Critical Mass, page 14
“Nothing to say?”
“That salute was a professional courtesy, nothing more.”
“But why were you there?” The man stowed the tablet. “I want to help you, Captain, but I cannot do that if you betray China. Are you making a deal with the Americans for those asteroid resources in lunar orbit? You may be unaware, but China has lawfully purchased the Konstantin and its payload.”
Jin bristled. “Lawfully? There is nothing lawful about what happened out at—”
The man held up his hand. “You were right to be angry with Mr. Joyce’s creditors, but they have been punished for what they did to you and your crewmates. In fact, those responsible for dismissing you from the CNSA space program have also been sacked. Beijing is proud of you, Captain. Great things await you back home. We want you to lead China’s push into deep space.”
“Did my father send you?”
The man shook his head. “No, your father is under house arrest.”
Jin frowned. “Arrest? Why would he be under arrest?”
The man ignored the question. “You will be the most famous explorer since Zheng He. Schoolchildren will learn of your exploits for centuries to come. You will be admired for your accomplishments.” The man gestured toward the rental car with Tighe still asleep in the passenger seat. “Leave this guilo. Come with us. Return to China. Become the hero you were meant to be.”
Jin asked, “Are Isabel Abarca and Adedayo Adisa still alive?”
The man put a hand on Jin’s shoulder. “I know only what they tell me, but come with us. You can ask the leadership yourself.” The man’s eyes looked past Jin.
Jin turned to see a local police car slowly drive by in the parking lot.
After a pause the man continued. “Do you really believe that Priya Chindarkar went to visit her brother and sister in India? And so urgently?”
Jin stared.
“Her family lives in Mumbai, but she flew in to Chennai—a thousand kilometers southeast. Do you know what is right next to Chennai? Satish Dhawan Space Centre.”
Jin felt the shock course through him. Why would Priya go to the Indian space agency? He was afraid he knew why. But could he really believe that?
“Do you think that is a coincidence? She is passing the coordinates for your robot tugs to her government.” He pressed a finger to his temple. “Think, Captain. These foreigners are deceiving you. Why did you wind up at Cape Canaveral? Why are you out here, wasting your time? They are trying to keep China down.”
The man pointed again to the rental car. “James Tighe has been meeting with his American handlers your entire journey. How many times has he disappeared while you wondered where he was?”
Several more police cars suddenly entered the parking lot, along with a couple of unmarked vehicles.
The man noticed these, then calmly stood. “You know the way home, Captain.”
“What of my father?”
“If you return to China, then I’m sure he will be fine.” With that, the men all dispersed, walking in different directions just as the police cars pulled to a stop alongside.
Jin watched officers get out and accost several of the men, asking for ID. Yet none of the police bothered Jin. Instead he could see an unmarked black sedan parked across from him, a Caucasian woman and a Black man, both conservatively dressed, sitting inside—and looking directly at him.
He was being watched by both governments. Of course. There was a great deal at stake.
After a moment the black sedan rolled forward. The man in the passenger seat nodded to Jin, before the car departed the parking lot.
Jin turned to look at Tighe, still asleep in the rental car. Then he thought of Chindarkar supposedly visiting family in India.
Could he really afford to trust either of them, now that they had returned to Earth?
CHAPTER 10
Oga
SEPTEMBER 14, 2038
Lukas Rochat watched his seven-year-old son contemplate the chessboard between them. “Your turn, Nigel.”
His son chewed his lip whenever he concentrated, and Rochat wondered with some concern if that was going to become a habit. Still, he couldn’t help but marvel that he’d had anything whatever to do with creating the boy—who seemed wholly wonderful. That Rochat would ever teach his son chess—particularly after his own father had terrorized him with the game as a child—was a testament to how much the past few years had revised Rochat’s priorities. He now recognized the broad utility in learning at a young age to think three moves ahead of an opponent.
Nigel widened his eyes in realization and smiled. “I know!” He moved his bishop, then sat back, beaming.
The move wasn’t terrible. “You’re improving.”
His son laughed. “You should give up now.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“Dad, what’s the shortest time to lose a chess game?”
Just then the disembodied voice of an AI assistant spoke from the ceiling. “Mr. Rochat, you have a call on the secure video line. Will you accept?”
Rochat looked up.
Nigel groaned in exaggerated frustration. “But I’m winning.”
“And you’ll still be winning when I return.” Rochat spoke to the ceiling, “Emily, what country is the call from?”
“The call originates from Lyon, France; however, the IP address belongs to a known VPN. The caller’s face and voice do not match any of your contacts.”
Rochat nodded to himself. “Tell the caller I will be there momentarily.”
“I will ask them to hold.”
His son whined, “Dad, let’s finish.”
Rochat stood. “Some things cannot wait, Nigel.”
“You promised no calls today.”
Rochat walked around the board and straightened his son’s shirt. “You’re right. I did promise, and I will try harder to keep my promises. But this call could make your future a lot brighter.”
“That’s what you always say.”
“And I always mean it.” Rochat turned to go. “I won’t be long.” He spoke to the ceiling. “Emily, add an hour to Nigel’s video game allowance.”
