Critical Mass, page 23
They threw up their hands.
“Here we go . . .”
“It was unavoidable.”
Jin said, “Please tell me we still have our flight surgeon.”
Chindarkar added, “And our chemist.”
“Yes and yes.”
Tighe asked, “Who’s being substituted?”
“In exchange for approving the launch, the United States insisted that two official observers visit the station—to satisfy themselves that nothing nefarious is going on there. So I had to free up two launch seats. You lost your electrical engineer and your life support engineer.”
“Oh, they’re not important . . .”
Jin fumed. “You did not think to consult us first?”
“What happened to us ‘resisting’ Earth sanctions?”
“It was the best deal possible under the circumstances. You can’t operate up there without supplies or additional crew, Han. Some compromises had to be made.”
Chindarkar asked, “Who are these observers?”
“US Space Force personnel. Unarmed.”
Jin threw up his arms. “US military? And what if they turn out to be armed, Lukas? What then?”
“Before you get too upset, China and Russia will both soon be sending observers as well. In fact, China claims that they own Clarke Station outright.”
The team looked at one another.
Tighe said, “Is that a joke?”
Rochat shrugged. “Unfortunately, no. The legal situation is in flux. The larger and more international the crew is up there, the stronger our position becomes.”
Tighe stared at Rochat’s image. “Why in the hell would we trust government observers up here? They tried to claim the Ryugu resources. If it was up to them, this station wouldn’t even exist, and now they want to come for a ‘visit,’ as if everything’s okay? I say screw that.”
Chindarkar hesitated before saying, “J.T., we need supplies and our colleagues to have any chance to build the mass-driver, and the mass-driver is the only way we’ll be able to build a rescue ship.”
He turned to her. “Then why did we risk our lives sneaking off Earth if we were just going to cut a deal with government officials anyway? What was the point?”
Rochat answered instead. “Because now that you’re up there, you’re in physical control of the only long-term habitat beyond the Moon—at the edge of the Earth-Moon gravity well. It’s a strategic position. You can negotiate from strength, and no one has what you have at L2: propellant and mass. Now they have no choice but to take you seriously.”
Tighe folded his arms. “They’ll try to seize control, and we don’t have the manpower to keep an eye on them. I say no international observers on board. It’s too early. We need to focus on building a rescue ship.”
Chindarkar said, “Which requires building a mass-driver on the lunar surface. And for that we need experts and supplies, J.T.”
Jin pondered the situation.
Tighe looked at him. “You’re awfully quiet. You were pissed off about us being railroaded back at Cape Canaveral. Do you agree with me?”
Jin thought for several moments before he said, “This is different. There will be representatives from the US, China, and Russia. They will provide checks and balances to one another.”
Rochat looked visibly relieved. “Han’s right, J.T. You can’t ignore the major nations of the world. Otherwise, they’ll feel threatened, and while they can’t easily take over your station, they are quite capable of sending a missile to destroy it.”
Tighe: “Oh, come on—”
“But not if other international observers are on board.”
Chindarkar looked at Rochat’s image. “So we’ll have five of our own team members up here.” She counted. “Which makes eight of us. Versus the two observers.”
Tighe said, “For now, but then there’s also the Chinese and Russians.”
Rochat piped in. “Who won’t arrive until next month, and additional crew of ours will be coming up with them.”
Jin considered this. “Then it would be difficult for anyone to take over the station by force—as long as these observers are unarmed.”
“They’ll be thoroughly searched and screened by our security people prior to launch. And some more news: a cargo capsule is being sent directly to Clarke Station—not via the lunar cycler. It should arrive next week and will contain your Badger mining robot control systems and computer chips so Priya can begin to depose the chassis and housings to build the finished machines. The capsule will also contain solar power satellite assembly robots as well as four fully operational Talos robots. Celestial Robotics engineers will step you through setup.”
Chindarkar snapped alert. “Celestial Robotics?”
Jin frowned. “That’s Alan Goff’s company. What does Goff have to do with any of this?”
Rochat hesitated.
“Spit it out, Lukas.” Tighe stared.
“Your Talos robots . . . They’re produced by Celestial Robotics.”
“What the hell!” Tighe pounded the table and stood.
Jin leaned forward. “The humanoid robots we tested on Ascension Island are manufactured by Celestial Robotics?”
Rochat reluctantly nodded.
Tighe shouted, “It was Goff who killed David! And afterward, he cut a deal with Joyce to conceal our presence out at Ryugu! What the hell is the matter with you?”
“It was a malfunctioning machine that killed David, not Alan Goff.”
Chindarkar shook her head. “When were you planning on telling us this?”
“I thought you knew. You tested them.”
“Well, someone conveniently left off the CR logo.” Tighe paced. “Why would Julian do that to us?”
Rochat held up his hands. “Look, I realize you’re upset, but Alan Goff has come to a settlement with David’s family. He is making amends to them.”
They all looked at Rochat in surprise.
