Delta-v, page 41
Jin looked to Abarca. “I will refuse, Isabel.”
“Let’s listen to the rest of the message.”
The businessman continued. “This consortium has lost over fourteen billion US dollars to your illicit venture. We intend to recoup our loss. Your production numbers are woefully insufficient. You are immediately to double production, and you must not miss your next orbital window for return of Ryugu resources—orbital parameters for which you will transmit to us.”
“Double our production? What the—?”
Abarca said, “Quiet, please.”
The businessman continued. “. . . send a confirmation that you received this message, Jin Han. Given how you have disgraced your family’s good name, you should be grateful for any chance at atonement.”
The crew stared blankly as the message ended.
Chindarkar looked to Jin and then Abarca. “They can’t be serious.”
Tighe gestured at the screen. “Do they look like they’re kidding?”
Abarca was already tapping at a virtual keyboard. “Sons of bitches . . .”
Adisa leaned forward. “I do not approve, Isabel, but the new owners have the right to assign a new captain. We may lose legal standing if we mutiny.”
Abarca stopped typing.
Jin shook his head. “No.”
Abarca sighed. “Ade’s right, Han. We have to pick our battles. Besides, it doesn’t matter who’s captain.”
Tighe frowned. “We can’t double production. That’s insane.”
Jin gestured. “Ade, record me with your crystal. I want to send a reply.”
Chindarkar frowned. “We should talk about what you’re going to say first, Han.”
“Let me record it. If any of you disagree, we won’t send it.”
The others exchanged looks and nodded.
Adisa stared at Jin. “I’m recording.”
Jin took a deep breath. “This is Jin Hua Han. I would like to know the names of the people I am dealing with. Since you have taken over this enterprise from Nathan Joyce, you have not only assumed his assets but also his obligations. Among those obligations are the employment contracts we signed. Our contracts detail production guidelines as well as bonuses and incentive structures. Over the lifetime of this operation, at our present production rate, we will return many times your original investment. We have honored our commitments. And yet, the ship and its equipment need maintenance. For this we will require the guidance of Catalyst mission control—including mission control manager Gabriel Lacroix and the previous capcoms, Eike Dahl and Sevastian Yakovlev. I await your reply.”
The crew nodded.
“That was good.”
“Yeah, that’s a good start, Han.”
They uploaded the message.
The response came very close to thirty-four minutes later. This time it was the Chinese businessman speaking. “Our identities are none of your concern. We own the ship you inhabit. Nathan Joyce stole our capital to fund your operation. You owe us fourteen billion dollars—plus accrued interest. Your previous bonus structure, production numbers, and work contracts are null and void.”
“Oh, screw this guy!” Tighe threw up his hands.
The others fumed.
“The entity that signed your contracts—Catalyst Corporation—has been dissolved. It has no assets. However, it does have a great many liabilities.”
The businessman narrowed his eyes. “I can see why the CNSA rejected you, Jin Han. You are weak willed and unwise. You let a guilo trick you into becoming his manual laborer. Here is your new incentive plan: if you and your crew ever wish to see Earth again, meet your new production targets. That is all.”
The message abruptly ended.
The room was dead silent for a long time.
Tighe finally stood. “Ade, record me. You all tell me if this is an appropriate response.”
Jin sighed. “J.T.—”
“C’mon, record me.”
Adisa sighed, then aimed his gaze at Tighe and started recording.
Tighe nodded a greeting to the camera. “Let’s clear something up. Since we’re out here and you’re not, we can send thousands of tons of your precious resources spinning off into the Sun, and there isn’t a goddamned thing you can do about it.” Tighe leaned toward the camera. “So I suggest you take our contracts out of the garbage and honor your commitment to us and our dead colleagues. Because if you fuck with us, you will end up with nothing. I promise you. Now get us our goddamned mission control people—before we start cutting your inventory loose.”
Adisa stopped recording.
The others exchanged looks.
Abarca said, “That’s not bad, actually.”
Jin sighed. “Amy, David, and Nicole gave their lives to mine those resources. We are not going to simply jettison it into space.”
Chindarkar replied, “The new owners need to know we’re serious, Han. Our friends weren’t slaves. And neither are we.”
Tighe asked, “Do you really think we can double production, Han?”
He shook his head. “Of course not.”
“Then we need to establish the terms of this new relationship now. We meet our commitments, and they meet theirs. It’s not negotiable.”
The others nodded.
Adisa grimaced. “I have one correction, J.T. The minimum delta-v to send the resources into the Sun is almost 30 kilometers per second. The tugs cannot do that.”
“Just send the message, Ade.”
* * *
—
No immediate answer came. Tighe took this to mean the new owners were taking the demand seriously. But after a few days, the crew of the Konstantin began to feel concerned.
Thus, it was welcome news when Adisa informed them that a rare event was approaching: on December 6, Ryugu would have a close approach to Mars—moving within 58 million kilometers. Earth, meanwhile, was 306 million kilometers away, almost on the opposite side of the Sun. Everyone hoped this was why the new owners had been unable to contact them.
