Delta-v, page 13
Someone had designed and launched the world’s first artificial-gravity ship and concealed that fact from everyone on Earth by doing it in pieces—hiding the activity through dozens of shell companies.
And no one knew. Possibly not even the Ministry of the Economy Division of Space Affairs. If they had known, they never would have sent him this. This information was potentially priceless.
Rochat glanced up at the other patrons of the coffee shop. He raised his tablet computer and snapped a photo of the carefully arranged pages that revealed a single spacecraft—then jumbled the documents again to conceal his discovery from other patrons. No telling who worked where in this neighborhood.
Rochat then examined the photo on his tablet screen. It was definitely a single ship. The design was clear. But why the big engines? If it was intended to be a space station settled in a stable lunar orbit—like NASA’s Gateway—then what were the engines for? Especially such large ones?
The answer that popped into Rochat’s head shocked him all over again.
It’s not meant to orbit the Moon. It’s going somewhere.
He lowered his tablet. All the materials to construct it were already up in space. The ship itself might already be built, or well on its way to being built. That’s why they placed it in lunar DRO—because no telescope on Earth would be able to resolve an object that small at a distance of 384,000 kilometers. But surely its thermal signature would be noticed by NASA or the US Department of Defense. Wouldn’t it? Or would everyone assume these vessels were there to join in the coming Moon-mining industry? Nonetheless, in a lunar DRO the assembled ship would be sitting at the very top of Earth’s gravity well—capable of heading just about anywhere.
Somebody was secretly launching a manned commercial deep space mission—the first one in history.
What do I do with this information?
Rochat’s mind buzzed with the possibilities. For the past year he’d scoured Aviation Weekly and SpaceNews. He’d subscribed (and more recently pirated access) to hideously expensive space-law journals, but he hadn’t heard a whisper about any gravity ship orbiting the Moon. Lots of news about all the companies investing in cislunar services and mining support spacecraft—nothing about this mysterious vessel.
No one knew. Yet.
That meant he was in a privileged position. For once in his life, Lukas Rochat had gotten in before anyone else. Should he tell the industry press? The deputy director of space affairs?
What would that accomplish? It would tell potential clients and regulators that he couldn’t be trusted with confidential information.
Leverage.
This was more than just information—he had figured out something no one else had. That should impress a client—as could his discretion with their secret. Therein was his leverage.
Rochat’s course of action immediately became clear. He filtered the contacts on his phone to “Clients.” The result was a single name—Lucrezia Bogdanić, vice president and legal counsel for Lunargistics, LLC. He clicked to create a new, encrypted message and then attached the photograph he’d just taken of the final spacecraft assembled from various company permit applications. He thumbed in the following text:
If I figured it out, so will others. I can help you keep it secret.
After a moment’s hesitation, Rochat tapped “Send,” and the encrypted message was on its way.
Whoever was behind this had billions to spend developing and building a secret spaceship. Surely they could spare a tiny bit more to retain Sirius Legal Services.
CHAPTER 11
The Mindfucker
FEBRUARY 8, 2033
A voice spoke over the camp’s PA system. “Ascan 3-6-3. Ascan 3-6-3. Change into utilities and report to Dr. Bruno’s office in Building A immediately.”
James Tighe looked up from a group problem-solving exercise.
The other candidates murmured.
Jin Han and Isabel Abarca exchanged knowing glances but said nothing. They knew what everyone knew: all candidates were eventually called to the psychological director’s office for a one-on-one. Not all candidates returned.
With a nod to Jin and Abarca, Tighe headed back to barracks for a shower and a change of clothes.
Building A had been the original NASA building for Devil’s Ashpit Tracking Station. Now it was used by camp administration. After waiting in an anteroom, Tighe was shown into an orderly office with a broad view of the grounds.
Dr. Angela Bruno sat not at her large desk in the corner but in one of two cushioned leather chairs arranged around a coffee table. Bruno was a diminutive woman with long gray hair. She wore a thick wool sweater and simple black plastic-frame eyeglasses. In her hands she held a computer tablet.
“James Tighe. Have a seat.” She motioned to the empty chair as she read through notes on the tablet. “You prefer to be called J.T.” She looked up. “Is there a reason you don’t use your given name?”
Tighe sat. He shook his head. “J.T. carries farther in a cave.”
She studied him for several moments. “If you wish to get into space, James, don’t do that again.”
“You mean bullshit you?”
“Yes.”
He consciously willed himself not to bob his leg or fidget, and he looked her directly in the eye. This small woman terrified him. He wasn’t certain why.
“I’m not here to counsel you or to help you work through your problems. I’m here to identify your problems—to drag them out into the light, so we can have a look at them. To see if they’re fatal to a career in space.”
“Understood.”
“You have a criminal record, James. One that you did not disclose to us.”
