The Ice Moon Explorer (7 page)

He reached the first piling, a monolith
rising out of a slag hill. Its green lamp spun, pulsing like a
lighthouse. There would be flights and landings on AT 43. A body
large as a naval anchorage needed hazard lights.

“Reached the first beacon,” he spoke into his
helmet radio. “It’s pretty dark out here, would have been nice if
we had some floods. I can see the second beacon, its working
fine.”

He looked down. An ancient collision cracked
and fissured AT 43, putting a valley between him and the second
beacon. The safety line flew across it, disappearing in the
darkness.

Be ready to jump from the tower.

He pushed off again, a human dirigible.

It was 4.56 billion years old, leftover
packaging from the birth of the solar system. It had failed the
gravitational draft of the protoplanets. Except for pity-taps of
gravity, it was all alone. After eons even the inner solar system
becomes a small town, though. Sooner or later, it would run into
the Earth.

Halfway across the ravine, Elijah was still
rising. He looked down and saw only darkness. In that darkness was
palladium, iron, even water ice. It was a miner’s buffet table, and
it would allow truly obese constructions.

“How are those calculations coming
along?”

“If I’d known we’d be running them all again,
I’d have written a damn program.”

“We should write that program anyway. That’s
at least five frours work.” He pronounced it frowers.

“Five frours, easy. Seven or eight if we made
it user-friendly.”

Mental work and puzzles passed time. This
mattered when basically sealed in a small room for a summer. They
had become very good at finding problems to frown over, for hours.
A frowning hour was a ‘frower.’ A frowning day though, was a ‘whole
fucking day.’

He reached the second beacon. Dust and sand
erupted around his boots, forming a cloud. The motes glowed green
with each pulse. He looked out to see the flashing of the third and
final beacon.

“The third beacon isn’t working.” He tugged
the safety line, hard. It stayed taut. “The line is still attached
to the piling, though.”

“The microquake must have damaged it. If the
beacon’s broken, the mass driver is certainly wrecked, too. Come on
back.”

“We don’t know that. If the mass driver’s
been knocked out of place, it might still fire.”

“It’s ten finicky meters of superconducting
rail.”

“Which out here, weighs next to nothing. We
could toss it out the window and it would land fine. It’s still
drawing power, isn’t it?”

“Yes it is. And so is the beacon, for some
reason.”

“Then they’re probably just buried under some
dirt. I’ll dig that shit out and be done in five minutes.”

“It’s unsafe, Elijah. You could get caught in
a quake, the deposit is already warm.”

“Actually no, it will have completely
refrozen. Nothing in the hydrocarbon bed has a high heat
capacity.”

“How can you know that?”

“Because it would have boiled away, billions
of years ago. AT 43 boils and cools, every rotation. The volatiles
boil, cause quakes, and then the whole system refreezes. Every
rotation. Even when close to the sun. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be
having the quakes at all.”

“Look, I’m just not comfortable this.”

“Alright. How are the calculations
coming?”

“They’ll be done a lot quicker if we’re both
doing them.”

“Then this is still our best bet. Look, I’m
doing this. The science is solid. Quit worrying, and I’ll take care
of this.”

He leapt off the mound.

Mass Driver Seven was a silver tube, thick as
a car and longer than a house. It rested on struts, angled upwards
like a WWI artillery gun. Its rear disappeared into a shaft, six
meters deep. Thick cables tangled around the opening, a mess of
black snakes. The instrument panels on the generator glowed yellow.
Powerful lights were strung from poles around the site.

Ice and snow crunched under Elijah’s boots.
He could almost pretend he was on a snowy Boston road. One of the
shitty ones that didn’t get ploughed often enough. The snow field
stretched around him, as far as the lights could reveal. It hadn’t
been there when they had worked on the site. But then, there hadn’t
been a six meter deep shaft, either. The gas bubbles had vented
through it. Slowly, but gradually building in pressure. The shaft
became a snow fountain. Then, worked loose, Mass Driver Seven had
climbed out as well.

The struts needed repair and more bolts went
into the shaft walls. Other than that, there had been hardly any
damage. Seven would survive the next few quakes, till the snowfield
became a lake. They wouldn’t need it for that long.