The crew decided to make a celebration out of the Mars close approach, projecting a virtual window into the habs. Mars was now the brightest planet in the celestial globe, with Mercury, Jupiter, and Venus clustered nearby. It looked like a planetary jamboree.
When the moment came, they raised cups of rehydrated juice and toasted to being the humans who’d come closest to Mars. It was another first for the crew of the Konstantin, and Chindarkar wrote it in black ink on the aluminum core wall next to the hundreds of other firsts for the expedition. The homemade chronicle covered most of the wall already.
* * *
—
Three days later Adisa awoke the ship in the middle of the night, speaking over the PA system.
“We have a message from Earth.”
Tighe and Jin left the crew quarters and walked out to join Adisa at the galley table. Adisa set up the AR link with Hab 1, and then he played the incoming message.
A different Chinese businessman appeared on-screen this time. He was well dressed and handsome and looked statesmanlike—but dour. He stared into the camera and spoke in Mandarin. Again, his words were simultaneously translated into English in Tighe’s crystal.
“Jin Han. This is your father . . .”
Tighe and Adisa snapped a look at Jin, who looked stunned.
The recording continued. “I would not have believed it if I did not see the evidence myself. The hours and hours of surveillance footage on this . . . spacecraft. The money stolen. The paperwork for the orbital launches. You were always headstrong and reckless. And now I see video of you living in filth with this mongrel crew.” He stared at the camera. “We feared you were dead! You were my son. My only son. I gave you everything, and this is how you repay your family. You disgrace us. For what? To go into space? Mining rocks as a laborer? I never thought you would come to this.”
The man stared silently for several moments. “Legitimate business interests have asked that I intervene on their behalf—to try and talk some sense into you. If you have no honor, at least honor your family name. Start to repay your debt to these people. Then maybe you can begin to repair the damage you’ve done. If you refuse to do this, you are no son of mine.” After a moment’s pause, he clicked off.
Tighe and Adisa looked to Jin.
Jin stared at the tabletop.
Tighe said, “They could be threatening your father, Han. Fourteen billion is a lot of money.”
Jin turned to Tighe. “No one can threaten my father. He is one of the richest men in the world.”
Tighe and Adisa exchanged startled looks.
“Come again?”
“My grandfather founded the largest manufacturing concern in China. My father expanded it.”
Adisa narrowed his eyes. “You were already rich?”
“I am nothing.”
Tighe leaned back in his chair. “I’m confused.”
Adisa leaned in. “Why would your father be ashamed of you? You have traveled farther in space than—”
“My father does not place value in such things. When I was accepted by the CNSA, he tolerated it, but I was expected to join the family business. He thought I wasted my life trying to be a taikonaut. I am a great disappointment to him.” Jin stared at the table.
“Our parents don’t own us, Han. If they did, then nothing would ever change.”
Adisa added, “I, for one, am glad you are here.”
“So am I.”
Face taut, Jin nodded. Then he motioned to Tighe. “Record me.”
“You’re sure you—”
“Just do it. Please, J.T.”
Tighe tapped his crystal and commenced recording.
Jin looked to Tighe and spoke in Mandarin. Fortunately Tighe’s crystal simultaneously translated.
“Father, there was a time when I desired your approval . . . more than anything.” Jin thought for several moments and then finally shook his head. “That time is over. You have built grandfather’s business into a global enterprise, and I know I disappointed you by not continuing it. I do not know why I am the way I am—why I refuse to take the sure path.”
Jin ran his fingers through his hair before staring back into the camera. “You are right—I am irresponsible. I have always been. Too reckless, perhaps, for the CNSA. But out here, I feel at home . . .” He looked to Tighe and Adisa—and through the AR screen at Abarca and Chindarkar. “. . . with those who understand me. Out here, things are clear. I would risk my life without hesitation for my crewmates. I would never betray them. Not for you. Not for anyone on Earth.”
Jin stared into the lens. “I am not Nathan Joyce. I have honored all my commitments, and my crewmates have honored theirs. The ‘legitimate business interests’ you mention have not honored their commitments to us. You should feel shame in supporting them. I wish things could be different between you and me. However, the past is the past, and it is time for me to make my own way. Good-bye, Father.”
Tighe stopped recording.
Adisa gripped Jin’s shoulder.
Tighe asked, “You sure you don’t want to sleep on that one?”
Jin shook his head. “No. I am certain. More certain than I’ve ever been of anything.”
CHAPTER 43
Root
FEBRUARY 11, 2037
In the middle of the night, Tighe awoke covered in sweat, his heart racing. Something terrible was happening—he could sense it.
However, looking around, he saw that everything was peaceful. Chindarkar slept close to him in the narrow bed. He grabbed his crystal from the nightstand and put it on.
There were no alarms. The ship was stable and quiet. All systems were nominal. And yet, Tighe’s heart raced. He touched Chindarkar’s forehead and felt perspiration on her skin. His crystal indicated the ambient temperature was a comfortable 22 degrees Celsius.
Tighe sat up. “Priya.”
No response.
“Priya!”
Her head lolled and her eyes remained half open as she slurred in response, “Smatter . . . wass iss it?”
