, flicking through a series of slides he projected onto the side wall. When he was done, he switched off his graf and stared at N’bomal as if waiting for questions.
N’Bomal was dumbstruck for a second time. His eyes flicked between Ratti and Orbatan.
‘It’s a crazy idea!’ He couldn’t think of a more politically appropriate description. “Bonkers” had leapt to mind, but it looked like Orbatan had already signed off on it.
‘Are you sure it’s crazy? Even when we know Cohen will be among them?’ Orbatan asked.
‘You’re kidding?’
‘No,’ Petroff explained. ‘He’s there alright. Balsom confirmed it. Something’s brewing.’
‘Wasn’t Balsom their money man?’ N’Bomal asked. ‘Didn’t we turn him when we got the GCE to open up that offshore account?’
‘Yes, the very same Balsom, Joshua,’ Orbatan confirmed. ‘He’s been as helpful as he can from the political side, but useless to us concerning the rebels. Apparently, Scatkiewicz cut out the politicos early on, so he only meets low-level rebel reps on G-eo once every few months and then only to exchange policy ideas, not operational details.
‘But things are different this trip: he’s expecting Scatkiewicz, Reginald Irwin, his sons and Nettles to arrive real soon, along with rebels leaders from across the OR. There’s a rumour they’ve been discussing terms with ISRA, perhaps to negotiate their entry back into polite society.’
‘And we want to teach Cohen a lesson for duping us with Booni and making us out to be the bad guys?’ N’Bomal asked, more as a statement.
‘We surely do,’ Orbatan replied. ‘Though I’m a little concerned about including Cohen in this ... “concept action”.’
Petroff was ready for that. Ever since he first proposed the operation to the board, Orbatan had only ever referred to it as though it was an intellectual exercise. It was clear he wanted deniability, and to keep it as far from his office as possible.
‘Because he’s ISRA. Yes. Understandable,’ Petroff said, feigning empathy. ‘But the rebels aren’t. We’re still at war with them so anything goes with that lot. If we take them out of the picture, almost all at the same time, Cohen will lose the rod he’s been hitting us with. And there’ll be less need to follow through and revise the leases, which could be a useful bargaining chip when it comes to talking to them. Anything is then possible. And G-eo’s neutrality issue isn’t a problem—not if the rebellion is stopped in its tracks.’
N’Bomal chuckled. He was quickly adjusting to the new reality. Everything appeared to be in place. Everything fit. He leaned back in his chair and shook his head, slowly, marvelling at their changing fortunes. The frowns were gone, replaced by a beaming smile. He summed up.
‘So we rid ourselves of the rebels, head-off ISRA’s bid to bring us to heel, and make a play for 250 year leases—sorry—establish corporate sovereignty—on viable planets that cost us nothing to visit, populate or ship goods to and from. Remind me, just how did we arrive at this confluence of events?’
Petroff sensed the warm glow building in the room. He decided to pounce before the magic of the moment faded.
‘So I have the go-ahead?’ he asked, looking around the table.
Ratti took Orbatan’s silence as a nod.
‘Yes.’
106
At first, Commander Cotton had declined the invitation to speak at the G-eo Military Academy: it just didn’t seem right to him to educate the future defence forces of a planet that had achieved virtual independence from Earth, but Cohen had stepped in, making the pol
itical point a little more strongly.
So he had finally relented.
In reality, Cotton was than less enthusiastic because he knew the system sucked. He didn’t want to train anyone on a system that had served Earth so poorly, and had caused the Inter Space Regulatory Authority to rely so much on political intrigue and financial shenanigans. He would rather educate them in a more effective military system, something that might now become a reality once ISRA reduced the corporations to their commercial interests alone.
Over the last two hours he had retraced the development of Earth’s military back to the early 21st Century when, post-financial tsunami, the British and French governments had begun to share their national resources. The idea then caught on everywhere.
Eventually a man’s career in security could begin at Macy’s, transit through the Manhattan Organised Crime Unit, settle down at the Western Bloc’s Brussels Human Trafficking office, then progress to the Financial Times-sponsored Economic Intelligence Unit within MI6 in London, or the CIA at Langley.
The economic downturn in the 22nd Century, the one caused by the extremely high prices of natural resources, had resulted in even deeper structural changes, leading to an unparalleled level of co-operation and interdependency.
Space was no different, in that regard, but there was one crucial difference: despite the increasing spats over the declining resources on Earth, there was a genuine desire not to let any dispute spill out into the OR. For that was where the real resources lay.
The New Worlds represented a massive investment by the resource corporations, and they were not going to let national or Bloc governments ruin that investment over some border dispute concerning a minor oil field in the South China Sea.
The Inter-Space Regulatory Authority was the organisation set up to implement the resulting multi-Bloc agreement to privatise space, and its security. Its goal was to isolate the Outer-Rim from the politics of Earth, to provide the corporations and the Blocs with a venue for settling disputes, and to assist in the Outer-Rim’s development.