Delta-v, page 10
“Well, let’s talk about those greenhouses. What are you going to do for food?”
“We’ve already proven that Martian soil can support plant growth, and the carbon dioxide–rich atmosphere of Mars will make plants flourish.”
“Not without nitrogen it won’t, and nitrogen is pretty damn scarce on Mars.”
Macy projected calm. “It can be baked out of surface regolith, and it’s 2 percent of the Martian atmosphere.”
“Extracting it will require energy—and solar panels have half the efficiency on the Martian surface that they do here on Earth. Plus, you’ll need nitrogen for more than just the crops, Jack. In a closed-loop habitat you’ll need about 110 kilograms of nitrogen per person for chemical processes in the human body. Add another 540 kilograms per person of nitrogen to provide atmospheric pressure and as a fire retardant. That totals about 650 kilograms per colonist just for life support, and some of that nitrogen would need to be replenished on a regular basis.”
“That’s not impossible.”
“But it is a challenge. Even if you can maintain a livable atmosphere in your habs, whatever crops you grow with that Martian soil would poison any colonists who ate them.”
Macy shook his head.
“See, Jack, this is why I get irritated with you about colonizing Mars. You know as well as I do that the Martian surface is covered in perchlorates—salts that are classified as industrial waste here on Earth. They’re great for making rocket fuel but highly toxic to human beings. They overwhelm the thyroid gland, blocking the ability to absorb iodine—which the body uses to produce a hormone that regulates human metabolism and mental function, and which is also vital for prenatal and postnatal development. Perchlorates cover the surface of Mars—including any dust you’d carry into the habitats.”
Macy waved it away. “It can be dealt with, Nathan.”
“Perchlorates are so toxic that here in California the legal limit is one part per billion by mass.” Joyce looked out at the audience. “Anyone care to guess what the concentration is in Martian regolith? Anyone? It’s six million parts per billion. The entire planet makes a toxic Superfund site look like a children’s day care.”
The audience murmured in response.
Macy looked annoyed. “There are microbes we can bring that could consume the perchlorates. It can be handled.”
“I’ll bet planetary scientists and astrobiologists will be less than thrilled by your plan—especially since it will ruin any chance to determine if indigenous microbial life exists on Mars, which could answer for us the question of whether life in the universe is rare or exceptionally common.”
“It could be done in consultation with—”
“And what about the hexavalent chromium also present in Martian soil? That’s a potent carcinogen.”
Macy jabbed a finger at Joyce. “If it was up to people like you, humanity would never have gone to the Moon.”
The audience roared in applause.
Unfazed, Joyce stayed focused on Macy. “You and George keep saying that we should settle the Moon and Mars. And I agree that we should go to those places, do science there, visit—but we shouldn’t colonize them.”
Some members of the audience booed.
Burkett turned his calm eyes toward Joyce. “Nathan, you’re suggesting it makes more sense to venture into the absolute vacuum of space—a desert so complete that it makes the Sahara look like the Garden of Eden—and to there build, from scratch, what? A fully enclosed, completely sustainable habitat that will also shield its occupants from solar and cosmic radiation and meteor strikes? How can you seriously suggest that that is an easier task than settling either the Moon or Mars?”
“Because it’s the whole fucking point of going into space!”
A hush fell over the auditorium.
Joyce waded into that silence. “If we want to have any future as a species, then we must learn how to build our biome—the one for which we evolved—out in the harsh vacuum of space. By learning how to create our ideal environment with our own hands and our own minds, we can even begin to understand how Earth’s ecosystem functions—and in doing so we will not only secure humanity’s future but we may learn how to fix Earth’s climate as well.”
A moment of stunned silence was soon filled with applause.
Burkett shook his head. “That sounds great on a stage, Nathan, but now actually execute it. The difference between you and us is that you’re all talk.”
Macy nodded. “Everything you described will happen centuries from now.”
Joyce nodded back. “It will be centuries if it’s up to you two.”
Some of the crowd shouted, others booed, some clapped. Others broke out into individual debates.
Joyce shouted over them. “We shouldn’t just accept that we’re destined to live on whatever planets have been dealt us. If you solve the problems of living on Mars, then you’ve only solved the Mars problem, but if we learn to build habitats in open space, then we have solved the entire future of the human race. We can harvest materials”—he pointed to Goff—“from asteroids, for example.”
Goff nodded. “I agree.”
“And bring those materials into a lunar distant retrograde orbit to build massive, lavish, amazing structures, spun to use centrifugal force as artificial gravity, designed for people, instead of consigning future generations to an inhumane purgatory on the Moon or Mars.”
Burkett crossed his legs impatiently. “There’s zero operational experience with centrifugal spacecraft systems of even modest size. And you want to start out building gigantic ones.”
“Why haven’t we pursued centrifugal force to simulate gravity in spaceship designs? Konstantin Tsiolkovsky wrote about it way back at the turn of the nineteenth century. We know we need to do it if we want to stay in space long-term. Then why the hell aren’t we making it a priority? Instead, everybody’s rushing to be the first one to plant a flag on something.”