Tighe’s temples pounded. He brought up the ship’s UI again and checked the atmosphere in the crew quarters.
Everything was within normal parameters. There were no alarms.
Something is wrong.
Tighe struggled to stand, and his blurred vision and frantically beating heart confirmed it. He’d felt this before—during dive emergencies.
High levels of atmospheric CO2—very high. He was sure of it. Perhaps nearing 6 percent. No wonder Chindarkar was passed out. Soon they’d both be dead.
Tighe staggered across the aisle, collapsing as he grabbed a cabinet door. He clawed his way up to a cabinet marked “Emergency Breathing Apparatus” and yanked out a mask. He fell against the wall, pulling the whole apparatus down into his lap. Sprawled on the floor, he willed himself to pull the oxygen mask’s elastic band around his face and head. The last thing he remembered was turning the O2 valve on the emergency tank.
An unknown period later—perhaps mere seconds—Tighe awoke with a hammering headache. He pushed himself unsteadily to his knees, his clarity of mind swiftly returning.
The others are in danger.
Tighe climbed back to the emergency cabinet and grabbed another breathing mask. He moved to Chindarkar and affixed the mask to her face, activating the O2.
He heard his own muffled voice through his emergency gas mask. “Priya! Priya, wake up!” Tighe tried to rouse her with his free hand. He called into his comm link. “Isabel! Jin! Ade! Come in! Anyone, come in! Life support failure in Hab 2!”
There was no response.
Tighe grabbed an oxygen candle from the emergency cabinet and struggled to ignite the potassium perchlorate with the striker. It was as though he’d lost all manual dexterity, but finally the stick ignited into a blinding reddish pink. It illuminated Chindarkar’s unconscious form with macabre, guttering light.
He spoke over the comm link again. “Isabel! Jin! Ade! Come in!”
Chindarkar shook her head and struggled toward consciousness.
Tighe placed the oxygen candle in a wall clip designed for that purpose and knelt close to her. “Priya! Wake up!”
Her eyes finally focused on him, momentarily confused about the gas mask. She tried to sit up. “What happened? What’s happening?”
“The atmosphere’s fouled with CO2.”
“Why are there no alarms?”
“I don’t know. We need to check on the others.”
She sucked in pure oxygen as they rushed to pull on their pressure suits. Once they were suited up, they linked in life support hoses—but did not pressurize.
Chindarkar called over the comm link, “Ade! Isabel! Jin! Do you copy?” She manipulated the ship’s UI and turned to Tighe. “No alarms in Hab 1 either.” Her expression showed she was confounded by the ship’s readings. “How could triple-redundant life support systems fail all at once—without any alarms?”
Tighe pointed at the virtual display. “Those atmosphere numbers aren’t just normal—they’re perfect. They’ve never been so good.” He looked at her. “We need to get to the others.” Tighe checked his crewmates’ vital signs, and those also looked perfect—identical, right down to a synchronized heart rate. “I don’t know how, but somebody is making the ship’s OS lie to us.”
Chindarkar stared at her own crystal. “There’s enough air in these habs that O2 could be down for days before CO2 would reach dangerous levels. But somehow CO2 levels rose to dangerous levels in just a few hours.” She looked up.
“I need to get to Hab 1.” Tighe strapped on a life support pack, then pulled down the ladder to the upper hatch. He started turning the airlock pressure door handle.
“Why would the new owners try to kill us? It makes no sense!”
“We know their secrets, Priya. If they got rid of us, they could send another crew—or robots to retrieve what we’ve mined already.”
She nodded to herself. “And they’d still have the Konstantin. . . .”
“Right. But without witnesses.” Tighe felt his normally calm temper rising. “We don’t have the fifteen minutes it will take for me to take the transfer tunnels. If Hab 1’s CO2 reaches 10 percent, then Isabel, Han, and Ade will be dead.”
“It’ll take over an hour to spin down the ship. And besides, you can’t EVA without prebreathing.”
Tighe started pressurizing his suit, adjusting its settings. “I’ll go with as much pressure as possible.”
She grabbed his arm. “Without prebreathing you’ll get the bends, J.T. You’ll die!”
“I’ve had the bends before. I know how much I can withstand.” He pulled his arm free. “We have no choice, Priya!”
Chindarkar hesitated, then nodded and gazed past Tighe at virtual UIs as she started manipulating invisible controls.
Tighe climbed the ladder and sealed the airlock hatch behind him. Then he slammed the airlock evacuation lever. Air swirled around his suit as he opened a cabinet and pulled out a coiled length of tether equipped with carabiners at each end.
Pressure sickness ambushed him almost immediately—piercing his joints. He groaned in pain as he quickly prepared an alpine coil to strap the tether over his back. It was difficult to move about in his overpressurized suit, and yet the pressure was lower than it needed to be. Already it felt like someone was grinding knitting needles into his joints.
Holy shit. I forgot how much this hurt.
Chindarkar’s voice came in over the comm link. “J.T., I can’t access any ship controls! I can’t remotely control the mules either. They’ve taken over the Konstantin. They’re killing us!”
Tighe struggled toward the outer hatch. “They haven’t killed us yet. We just need to reach the others.”