“What happened out at Ryugu was a terrible accident, but Goff had no reason to harm you. You were his last hope to get those CR mining robots working again. He says he was sickened by what happened to David.”
“Not sickened enough to tell the world about us.”
“Because he and Joyce broke numerous laws, J.T., but his engineers never stopped monitoring you from the cameras on the Argo. When the new owners took control and all contact with you was lost, it was Goff who told us you were alive. That’s why we never gave up trying to contact you.”
Tighe felt the momentum of his rage ebb.
Chindarkar contemplated this news. “Well . . . those Talos robots are the best telepresence systems I’ve ever seen. And they beat risking our own lives down on the lunar surface. That’s something Dave would have appreciated.”
“And David’s family now owns shares in Goff’s company.”
The team digested this news.
Tighe finally sat down again. “Well, then I guess for his family’s sake, we’d better put them to use.”
Jin and Chindarkar nodded in agreement.
Tighe looked up at Rochat. “So about these ‘international observers’—how long will they be staying with us?”
“That’s unknown.”
“What’s to stop more of them showing up without warning—twenty at a time?”
Jin nodded. “J.T. has a point. Any of the superpowers might try to take over the station by boarding us. Macy could cut a deal and send up fifty people in one of his Galleon rockets.”
Rochat said, “We have a strategy for dealing with that. We’ve declared a 200-meter exclusion zone around the station. Gabriel’s team will be enforcing it from here.”
They all looked at him.
“Enforcing it, how?”
“With remotely piloted spacecraft—if necessary.”
Chindarkar frowned. “That’s a bit aggressive, isn’t it?”
“Remember, you are on a frontier. Rule of law is only theoretical out there. Our stated reason for restricting arrivals is that there’s no margin for error. That we must carefully account for all resources—including oxygen. So invited guests only.”
“These folks are ‘guests,’ then? Meaning we can toss them out if they overstay their welcome?”
Rochat nodded. “Theoretically.”
“Just like we ‘theoretically’ own this station?”
He grimaced. “As I said: we are, all of us, in uncharted legal territory.”
CHAPTER 18
La Trocha
NOVEMBER 9, 2017
Ramón Carlos Marín moved through dense brush on a dusty, well-worn path littered with empty plastic bottles and assorted trash. Though it was just past dawn, the trail was crowded and the air hot. People of all ages weaved in and out of sight ahead of him as they marched, and he knew there were just as many people behind him. Some carried heavy burdens, and yet no one stopped to rest. Not here.
This area was patrolled by various armed groups—ELN, FARC, smugglers, traffickers, corrupt police—and although the border had been officially closed, five thousand people a day were still crossing from Venezuela to Colombia to escape the collapse of their economy. Taking la trocha—the shortcut.
And if life had taught Ramón anything, it was that shortcuts were usually dangerous. Especially when they were necessary.
As he walked, Ramón spied masked men with long guns lurking in the brush to either side of the path. He’d paid fourteen thousand pesos each for him and his little brother and sister to cross, but these men might be from a different group. It was impossible to know.
Turning around, Ramón laid eyes on his little brother, who had fallen slightly behind. “Luis! Stay close.”
“Where is the river?”
“Ahead. Come along.” The endless train of people indicated they were on the right path. He knew only that they had to cross the Táchira River to reach Colombia and the city of Cúcuta. That was their goal. That had been their goal for the past three weeks. If he’d known how difficult the journey from Caracas was going to be, Ramón wondered if he still would have attempted it.
Of course you would have. There was no other choice.
He had promised his father that he would take care of his brother and sister, and there was nothing left for them back in Caracas.
He adjusted the weight of his little sister, who rode on his back. She was light. Too light for five years old. Finding food on their journey had been difficult—but even more difficult back home.
She squirmed and asked sleepily, “Did we cross yet?”
“Not yet, chamita. Just be still.”
It had been such a long journey. They’d managed to hitch rides on trucks as far as Mérida, but after that it was impossible to find transportation. They’d had to walk the last 150 kilometers, joining an endless procession of people—including the elderly, pregnant women, and single mothers with children. The locals called the refugees caminantes—the walkers. They might have once been white-collar professionals, tradesmen or, like his father and mother, academics. But now they were all wanderers, willing to risk their lives to get somewhere else—anywhere else. Slow death was all that awaited them otherwise.
As he walked, weary and famished, Ramón’s mind wandered, as it always did. He recalled his last happy memories—back when he was a small boy, when times were better. He remembered his father making pancakes for him and his mother, singing in the kitchen. He remembered his mother’s laugh. An image flashed of her speaking to her students—their fists upraised. His father with his reading glasses. Leaning close and saying, “Knowledge is the one thing the collectivos can never steal from you, Ramón.” Tapping his temple. “Rely on your intellect. Not possessions.” These memories were fragments of his shattered life. But what he remembered most of all about his parents was their love. He felt the gaping void in his heart where they had been.
“Ramón . . . ?”
It was Luis’s voice. Ramón snapped alert. “What is it?” He glanced around.
