Delta-v, page 20
“Coward!”
Dahl watched, laughing. At some point Tighe’s eyes met hers.
She brushed against his arm. “You seem happy.” Her barely detectable accent did mysterious things to him.
“This is all new to me. Relaxing, I mean.”
She wore a red one-piece bathing suit that was practical yet did not leave much to the imagination. The fragrance of sunblock on her skin quickened his pulse. Over the long months in Antarctica her blond hair had grown, and she now kept it in a French braid. She stroked it. “Feel like exploring the island?”
“Hell, I’m up for anything.”
* * *
—
That evening the group stared at a star-filled sky as they sipped wine on benches at the sailboat’s stern. Anchored just off the coast, they had extinguished the lights and listened as gentle waves lapped against the hull. The sound seemed to soothe even Tsukada, who for once didn’t have her earbuds in.
Abarca spoke to Jin’s silhouette. “You decide on that job with FSG yet?”
“I am considering it.”
“Where are they based?”
“French Guiana.”
Morra grunted. “Bloody hell. It’s about time. Can they get you into space?”
“They say they can. There is a spot in an orbital certification class in late November.”
Yakovlev looked up. “The one run by Evenstar? At Hotel LEO?”
Jin nodded.
Yakovlev laughed. “Could be same class J.T. and I are taking.”
Tighe cleared his throat. “Harbinger hasn’t sent us to orbit yet. They could be all talk, Yak.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. It is a few million dollars. For tech company this is nothing.”
Chindarkar pointed up. “Look, a meteor!”
The others oohed as they watched it streak across the heavens.
Abarca asked, “Priya, will you be going back to the ISRO?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m talking to a couple startups. I figure if J.T. can get into orbit, a person with my skills should have no problem.”
Dahl laughed.
“You’re hilarious.” Tighe tossed a napkin at Chindarkar.
Adisa suddenly said, “Do any of you recall a woman named Rachel Gardner?”
Everyone turned to him.
Clarke asked, “Who’s Rachel Gardner?”
“She was on Ascension with us—a former war correspondent.”
Yak made a cutting motion across his throat. “Yegorov dismissed her as corporate spy.”
Adisa turned to him. “For being a journalist, but yes, she was dismissed from candidate selection. She is writing an article on Catalyst Corporation—but really about Nathan Joyce, I think. She contacted me with some questions.”
Abarca put down her glass of wine. “Recently?”
“Today.”
“I hope you didn’t tell her anything, Ade.” Dahl leaned against Tighe. “Remember the confidentiality agreement.”
“I have not spoken to her.” He paused. “But she did say something interesting in her text. She said Catalyst is in financial trouble.”
Morra laughed. “Ha! No shit.”
“She said that Catalyst did not actually purchase seats into orbit from Burkett or Macy—Catalyst only put down a deposit.”
Tighe whistled. “Wow. So it’s like I thought—a publicity stunt.”
Chindarkar asked, “Where does that leave the chosen ones? Joyce still has them doing publicity all over.”
Clarke nodded. “And under contract. I’ll bet we stand a better chance of getting into orbit than they do. It almost makes me feel sorry for them.”
There was a moment of silence.
Morra said, “Almost.”
CHAPTER 20
Escaping Earth
NOVEMBER 26, 2033
James Tighe emerged from a microbus into Florida sunshine, wearing his bright-blue flight suit and carrying a battery-powered breathing apparatus. His helmet was zipped shut and his suit pressurized to maintain quarantine.
Behind him Sevastian Yakovlev disembarked, followed by Priya Chindarkar, both of them in identical pressurized blue flight suits. Each of their names was emblazoned on a fabric patch over their hearts, beneath the logo patch of their respective employers—Harbinger Aerospace for both Tighe and Yakovlev, and a Swiss company named PsiStar for Chindarkar. A patch of their national flags was also stitched onto their left shoulders.
The three of them stopped and stared up at the Starion Block 9 Zephyr rocket towering over the launchpad—George Burkett’s rocket. Their employers had made them Burkett’s paying passengers this morning.
Yakovlev was happier than Tighe had ever seen him—giddy, in fact. The Russian took a deep breath of filtered air and shouted, “It is beautiful day to fly!”
Elizabeth Josephson, the former ESA flight surgeon, Katsuka Akira, the round-the-world solo sailor, and Michael Harris, the geologist, exited the microbus, likewise in pressurized flight suits. Harris was also flying for PsiStar, Josephson and Akira for a Japanese pharmaceutical company named Mobio.
Uniformed NASA security officers carrying computer tablets greeted them. One pointed downward. “Spaceflight participants, to this line, please.”
One of the guards scanned the ID badge hanging on Tighe’s flight suit, while the other officers approached his companions. “Passport and launch certification please, Mr. Tighe.”
Tighe withdrew his passport and certification from a Mylar envelope on a lanyard around his neck. It contained all his documentation.
The officer took photos of Tighe’s documents with his tablet. “Class 3 Medical Certificate, please.”
Tighe searched through his packet and handed it over.
Two officers examined Tighe’s paperwork.
“Confirm for me your employer and the purpose of your visit to space.”