Macy jabbed his finger at Joyce. “What happens, Nathan, when your prototype O’Neill cylinder breaks apart, killing everyone, or when it leaks, or its completely enclosed biome goes sour?”
“Okay, Jack, what happens when your Mars or Moon enclosed biome goes sour? The only difference between what I’m suggesting and your plan is that I want to also have normal gravity and to put our built environment reasonably close to Earth—while you put yours so far away it can only be reached during a once-every-two-year orbital window. Any habitat we build off Earth will have to be an enclosed system. Mars will be no different. It’ll just be much farther away and much more difficult to live in.”
“We can terraform Mars.”
“Now look who’s talking about centuries. That will take millennia.”
Lisowski waved her hands. “Let’s get this discussion back on track.”
Burkett and Macy spoke in unison. “Please, Erika.”
Burkett added, “For god’s sake, start moderating.”
Joyce focused on Macy again. “Jack, if you’re so concerned about the danger of an asteroid hitting Earth and the ‘need to be a multiplanet species,’ then you should want humans on more than two planets—we should have a constellation of colony ships in orbit around the Sun. The more people and resources we have in space, the better the chance we’ll have of protecting Earth—detecting and deflecting a dangerous asteroid. A colony on the surface of Mars won’t help stop an asteroid strike on the Earth.”
Morten—who hadn’t yet said a word—leaned forward. “Nathan is right about one thing: every strategy in the effort to commercialize space travel should be tried. There’s no reason to rule out the plans of anyone up here.”
There was a smattering of applause.
Burkett snorted. “Of course you don’t want to rule out anything, Tom; you run a parabolic carnival ride.”
Morten visibly reined his temper in. “Vestal is making space available to more people than you are, George.”
“You’re making 67 miles high briefly available to more people than we are. Congratulations.”
Goff spoke across Halser and Morten. “I agree with Nathan that asteroid mining makes more fiscal sense than colonizing the Moon or Mars.”
Even Burkett was now visibly irritated. “Alan, the Moon is close enough to Earth for robotic mining via telepresence. You can’t remotely control asteroid-mining robots. The signal delays are too great.”
Goff hesitated before he pushed back against the richest man on Earth. “That’s why we have autonomous systems.”
Macy scoffed. “And what happens when something goes wrong? Your mission is a total loss.”
Joyce piped in, “I agree with Jack on that point.”
Macy rolled his eyes. “I don’t care if you agree with me, Nathan.”
Joyce turned to Goff. “And if we send autonomous robots, humanity won’t be mining anything—you’ll be mining it, Alan. I say human beings can beat you to the solar system. In fact, I’m going to challenge all of you to a race right here on this stage—John Henry style.”
The audience hooted.
He turned to Burkett and Macy. “And while you’re getting sued over mining rights to the Moon and Mars, I’ll beat every one of you to market—because I’m going to send humans to the asteroids. And I’m not going to wait. I’m going all in on space, too, Jack.”
The crowd applauded again, though it was followed by excited, confused chatter.
Macy shook his head as he muttered, “You’re such a publicity whore . . .”
Burkett nodded. “He’s turning this into an infomercial about himself, Erika, and I don’t want any part of it.”
The crowd was descending into chaotic discussion.
Joyce laughed. “Deep space is a potlatch, George, don’t you know that by now? And I bet I’m willing to burn more money than you to get there.”
“That would be a surprise. Your biggest investment so far is a party island.” Burkett removed his microphone.
The crowd groaned in disappointment.
Macy shook his head. “I’m not going to be a prop in Joyce’s infomercial, Erika.” He, too, removed his microphone and headed toward the wings, to even more audience groans and boos—although it was hard to say whether they were booing Burkett and Macy, or Joyce’s grandstanding.
The audience immediately began a raucous discussion as journalists tried to push past the line of security at the edge of the stage, shouting.
“Mr. Joyce! What do you mean you’re all in on space?”
“Mr. Joyce, do you really think it’s foolish for humanity to colonize Mars?”
Goff, Morten, and Halser stood up. Halser removed his microphone and walked past Lisowski. “Nice work, Nathan. You asshole. This could have been a boost to the entire industry. We don’t need to compete like this with each other. We should be cooperating.”
Morten’s microphone was still live as he asked Lisowski, “Is this really over already?”
Lisowski switched off his mic and nodded. “It looks like it, Sir Thomas. I apologize.”
Goff passed Lisowski, also shaking his head. “That was quite the disaster, Erika.”
Joyce approached Lisowski, holding out his wireless mic and transmitter—but as she reached for them, he deliberately dropped them onto the stage. The impact thundered over the speakers. His eyes smiled at her as he walked past, patting her shoulder before heading offstage in the opposite direction to the other billionaires.
Lisowski watched Joyce go, then looked out at the audience and the cameras. She imagined the tens of millions of people who would see this worldwide. Maybe hundreds of millions in evening news clips. Based on the furious debates under way in the audience around her, the clash of the Space Titans would no doubt go viral.
In short: it had gone perfectly.