His son brightened considerably. “Make it two.”
Rochat let a slight smirk escape. That’s my boy. He turned to the ceiling. “Deal. Emily, make that two hours.” Rochat then walked into the hall and up the main staircase.
It still amazed him that he could afford such a fine home—a 150-year-old stone mansion in the Kirchberg neighborhood of Luxembourg City, with high ceilings and tall windows—all newly restored. Just six years ago he was broke—his fledgling space law firm a failure. He’d been preparing to return in defeat to his partner and infant son in Switzerland when he uncovered Nathan Joyce’s secret project. Since then he’d done everything possible to make himself indispensable to the billionaire. And it had worked. His partner finally joined him here from her law practice in Vevey, bringing Nigel. They were a family once more.
It was an acknowledgment of Rochat’s success, but then, he no longer craved the trappings of material success as he once did. Instead, he desired actual power—in pursuit of a goal that Nathan Joyce had gifted him. A goal that would matter to his son’s generation more than his own.
Rochat stopped in front of his home office and in a moment the facial recognition software identified him. The door clicked open, and he moved inside, pausing to be sure it locked behind him. He crossed the room—lined with books and architectural models of spacecraft and robots—toward a walk-in closet that had been retrofitted as his own secure communication facility.
Inside he confirmed the scanning system was already powered up. A glance at a monitor showed the caller was still waiting. Rochat closed and locked the door, checked a sensor to confirm no eavesdropping devices were present, then sat in a lone office chair, the focal point of an array of soft LED lights. Rochat checked his appearance in a reference monitor. Satisfied, he then spoke to the AI. “Emily, stop listening in this room.”
“I will no longer listen here. Good-bye.”
With that, Rochat dimmed the room at the edges, leaving himself in an island of soft light, surrounded by darkness. Then he connected the comm line. In a moment, a ghostly apparition resolved—a translucent hologram of a face he recognized from old World War II newsreels.
Before him sat a black-and-white projection of British prime minister Winston Churchill scowling. In a fairly convincing imitation of Churchill’s voice, the deepfake said sternly, “Do you think my time worthless?”
Rochat hesitated. “How can I be certain this is you, if you won’t show me your true face?”
“My own voice and face could be just as easily faked—especially were I to expose them on such frivolous transmissions as this. You know full well who I am and why I call.”
The software did not entirely erase the cadence and accent of the speaker. There was a Nigerian voice still. “Mr. Oyekan.”
The deepfake glared. “You presume to speak names.”
“This channel is quantum encrypted. Any interception will immediately sever the line.”
“Your sudden knowledge of QKD schemes interests me—particularly since you were so reckless back in Ajegunle.” The Churchill avatar studied Rochat. “May Joyce rot in hell. I too easily forget that you were his right hand. Did he teach you his mastery of acting the fool?”
Rochat remained stone-faced. “Nathan taught me many things. One being that too many people read Sun Tzu and Machiavelli when instead they should read Robert Graves.”
Churchill’s silent appraisal continued for a beat. “More likely Joyce bequeathed you his dossier on me.”
Oh, yes, Rochat thought. Nathan Joyce’s files on businessmen, politicians, and underworld figures alike had proven highly useful. “I know you are a twin—or were a twin.”
“Hardly a revelation. The Yoruba have the highest rate of dizygotic twinning in the world.”
“You are Taiwo Oyekan, oga of Ẹgbẹ Ọdẹ—the satellite hunters.”
The deepfake of Churchill contemplated Rochat for several moments. “My staff tells me you refuse to transfer ownership of Adedayo’s shares to us. Must I demonstrate the earnestness of my wishes?”
“I wanted to speak with you first.”
“Then you should have done so in person—as a man does—back when you were in Lagos. Instead of hiding in your armored car like a woman.”
Rochat felt calm. Prepared. “I needed you to reveal yourself to me first—publicly—which you would only have done if you believed me a fool.”
“Do not trifle with me or Adedayo’s family will suffer.”
A musical note played, and Rochat saw that Oyekan had sent a file to him.
“This is a death certificate for Adedayo Adisa—as well as his last will and testament listing one of my enterprises as his heir. I expect the formal transfer of ownership to be executed today in the presence of our notary in Luxembourg City.”
Rochat didn’t bother opening the document. “I have a newer version of Adedayo’s will.”
Churchill now looked genuinely angry. “If you tell me his family inherits, then they will not be long for this world. You will dispose of any subsequent wills and do as I instruct. I warn you: diluting your company stock will be interpreted as theft. And I detest thieves.”
Rochat replied coolly, “The situation has changed, Mr. Oyekan.”
“Do not take me for a fool. I know what it is that Joyce has done in space—this Konstantin vessel—and where Adedayo has been these past five years. Out at the asteroid Ryugu. Your network security is sloppy. You have no secrets from me, Mr. Rochat.”
Rochat looked Churchill in the eye, just as Joyce had taught him to do when slipping in the metaphorical knife. “Was I sloppy, or did we let you in? The United States and Chinese governments are the ones you need to worry about—especially since you are now on their radar.”