“Harbinger Aerospace. Orbital flight training.”
“And your destination?”
“The Hotel LEO.”
“The duration of your stay in orbit?”
“Two weeks.”
“Your PPK, please.”
Tighe passed along his Personal Preference Kit, a sealed polymer bag containing his personal effects.
The officer weighed the bag on a digital scale and it came up just shy of 1 kilogram. He handed it back to Tighe.
Another officer placed his tablet in front of Tighe. “Your signature on this affidavit indicates your agreement to comply with international rules concerning alteration of the natural orbits of celestial bodies and/or orbital objects capable of impacting Earth and/or lawful spacecraft. Should you create space debris, you are hereby legally bound to report such incident, detailing the object’s mass, estimated trajectory, and all pertinent details. If you agree, sign here.”
Tighe signed the tablet with his gloved finger.
Just then Yak and Harris called out, pointing skyward.
Tighe turned to see a rocket lifting off miles away, its brilliant flame riding a tower of white smoke into the dawn sky. It performed a gravity turn as it headed east across the Atlantic.
It was Jack Macy’s rocket—built by his aerospace company, Zenith—and on board were Isabel Abarca, David Morra, Eike Dahl, Nicole Clarke, an American chemist named Caitlin Long, and Amy Tsukada. They’d all signed up with different NewSpace companies in various industries—communications, fiber optics, and pharmaceuticals—and were going into orbit as paying passengers, too.
Harris said, “There they go.”
Tighe willed the rocket to keep climbing.
Yak applauded. “Ha! Go, my friends!”
Suddenly a series of deafening booms reached them, like the drum solo of the gods. It was as if the sky was being torn asunder.
Yak reveled. “Now is our turn.”
* * *
—
As they waited for liftoff in Burkett’s sleek Starion capsule, Tighe watched the capsule commander, their seventh launch passenger, run through launch checklists. Major Eileen Willis—a former NASA astronaut—was headed into orbit to help run Evenstar’s orbital training class at the Hotel LEO. The journey was automated, but in the event of a malfunction with the autodocking system, they’d have Major Willis on board to bring them in manually.
Harris turned to Yak. “Why was it so important to watch that film last night?”
“White Sun of the Desert? Wery important film.”
“It had nothing to do with space.”
“It is tradition.”
Major Willis turned to them. “Make ready! T minus one minute and counting.”
Tighe took a deep breath. This was really going to be an experience—and if anything went wrong during the launch, a short experience.
As the countdown closed toward zero, a deep rumbling began and the capsule vibrated. Then it felt like a horse kicked Tighe in the back as the cabin shook. Glancing out the porthole window, Tighe could see they were already clear of the launchpad.
Yak whooped with joy.
The others responded in kind.
“Throttling to 70 percent.”
In a half minute or so the vibrations slowed, and the voice of mission control came through Tighe’s earphones. “We are at max Q.”
Major Willis responded on the radio. “Max Q confirmed.”
After a few more moments, mission control said, “Throttling to one hundred percent.”
The g-forces increased, and the slipstream outside wailed like a lost soul. In a couple of minutes the vibrations eased entirely, but the g-forces kept increasing. Then they relented momentarily.
“MECO.”
The capsule jolted.
Mission control’s voice: “We have first-stage separation. Second-stage engine start confirmed.”
The capsule commander tapped at touchscreens. “Roger that, mission control.”
The g-forces increased again, but Tighe recalled the human centrifuge back on Ascension Island. This was nothing compared to that. Outside it was now both day and night at the same time, with the curving blue rim of the Earth spreading out below against a wall of blackness.
Finally the engine noise stopped and the g-forces faded away. They now coasted in complete silence. In freefall.
“We have SECO.”
The commander turned to her passengers. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to space.”
* * *
—
Truly in microgravity for the first time, Tighe felt good. Looking out the porthole, just beyond Chindarkar’s seat, he could see the Pacific Ocean gliding past 400 kilometers below.
She turned to him and grinned. “I knew it would be beautiful. I just can’t believe how—”
The sound of retching came to them, and they turned to see Harris with his helmet unzipped, heaving into a microgravity vomit bag. The geologist looked miserable, with small globules of vomit floating near his face.
Tighe stopped turning his head so much—at least this early on. Sudden movements could bring on disorientation and what the instructors called “space adaptation syndrome.”
Yak spoke in soothing tones to Harris. “Space sickness wery common, Michael. I was sick myself, first time.”
Harris gasped for air. “Just stop talking about it, please. . . .”
* * *
—
Six hours later the Starion capsule closed in on the Hotel LEO’s orbit. Financed by billionaire Ray Halser, and lifted into orbit by Jack Macy’s rockets, nowadays the world’s first orbiting hotel hosted more employees of space startups than rich tourists.
The “hotel” consisted of eight large inflatable habitats rounded on both ends. Each had a single window on the side facing toward Earth. The habs were joined in an irregular pattern by aluminum connecting modules, with solar panels and antenna dishes jutting out in places. There were several docking ports, one of which was already occupied by a Zenith capsule.