CHAPTER 9
Self-Selection
JANUARY 19, 2033
Electric motors wailed as James Tighe focused on a glowing dot in the middle of a computer screen. He wore a flight suit, helmet, and oxygen mask as he manipulated a joystick to keep the dot in the center of a white circle. This simple task was made difficult by 6.3 g’s of acceleration.
The electric motors rose in pitch, and the g-forces increased. His field of vision narrowed, requiring a supreme act of will just to hold his head upright.
Eight point five g’s. Eight point seven.
He blinked rapidly.
Nine point two g’s.
His vision constricted like a camera iris—and he suddenly found himself swatting away blowflies in a swamp somewhere in Tennessee. It didn’t seem at all strange that he was here. He just was.
But then he wasn’t. The swamp was replaced by a persistent, annoying beeping sound. Finally Tighe focused on a blinking yellow button and recalled that he was supposed to press it when he regained consciousness.
It all came back to him: he wasn’t in a swamp. He was inside a centrifuge testing facility on Ascension Island in the middle of the South Atlantic. Tighe tapped the button and the sound stopped. The centrifuge was no longer moving.
A voice in his headset said, “What is your candidate number?”
“Ascan 3-6-3.”
“Ascan 3-6-3, are you ready to go again?”
He took a deep breath. “Gimme a second.”
“Do you want to stop?”
Tighe caught his breath. “No. No, I’m good.”
“Launching evolution five in three, two, one . . .”
The electric motors wound up—and the g-forces increased once more, smashing him into the seat as the glowing dot returned.
* * *
—
Tighe exited a Polestar bus onto the sunny tarmac of Wideawake Field. Still unsteady on his feet, he leaned to one side. Marcel Cortez, a Spanish salvage diver, grabbed his arm and spoke in accented English. “You are okay, J.T.?”
“I’m fine. Just gonna sit down a sec.”
Cortez walked on as Tighe sat on a nearby pallet containing bags of concrete. A dozen other candidates milled around in their blue jumpsuits. They’d been told to prepare for a parabolic flight. The idea was to ride an aircraft through a series of steep climbs and dives to mimic the free fall of spaceflight. NASA astronauts had dubbed such training flights “vomit comets” because invariably participants got sick—and that was probably just the sort of weakness the company was checking for.
Tighe took in the sun and a light tropical breeze to help him recover from the centrifuge and listened to the other candidates chatting excitedly. They were clearly looking forward to free fall.
A young man with dark black skin was sitting next to Tighe on the pallet. Tighe had seen him around. In his early twenties, the guy was jotting down notes on a small pad of paper. No one else seemed interested in the young man, nor he in anyone else.
Tighe leaned toward him. “You looking forward to trying out free fall?”
The young man looked up from his notepad.
Tighe nodded toward the others. “The parabolic flight, I mean.”
The young man answered with a thick Nigerian accent. “Anything way go up, dem no born am well, ’e must come down.” He then went back to writing.
Tighe stared. “Pidgin? Really?”
The kid cast a wary glance Tighe’s way. “Comot! Dem send you?”
“We both know you can speak English—otherwise, you wouldn’t be here. If you don’t want to talk, fine.”
The young man paused his writing.
“It’s just that I’d heard the company wasn’t interested in young people. And yet, they made an exception for you. I’m curious why you’re here.”
The young man tapped the stub of pencil on his notepad, then looked up. He spoke in accented English. “Because my oga said I must come.”
“Your ‘oga’—what’s an oga?”
“Oga is a patron. He provides protection. In exchange, you obey. Everyone in Lagos has an oga—all except the e-lite.”
“So why’d your oga send you here?”
“Because of Mr. Joyce. He caused problems for me with the government.”
“Why would Joyce do that?”
“Because I stole his satellite.”
Tighe couldn’t help but laugh.
“You find that funny?”
“Sorry, it’s just that I’ll bet Joyce was impressed.”
“I did not do it to impress Mr. Joyce. I have brothers and sisters in Ajegunle. A mother. I could not refuse my oga. Ransoming satellites pays the bosses too well.”
“Where’d you learn to hijack satellites?”
“A satellite is just a computer in the sky. When I was small, I found electrical components in the dumps of Mushin and Ijora. I took apart things—to see how they worked.” The young man waved his arm across the sky. “There are many new satellites—the cube sats have poor security. I used them for my education.”
“You taught yourself?”
“I taught myself how to learn.”
Tighe recalled skipping school as a boy and felt a twinge of guilt. “How’d Joyce find you?”
“He paid the ransom—plus a fee for my name.”
“So your oga sold you out?”
The kid nodded grimly. “I worry about my brothers and sisters. I must do well here.”
“So you didn’t come here because you want to get into space.”
He contemplated this. “As a boy, I dreamed of space, but now I know there will be ogas there as well.”
Tighe noticed the young man was lean and bore scars on his neck. Life had apparently been tough for him. Tighe extended his hand. “I’m James Tighe. Call me J.T.”
The kid hesitated but then cautiously extended his hand. “J.T.” They shook firmly. He placed a hand on his chest. “My name is Adedayo Adisa. People call me Ade.”
“Good to meet you, Ade.”