A flash of adrenaline swept over Tighe. “My juvenile record was expunged on my eighteenth birthday. So, no, I don’t have a criminal record.”
She spoke calmly, methodically. “Our client does not care about the juvenile records laws in Wisconsin. We will use all available data to make business decisions, and you should know that data, once gathered, never goes away—ever. Instead, it is bought and sold. Worldwide. You demonstrated antisocial tendencies as a youth. A fact you withheld from us.”
Tighe took a deep breath. “I had some difficulties as a boy. I worked through them, and now I’m an adult.”
“In grade school you were a model student, but as a teenager your classwork deteriorated. Even though you received individual tutoring and attended a well-regarded private school, your grades were terrible. You were frequently absent. Often disciplined. Your school counselors described you as ‘highly intelligent but alienated.’”
“I graduated.”
“Most likely a social promotion. I think they just wanted to get rid of you.”
“There were family issues.”
“Your stepbrother and stepsister, and your half brother, did well in school. There’s no record of any domestic or substance abuse in your household. No legal or financial problems. The only police reports relate to your own trespassing offenses.”
“You looked up old police reports?”
“We are not going to send people into space unless they are fully vetted.”
“The trespassing was urban exploration—something I was involved in.”
“Sneaking into industrial and civic infrastructure to explore.”
Tighe nodded.
“What motivated you to visit places you weren’t supposed to be?”
“Curiosity.” He paused. “And a desire to stay away from home.”
She made a few notes. “Let’s talk about your biological father. He disappeared when you were five.” She looked closely at Tighe. “And yet, your school grades and attendance remained solid at the time. Was his disappearance in any way related to your acting out later on?”
“I barely remember my father.”
“Yet you travel with a photo of him. So he is important to you.”
“You went through my personal things?”
“We’re not your friend, James. Our client plans to spend billions of dollars to send a small group of people into space. Who they send will determine whether the company succeeds or fails. We will do whatever is necessary to make sure they send the right people. If you find my line of questioning invasive, you are free to drop out of selection at any time.”
Tighe tried to calm himself. This wasn’t a typical psychoanalysis session—like the many he’d experienced as a child. The company had done a serious background investigation of him. And they weren’t trying to “cure” him.
“Why do you keep a photo of your father with you if you barely remember him?”
“I wanted to know him. I think I have fond memories, but I’m not sure. I could be conflating them with stories I’ve seen or heard elsewhere. That photo is all I have.”
“And your stepfather?”
“He’s fine. I never had a problem with Andrew.”
“What do you think happened to your real father? Do you think he’s dead? Or do you think he abandoned you and your mother?”
“I think he’s dead. My father had a habit of taking long hiking trips alone.”
“He was declared missing in Jasper National Park in the Canadian Rockies. His park permit indicated he intended to cover nearly 120 kilometers over rugged terrain. Solo.”
“He was reckless. Look, I remember I missed him whenever he was gone, and I was happy to see him whenever he came back. My mother wasn’t usually happy to see him, but I think they did have some good times.”
“Do you think your mother recalls it that way?”
Tighe searched for words. “She struggled financially. I remember that.”
“You were desperately poor, James.” She glanced through her notes. “Your mother came from an abusive household. For much of your early childhood, you were on food assistance programs.”
“I don’t remember much about that time.”
“You nonetheless performed well once you reached school age. You were reported to be a sociable and happy child according to Wisconsin Child Welfare Services reports.”
Tighe narrowed his eyes. “You got ahold of child services records?”
“Tell me again why you don’t think your father abandoned you.”
“Why does it matter?”
“Because you said you barely remember him.”
“What I do remember makes it likely he had an accident—alone in the woods somewhere—and died. He didn’t seem unhappy, at least not around me. Do you have evidence otherwise?”
“Why didn’t his disappearance affect you? Why did you disengage from your education only years later and not right away?”
Tighe stared out the windows to the camp beyond. But his mind was looking much farther.
* * *
—
Tighe is small—perhaps four or five years old—and wearing a stained blue parka as he follows his mother behind a big-box retail store, toward the dumpsters. They hold hands as they stagger across ice patches on the asphalt. His mother holds a garbage bag over one shoulder. She eyes the store’s metal rear door and the surveillance camera above it, then turns to him. He can see her face, devoid of makeup.
Her brown eyes look into his, and she gives him a smile as she tugs the zipper on his coat tighter. “Honey, you stand there, and you look into that camera. Will you do that for Mommy?” She smiles at him. “Will you look into that camera for me?”
He nods.
With that, his mother moves over toward the recycling bins and opens the metal lid.
Tighe stares up at the security camera.
The security camera stares back. No one comes out to stop them.
* * *
—
He and his mother sleep in the back seat of their faded brown car with the rusted quarter panels. Tighe can still remember the mildew odor. It is summer, and the windows are open only a crack. The air is close. Nonetheless his mother holds him tightly, wrapping him in her arms, and it is too hot. He squirms, and she wakes.