The automatic docking system brought them in as the capsule commander stood by, her hand hovering above a joystick, ready to take control in the event of a malfunction. However, moments later there was a slight bump into the docking port, and then the thunk of locking bolts. The passengers clapped—except for Harris, who was still zombified by misery.
A soothing male voice came in over the radio. “Starion-4-6, the staff of the Hotel LEO welcomes you.”
CHAPTER 21
Hotel LEO
Most people on Earth had heard of Raymond Halser’s orbiting hotel. It was the sort of place that eventually wound up profiled by just about every current events or celebrity news show—the most exotic of destinations for the adventurous rich. The Hotel LEO (short for “low Earth orbit”) had been assembled across dozens of rocket launches throughout the late 2020s, and an imitation neon sign glowed outside the docking port declaring it “Open.”
However, the Hotel LEO was evolving into a business hotel for NewSpace companies. It had roughly twice the pressurized volume of the old International Space Station, and the individual compartments were much roomier—perfect for EVA training sessions.
As Tighe and his capsule-mates floated in through the airlock, they were greeted by the hotel manager, Kaspar Eld, a gregarious Swede in his thirties, who was dressed in a pinstripe flight suit and painted-on necktie. The outfit was clearly meant to evoke the hospitality industry but was also a mark of Eld’s sense of humor. He was immediately likable—which was no doubt why he’d been selected for this job.
Eld’s staff—a chief engineer, a flight surgeon, a nurse, two hospitality stewards, and two engineering/day porters—were cordial but professional, as would be the staff of any five-star hotel on Earth, and judging by the way they took charge of Harris, they also seemed to be experts on space sickness. No doubt ensuring rogue globules of floating vomit didn’t invade brunch probably kept the staff busy. Eld escorted the staff into the Commons Hab, a lobby-like open area about 7 meters high and 14 meters long. It had two sizable windows that opened on a breathtaking view of the Earth rolling past below. It reminded Tighe of photos he’d seen of old-time zeppelin travel in the 1920s.
Eld gestured. “We orbit Earth sixteen times a day—forty-five minutes on the dark side, forty-five minutes on the dayside.” He gestured to telescopes mounted on pedestals around the thick laminate windows. “When you are not in training, I recommend having a look. For now, please follow me. . . .”
Tighe and his companions moved through connecting hatchways and were led to their minuscule semiprivate cabins in other habs. Eld knocked on a plastic doorframe, and Tighe was surprised to see Adedayo Adisa’s face appear as an accordion door slid aside.
Adisa smiled. “J.T.!”
They hugged and slapped each other on the back.
“Looks like we’re roommates.” Tighe read the company patch on Adisa’s flight suit. “Neocom. Let me guess: communications satellites.”
Adisa laughed. “I have come full circle. I am to work on enhancing satellite security.”
“They hired the right guy.”
“Have you looked through the telescopes yet?”
A few minutes later Tighe and the others gathered around the hotel’s windows to take in the awe-inspiring sight of Earth. Morra, Abarca, Jin, Clarke, and many more of his colleagues from Concordia training gathered around the window’s edge. Still excited by the novelty of microgravity, some of them laughed and tumbled in midair as they awaited their turn on a telescope.
Tighe noticed Tsukada smiling as she floated past with Yakovlev. Far from looking sick in microgravity, she seemed at home in space—although with all the fans distributing air, it was hardly silent inside the hotel. Yak put his arm on Tsukada’s shoulder and pointed out sights below.
Tighe finally got his turn at one of the telescopes and found that he could spot individual ships plying the Pacific. Then he focused on cities—New York, London, Paris. It was extraordinary to see them live and in their entirety. It felt oddly godlike.
Eld gathered the Evenstar students for a group photo around the window, and everyone smiled—except for Harris and Long, who were both still sick in their cabins.
The hotel was near its thirty-six-person capacity, including staff. Eighteen guests from half a dozen NewSpace companies had arrived on three capsules for Evenstar’s orbital certification training class. Most of the other guests were business travelers—techs up to repair satellites or to service automated fiber optic and pharmaceutical manufacturing platforms.
However, as Tighe and Jin floated toward the far end of the lobby, they were startled by the sound of Chinese rap music. Two cameramen were filming a teenage Chinese rapper wearing a gold space suit with a Prada logo. He had a diamond-studded gold yuan symbol on a chain and scarlet sneakers with golden accents. He floated above an Earth-facing window, lip-synching to lyrics played over speakers as he made hand signals with his fingers, emphasizing the chorus.
“Mashang, motherfucker, méi bàn fâ!”
Adisa floated alongside Tighe and Jin, grooving to the music. He said, “You know who that is?”
Jin glared at him.
“Smoov-OB. He is quite popular in Lagos. Eld told me it is the first music video ever filmed in space—and we are here to witness it.”
Jin just shook his head in disgust and floated away.
* * *
—
After four days of classroom training sessions Tighe was informed by the instructors that he and Jin would be going out on their first EVA. They’d be tethered to the hotel and each would have an instructor alongside, but the trainees were also warned that space sickness was a possibility; with the surface of the Earth in view, they would get the strong sensation they were falling toward it—because they were. Willingly stepping out over a 200-mile drop alarmed most people.