“Is this your attempt to frighten me? To get me to walk away from what is rightfully mine?”
“Not at all. I’m merely observing a fact: if you try to claim Adedayo Adisa’s shares, they will be taken from you by your own patrons within the Nigerian government—who will sell them to either the Chinese or the Americans. You might get some cash, but that is all. These asteroid resources in lunar orbit are too strategically important to the superpowers to remain with you.”
The deepfake avatar stared.
“You may believe you can conceal this transaction from your own patron, your oba in the Ministry of Defense. However, both China and the United States are well acquainted with the patronage network in Nigeria’s ministries. They know who you work for. They will note the stock transfer and follow the trail of shell corporations—especially after they witnessed our public encounter in Lagos.”
“This insolence will be punished.”
“Your superiors will soon tell you to back off, and your side hustle with me will be brought to a swift end. The only thing that will change is that America or China will own part of Catalyst, instead of Adedayo.”
“And I will have made money.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, threatening me is pointless. The superpowers—and thus your oba—will not allow you to harm me.”
Oyekan continued to stare, apparently trying to ascertain the truth of what he’d just heard. “Then why do I have the feeling our meeting is not at an end?”
Rochat leaned forward. “Because I wish to partner with you, Taiwo—with the Ẹgbẹ Ọdẹ—secretly and separate of Catalyst Corporation. I do not want the US or China, or your own patrons, to believe that you and I are anything but bitter enemies.”
“We are enemies, of this I can assure you.”
“Partner with me. I want you to secure our deep space communications satellites against cyberattack from Earth.”
The avatar of Churchill laughed. “Why would I betray my patrons and anger the Chinese and the Americans to partner with you?”
“For shares that no one on Earth will know about. Shares that could one day be worth hundreds of billions—perhaps trillions.”
“One day.” Oyekan’s deepfake sat for several moments in silence before he finally said, “Like Nathan Joyce, you are a fool who will wind up dead.”
“Perhaps. But tell me, Mr. Oyekan, did your brother, Kehinde, provoke the powerful?”
Oyekan’s avatar looked positively menacing now. “Do not ever speak of my brother.”
“No. Your brother did not provoke the powerful. Instead, Kehinde was dutiful and loyal, and was nonetheless sacrificed as a pawn in a dispute between factions that no one even remembers. That is what it is to be powerless.”
“You will find out that I am far from powerless.”
“I often wonder why it is that Africa is still in thrall to the industrialized world. It is 2038, after all. Are Africans simply incapable of competing on the world stage, Mr. Oyekan?”
The deepfake pounded the arm of his chair angrily, shouting, “What do you know of it? Colonialism did not end! Do you think the borders of the nations of Africa were drawn by Africans? They were set by colonizers in the Berlin Conference of 1885—running roughshod over our cultural boundaries. The Franҫafrique controlled the currencies, interest rates, and 70 percent of the foreign reserves of west and central Africa for decades! Their multinationals still have veto power over resource deals. American, British, and Chinese money is all around us, paying to divide us, one against the other. For centuries. No one in Africa rises except with the permission of the great powers. Patronage is what runs Africa. And whether you admit it or not, patronage runs the West as well, Mr. Rochat. You would do well to remember this.”
Rochat nodded. “Yes, there are always those who are willing to sell their own people’s sovereignty to outsiders in exchange for wealth and power—to defeat their local rivals. There’s nothing on Earth that can change that.”
“Precisely.”
“Nothing on Earth.” He pointed up. “But that changes when we think in more dimensions.”
Oyekan regarded Rochat warily.
“As long as the nations of Africa are not in control of their economic destiny, they will live in thrall to outside powers. Because those outside powers will always be able to reach in and pay off whatever political leaders, or generals, or warlords they need to get their way. But if Africa can generate its own wealth—beyond the Earthly interests that infest and divide it; wealth from a new frontier where no power at present holds command—then you would finally have a chance to break the cycle. To liberate your continent.”
Oyekan studied Rochat. “You believe me to be an idealist? I have seen what happens to idealists. That, too, is the history of Africa.”
“I’m not looking for an idealist. I want a partner with ambition and a desire to become very wealthy and very powerful. The great powers were not always great. No, they took what they have. ‘Power concedes nothing without demand—’ ”
Oyekan finished the quote. “ ‘It never did, and it never will.’ ” He stared at Rochat for several moments. “You are more dangerous than I thought for a Swiss—dangerous to both of us. Do not forget that Joyce got himself killed. Do you intend to follow in his footsteps? I have no wish to.”
“Nathan was like Icarus. He flew too high, but I learned from his trajectory. I want Ẹgbẹ Ọdẹ to act as a shadow cybersecurity partner for something new—a decentralized autonomous organization, a DAO—in deep space formed with crypto assets that are not readily visible to outsiders. We have blockchain-driven smart contracts through which we are financing operations. That is where the real growth will occur in cislunar markets. I wanted you to discover the proof of those asteroid resources in lunar orbit because I am suggesting you step up and stake your own claim on this new frontier, Mr. Oyekan. After all, frontiers are not settled by saints.”