A masked man in camouflage stood in the middle of the path, a black automatic rifle slung across his chest. Beyond the man, the other caminantes and trocheros receded in the distance. A glance behind showed that others had sensed the danger and taken a different way.
The man curled a finger toward Ramón. “Come here, boy.”
Half a dozen more armed men emerged from the bushes, ahead and behind.
Gabriela started shrieking in terror.
Ramón lowered her to the ground and turned to comfort her. “Shh. Shh. Little one.”
Luis pressed up against him and dropped his walking stick as the armed men surrounded them.
It occurred to Ramón that he had not stayed close enough to other adults on the path. That had apparently been a mistake. The line of walkers had diverted. Ramón and his siblings had been isolated from the herd. He felt the warm adrenaline of fear spread throughout his body.
A rifle barrel slowly moved in toward Ramón’s chest, and he raised his trembling arms as Gabriela shrieked anew. The tip of the barrel shoved Ramón back and the masked man holding the gun stared with cold eyes. “Shut that bitch up.”
“Gabriela. We need to be quiet.” He eased her toward Luis, who immediately held his little sister close and comforted her. They cowered, face-to-face.
The man grabbed Ramón by his T-shirt, nearly lifting him off the ground. “Where are your parents?”
Ramón looked into those cold eyes. “Dead.” His mother murdered in the street. His father dead only a month before from lack of access to his heart medication—after Venezuela’s medical system utterly collapsed.
The man started patting Ramón’s clothes. “They must have left you something.”
“Please. We have almost nothing.”
He shoved Ramón to the ground, and Ramón stayed down. He felt numerous hands roughly going through his pockets and clothes. Tearing at the fabric. Soon he felt his low-end smartphone yanked from his pocket, then saw his carnet de la patria card and other ID tossed aside as useless trash.
Gabriela and Luis both screamed as the men pried them apart and started roughly searching them as well. They tore open Luis’s school backpack. Luis screamed again.
Ramón got up on one knee and turned to Luis. “It’s okay! It’s okay.”
He felt a sharp bolt of pain as someone cracked him in the back of the head with something hard. Ramón collapsed forward, dazed.
“Stay down!” The man pulled a knife and put it to Ramón’s throat. “You hear me?”
Ramón nodded. The pain in the back of his head made his eyes water.
“Where’s your money?”
The hands tore at his clothes again. They pulled off his tattered sneakers. One of the men found the small wad of pesos in his left shoe. They found the other stash in his briefs as they pulled his clothing off.
“Do you know what happens to people who hide money from us?”
A kick to his side.
“I was going to give it to—”
Another series of kicks, to his ribs, stomach, and face.
Then a knife was held up to his ear as strong hands held him down.
“I should take your ear.”
“I was going to give it to you.”
One of the other men thumbed at his smartphone. “No password?” He looked up.
Ramón, still held down, felt blood flowing from his nose. His lips were swelling up. “No. You would only make me unlock it.”
“Smart-ass boy . . .” Another kick.
The strong hands released him, and the men started moving away.
Ramón tried to catch his breath and looked to see Luis and Gabriela huddled together on the ground, sobbing, their shoes pulled off and clothes in disarray.
Luis convulsed in tears as he said, “Now we have nothing!”
Ramón retrieved his carnet de la patria card from the dirt and crawled toward them. “Shh, shh.” He wiped Luis’s tears away. “We have each other. We are safe.”
Gabriela sobbed into Luis’s chest. “I want Momma. I want Momma.”
He stroked her hair. “Momma’s in heaven, with Papa. Remember, chamita.”
Luis suddenly noticed his older brother was bleeding. “They hurt you.”
Ramón shook his head. “Not bad. I’m fine.” He looked up to see that the men were nearly out of sight down the path. “We must go now. C’mon. We’re almost there. We’ve come too far to give up now.”
As Ramón got his brother and sister up, he lifted Gabriela and held her in his arms, rushing down the path.
Luis ran behind him. “But even if we reach Colombia, what will we do now? We have nothing!”
“Just keep moving.”
Up ahead he spotted the river.
“We can make it.”
* * *
—
A Christian church group ran the aid station on the border in Cúcuta, Colombia. There, Ramón received medical attention for his injuries. His skull and face throbbed, and his ribs ached, but he felt a sense of elation as he looked at Luis and Gabriela sitting nearby sipping from juice boxes and eating cheese sandwiches. He smiled to them with swollen, cracked lips. “We made it. It’s going to be okay.”
The presence of the aid station was not a surprise. In fact, he had researched the church group and knew the precise location and the services they provided to migrants. The aid workers gave Ramón and his little brother and sister donated clothes and shoes and allowed Ramón to use a computer with Internet access, intended for migrants to reach out and connect with family or sponsors in Colombia or beyond. There were hundreds of migrants here at the station. Ramón could hear the sound of voices and cars honking beyond the tent walls. There was a whole city out there; in a country that was not undergoing economic collapse. There was hope here. He kept smiling, then wincing against his painful, swollen lips.