“You can’t sleep, honey? You need to sleep, sweetheart. You have school tomorrow.” She kisses his forehead.
He turns to her silhouette in the dark. “Where is he?”
“It’s just us now, sweetheart. You and me. We need to take care of each other.”
* * *
—
Tighe is only slightly older, coming home to a garden apartment, letting himself in with his key. He hangs his school backpack on a chairback and goes to the kitchen. He finds a note from his mother. It tells him she will be back from work by six, and he goes to sit in front of the television.
Later, he hears rattling at the door, and he smiles as his mother enters. She’s dressed in slacks and a polo shirt with a company name on it—Beris Industrial Supply. She smiles as she sees him, hugs him, and kisses him on the cheek. “How was your day, sweetheart?”
* * *
—
Tighe is eight and staring up at the big-jowled man who’s come to meet him. He turns toward his mother, then back to the man—who wears a nice suit jacket and a dress shirt open at the neck. He wears polished black leather shoes like the successful men on TV and cologne that invades Tighe’s nostrils.
His mother says, “Jimmy, this is Mr. Beris. What do we say?”
“Hello, Mr. Beris.”
“Hello there, Jimmy. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” The man leans down, smiles, and extends his thick-fingered hand. “I’ve heard so much about you. Call me Andrew.”
The man shakes Tighe’s hand. The hand is soft, not like his father’s was.
“I’d like for us to be friends. Would that be okay?”
Tighe nods.
* * *
—
Tighe is older now—thirteen—and his mother glares at him as he sits in the back of a police car. He can see the police officer speaking with his mother and stepfather. His stepbrother and stepsister look on from the living room window.
His stepfather’s company employs a lot of people in town. They let him off with a warning. But then, it’s not the first time he’s explored places he shouldn’t. Broken into buildings. It’s becoming a pattern.
His stepfather explains something to the police and shakes his head. Then all three adults look back at the patrol car. At Tighe. So do his stepsiblings. It occurs to Tighe that he is the only one of them whose last name is Tighe.
Later he stares at the ceiling of his own bedroom as he listens to his mother and stepfather argue about him. About what to do with him. He gazes around at his nicely furnished bedroom.
Tighe takes no comfort in things. Everything he cared about has vanished. Not even people are permanent. They all drift away—sometimes even when they’re right in front of you.
* * *
—
Tighe sat, numb, as he realized a significant period of time had passed. Out the window, the light had faded toward evening. He looked to Dr. Bruno, who looked dispassionately back at him.
“Do you blame your mother for remarrying?”
Tighe shook his head. “Andrew was a good man. His children were kind to me. My mother had security for the first time in her life.”
“You felt betrayed.”
“I don’t have a right to feel betrayed.”
“Not about her remarrying—about her giving up on you.”
Hearing it out loud for the first time hurt. A lot.
Dr. Bruno pressed. “That’s the situation, isn’t it? All of the advantages that she obtained for you and that you squandered. Your half brother and stepsiblings succeeding in her eyes.”
Tighe struggled to keep it together. “I think she sees my father when she looks at me. And I think he caused her a lot of pain.”
“Didn’t you cause her a lot of pain? Didn’t you disappear, too?”
Tighe felt a familiar guilt. “I tried. She saw the worst motivations in anything I did. I was just a confused kid. I wanted to get away from the constant disapproval. To escape. Who wants to stay around people who don’t like who they are?”
Dr. Bruno looked through her notes. “Your recent signing bonus—you wired the majority of it to your stepsister’s husband. If you’re so estranged from your family, why did you do that?”
“Repaying a debt. Or part of one.”
“Your stepsister and her husband have a net worth of over six million dollars.”
Tighe turned to her in surprise.
“Were you not aware of that?”
“No.”
“Within forty-eight hours of receiving the money, your brother-in-law transferred it into an account that he used to purchase sixteen thousand dollars’ worth of sports memorabilia.”
Tighe felt a familiar anger. Money had always eluded him. He knew it had to do with patience and owning things, but he just didn’t seem to have the knack. “It was his money.”
“You don’t resent the fact that you needed it and he didn’t?”
“I made my own bed, and now I have to lie in it.”
“Your mother and stepfather provided the down payment for your siblings’ first homes. They paid for their college educations as well—both undergraduate and graduate school, totaling several hundred thousand dollars.”
Tighe looked warily at Dr. Bruno. “You’re telling me this because you want me to be angry.”
“I’m telling you this because it’s true. Your family loaned you money at interest, while other family members were given substantial gifts.”
Tighe took a calming breath. “What my siblings received wasn’t a gift. It was an investment. My stepbrother and stepsister, my half brother, they did what was expected of them. It’s what my mother and stepfather believe in. Going to graduate school, becoming a lawyer, getting an MBA—these are worthwhile investments to them. Having children. A professional career.”