He crouched down and scooped some snow into a
sampler. He felt it shake as the tiny centrifuge inside
started.

“You done yet?”

“Just packing up my tools and taking some
samples,” he replied. “It’s really pretty out here.”

“Sun’s about to come up. That snow field is
going to turn into a boiling cauldron.”

“That will be hours from now. I should be
done here in about ten minutes.”

“You staying to watch sunrise?”

“Damn right. It’s our own world, Damien. You
should be out here, too. We might not get another chance to see
something like this.”

“If Seven misfires, and we don’t have plan B
ready, you’re right. We certainly won’t. I woke Spektorov up, he’s
making calls to the FAA right now.”

“Won’t need it,” Elijah closed his drill
kit.

“Let’s hope not.”

The sun doesn’t rise on a body without
atmosphere. It struck – in just moments, the world was lit from
horizon to horizon. He flinched at the brightness, even as his
helmet polarized. The ground was as bright– the snow caught the sun
and threw it back in his face.

He peered about. He was on a jagged, rocky
plain, dotted with elephant-sized craters. The snow stretched as
far as he could see.

Condensation began to form on his helmet, on
the outside. He wiped it off, it turned to slush and ice in his
glove.

What the hell? That was fast, even for
ethanol.

The sampler display started flashing. He
looked at it.

85 percent ammonia.

“How is sunrise looking?”

All around him, the snow field was turning
into mist.

“Elijah?”

“Sorry, it’s fine. Real pretty.”

“Well, send me some video.”

“Hang on. You’re the chemist in the team,
quick question for you,” he made his way back to the safety cable.
He felt the squelch of the slush through his boots. “What’s the
specific heat capacity of ammonia?”

“It changes depending on the state and
temperature, but it’s quite high. Even higher than water. Why?”

“Just wondering. I’d be pretty unlucky if
this was an ammonia deposit, instead of alcohol.”

“Yes. It would just retain more and more heat
from each rotation, and become violent, faster. But you’ll be fine.
Like you said, it would have boiled off millions of years ago.”

“You finished the calculations yet?”

“Nearly. Another hour and I’ll be done.
Why?”

“Just keep working on them.”

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

Be ready to jump from the tower.

“The fuck you are. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, Damien! Look I wouldn’t
screw around over something this important.” He felt a vibration.
It was the ground.

“I’m just having second thoughts about Seven.
Keep at it, I’ll be over shortly.”

“Are you sure?”

“Don’t worry about me. Stay focused. Just do
your part, and I’ll do mine.”

Streams of liquid began jetting out Mass
Driver Seven’s shaft. They spread into fountains of snow, hundreds
of meters above.

The ground began to shake. He tested the
safety cable, and leapt.

Six Weeks Later, Boston

“Hey Charlie!” Damien banged on the glass
door. Across at the reception sat a secretary and fat security
guard. Neither smiled at him. Above their heads was a sign saying
Sun Star Prospecting. “Hey Charlie, what gives?” Damien gestured to
the lock. “It won’t swipe my key card.”

The security guard walked over to the door,
and looked at him through the glass.

“I’m sorry Mr. Flores. I’m not to let you
into the building.”

“What? What the fuck? Is there a fire or
something? What are you guys doing in there?”

“Mr. Spektorov’s orders, Sir.”

“Spektorov – “ he stopped, speechless.
“Charlie, open the door now.”

“I’m sorry I can’t do that Mr. Flores.”

“This is your boss, giving you an order
Charlie. Opening the fucking door to my fucking building, now!”

“You’re not my boss anymore, Mr. Flores. You
need to call legal.”

Damien shouldered the door, rattling it.

“Step away from the building, Sir! This is
private property and I will call the police.”

“Fuck you, fatty! I’m going to come in there
and I’m going to kick your ass!”

“Hi, a man is trying to break into our
building,” said the secretary into her headset. “We’re on 14
Federal Court, behind the Taj. It’s in the Financial District. No,
he doesn’t seem to be armed. We have asked him to leave, he’s a
former employee. Wait, he’s just walked away.”

“Is this Legal, at my own fucking
company?”

Damien stood in the middle of the street.
Around him, hats and gloves walked fast, noses red and eyes
tearing. He blew on his freezing fingers. The morning sun was
peeping between the sky scrapers. It lit, but did not warm.

“Good morning Damien,” said a familiar voice
on the phone.

“Do I know you? Why the fuck am I not allowed
in my own building? I want Charlie fired.”

“You do know me Damien, though you may not
remember me. It’s been over a year. This is Sam Snyder. I’m head of
legal at Spektorov Investment, and per your contract with Mr.
Spektorov, I am also the legal department for Sun Star
Prospecting.”

“What? Sam?”

“Charlie is doing what he was told, Damien.
What I told him to do.”

“What the hell is going on?”

“Damien, Elijah Newman’s loss was a tragedy.
However, the company needs to keep running, and we all have
responsibilities. Mine is to tell you that under the contract you
both signed, in the event of death, criminal prosecution, or severe
and debilitating illness as determined by a physician, the affected
parties shares revert to Spektorov Investments. Mr. Spektorov
thereupon came to own two thirds of Sun Star Prospecting, making
him the outright owner. Also, under the sixteenth clause covering
incompetence and irresponsible conduct, the majority owner may
strip the shares of the minority owner, for the good of the
company. Mr. Spektorov has invoked this, as Mr. Newman’s death was
your fault.”

“You son of a bitch!”

People in the street stared but pretended not
to, as they passed. A police officer gave him a dirty look.

“You were in command of that mission. You are
fully responsible. You also signed an affidavit absolving Mr.
Spektorov and Spektorov Investments of any responsibility, in case
of accident or death, on the mission.”

“I signed no such thing!”

“Oh but you have, Damien. I’d be happy to
produce it for you, in court, if you’d like to see it.”

“This is insane. You – you conned me! You
were always his fucking lawyer!”

“There are no highly convenient coincidences,
Damien. If you want to debate this matter further, I will charge
you fifty dollars a minute for my time. Otherwise, you are free to
attempt legal action against us. I will send you a copy of your
contract in the mail, as it appears you have not read it closely.
Good bye, Damien.”

The line went dead.

“How does it feel to own the solar
system?”

The waiter poured the champagne and left.
Daryl Spektorov and Sam Synder toasted.

“I’ve honestly not had a chance to sit down
and think about it. I’ve been working nonstop with Chairman of the
Senate Appropriations Committee. Tomorrow I’m flying to Washington
to meet with the Air Force.”

“The whole Air Force?”

“It feels like it, yeah.”

“I thought governments couldn’t buy
asteroids? The Outer Space Treaty.”

“No one in 1967 said anything about a company
buying an asteroid, and then the US government buying that company.
I’m not going to sell them the whole asteroid, no.”

“Why not?” Snyder cut into his Kobe beef
steak. “I thought that was the plan.”

“That was the basic plan, what we talked
about with those two idiots. My plan if the mission went well, was
always a lot bigger.”

“How much bigger?”

“AT 43 has everything. It’s like someone
carved out a little piece of the Congo, and put it in space. It
opens up all kinds of construction possibilities in space. That’s
what I want to get in on.”

“That’s not your business model. You’re a VC.
This is the best time to sell Sun Star Prospecting. Daryl, it’s
worth billions!”

“Chump change,” he made a face. “Why sell
resources to other companies to do space construction? Those
companies don’t even exist now, or they’re very small –
startups.”

“Two-man startups? Harvard-MIT sorts?”

“If we’re lucky, yes. But whatever their
size, we can buy them. No one gets to build anything in big in
space, unless we sell them the materials. They’re welcome to cut
past us and claim their own asteroids – except that we’ve got Sun
Star Prospecting robots crawling all over the best ones. Our
ones.”

He finished his champagne. Unbidden, a waiter
refilled it for him.

“For preferential rates and access, we ask
Uncle Sam to give us a large lump sum up front. This goes into
space construction equipment, staff, assets, whatever. We set up
heavy engineering factories on AT 43. Meantime, we signs deal with
the big players like Boeing and Huawei. We manufacture for them,
under license. If they don’t agree, people will buy own shitty
substitutes instead – because they’ll cost nothing in comparison!
We’ve already cherry picked space prospecting. Now let’s corner
space construction.”