Delta-v, page 6
“Name.”
“James Tighe.”
Meanwhile the other guard swept a scanning wand over him and his bag.
“Hold out your right hand.”
Tighe did so.
One guard locked a flexible green plastic bracelet around Tighe’s wrist. “This tracking bracelet must be worn at all times. Tampering with it will result in dismissal from the program. Understood?”
Tighe nodded.
They motioned for him to proceed, and Tighe joined the other candidates—at least a couple hundred of them—milling around the coffee urns in the parking lot. More were still exiting the buses.
Tighe moved about the crowd, examining his surroundings.
The camp looked military in nature—orderly, austere. Metal poles topped with camera domes stood at each corner of the parking lot and on nearby buildings. Cameras were everywhere, in fact.
It occurred to Tighe that this whole place might be an elaborate Survivor-like reality TV show—with contestants vying for a chance to go into low Earth orbit. Joyce did own new media companies, after all, and it sounded like something he’d be capable of. Tighe began to regret not reading every single page of the contract he’d signed.
Near the edge of the parking lot stood a woman in a worn hooded sweatshirt, jeans, and boots, sipping a coffee. Her black hair was tied back in a ponytail, but Tighe recognized her immediately. He’d first seen her back on Baliceaux, in a cocktail dress, hair down, when she’d met with Nathan Joyce in the billionaire’s study, just after Tighe left.
The woman’s penetrating eyes suddenly turned toward him. She apparently recognized him, too, because she nodded slightly.
The PA sounded. “Rabindra Bhaduri, report to Building A, Door 3. Rabindra Bhaduri, report to Building A, Door 3.”
Tighe moved through the crowd toward her.
She continued to sip her coffee as he approached.
In a moment he came face-to-face with her. “Back on Baliceaux I thought you were Joyce’s SO. My mistake.”
She replied, deadpan, “I’m not the SO type.”
“I gather you did something extraordinary to wind up here.”
“Not really. I’m a mountain climber. Nathan funds all my expeditions.”
“Yeah? Where have you climbed?”
She looked him up and down. “So I’m supposed to impress you now, is that it? Name some peaks I summited?”
“Just sizing up the competition.”
“You’re the cave diver. Joyce told me about you. Tough break, that quake in Tian Xing.”
“Yes. It was.”
The voice on the PA called out. “James Teeg, report to Building A, Door 2. James Teeg, report to Building A, Door 2.”
Tighe gritted his teeth. “It’s pronounced ‘Tie.’”
“I know.” Her eyes motioned toward the building. “You’re up, J.T.”
Without looking back, Tighe headed toward a doorway marked with a large numeral 2 in the central building.
Though the building looked old, the door and its hardware were new. Tighe entered into a wide room with half a dozen candidates undergoing what looked like enhanced security screening—except that the screeners wore lab coats.
A Latina staffer motioned for Tighe to come forward. “Remove your shoes and place them on the counter, please. Then step into the 3D scanner.”
Tighe slipped off his trainers and stepped into a booth, where he was surrounded by scanning devices.
“Arms extended at your sides.”
Tighe did as instructed.
“Don’t move.”
Electric motors purred as the scanning heads revolved around him for thirty seconds. Then they stopped.
“Step out of the scanner and proceed to the next station, please.”
In his stocking feet Tighe moved up to a black woman who proceeded to take his blood pressure. To either side of Tighe, candidates were having blood drawn, their reflexes tested, their teeth inspected, and their eyes examined.
Suddenly a man’s voice grew loud off to Tighe’s right—the accent British.
“Disqualified? Fuck’s sake, what for?”
Tighe turned to see a diminutive Caucasian technician facing a lean black man in a tan T-shirt and jeans.
“You exceed the height requirement by 4 centimeters, sir.” The technician pointed to a screen displaying the man’s 3D scanned image. “I don’t know how you got this far in the process, but you’re too tall. This should have been caught in the physical. Before you even boarded the plane.”
“Height’s that important, is it?”
“Yes. Both weight and height, sir.”
“And am I a biffa?”
“A what?”
“Am I overweight?”
“No, sir.”
“Right then . . .” Holding his shoes, the man looked around the crowded room. “Where can I sit?”
“You can put your shoes on outside, sir.”
“I’m not planning on putting my bloody shoes back on.”
“Sir, you must leave. You cannot continue in the candidate selection program. You’re too tall.”
A couple of security staff began moving toward them from the back wall.
“I’m just lookin’ for a chair. Can I get one, please?”
Tighe looked around with just about everyone else. No chairs in sight.
“Not in here, sir.”
“Lovely . . .” Ignoring the approaching guards, the man dropped his shoes to the floor, then stood on one leg. With a riiipp he pulled apart his other pant leg at the seam, where it was evidently held together by Velcro. This revealed that his calf was a black carbon fiber prosthetic. Hopping in place, he said, “This’ll only take a sec . . .”
Taken aback, the security guards—and now everyone in the room—watched in fascination as the man hopped up and down, adjusting the height of his prosthetic lower leg. In a few moments he was finished—and he then performed the same process on his other prosthetic leg.
The guards and the technician exchanged surprised looks.
The man closed the Velcro seams on both legs and stood up straight, somewhat shorter now, but otherwise perfectly stable. He nodded to the technician. “All right, Joe Bloggs, measure me again.”
Stunned, the technician looked down at his tablet, flipping from screen to screen.
The man clapped. “Time’s wasting, sunshine.”
The technician lifted a hand scanner, pulling the trigger to take another measurement.
“Satisfied?”
The technician nodded as he read the display. “Yes. You now satisfy the height requirement, Mr. Morra.”
Everyone in the room—including Tighe—broke out in raucous applause and hoots. Even the security guards joined in.
Morra waved them off. “All right, all right. Settle down.”
Tighe found himself still chuckling several moments later as his blood sample was taken. He cleared the rest of the physical without incident.
He and the other candidates were then separated, with Tighe directed to a small interview room where he was told to stare into a camera lens while he was asked a series of bizarre questions by a man in a lab coat.
“Do you enjoy sex with animals, Mr. Tighe?”
“What? No.”
“Do you not enjoy the sex you have with animals?”
“I don’t have sex with animals.”
“But if you did, would you enjoy it?”
“What the hell is your problem?”
The strange interview lasted another twenty minutes, and afterward, Tighe was escorted into a room where a man in a Polestar-branded polo shirt sat at a folding table with stacks of documents to either side. The man motioned for Tighe to sit in a folding chair across from him, then slid a document and a pen toward Tighe.
“What’s this?”
“This is a rider to the candidate selection contract you signed back in the States.”
Tighe read the heading: “Indemnity for Accidental Death or Dismemberment.”
The company man spoke in the soothing tones of an undertaker. “An unfortunate necessity. This selection program needs to be physically rigorous. As a result, certain activities here run the risk of serious injury or death.”
“Why wasn’t I shown this when I signed the other documents?”
“Out of context this document can seem unduly alarming.”
“Meaning I’d be more likely to put it in front of a lawyer. Which I can’t do here.” Tighe read from paragraph one, “‘Candidate hereby acknowledges the company selection program may bring about permanent impairment or death.’” Tighe looked up. “And if I don’t sign this?”
“You’ll be dropped from the selection program and flown back to Orlando on the next flight out of Wideawake.”
“Hmph.” Tighe flipped to the next page. “How’d the airport get that name, anyway?”
The company man stared.
“You don’t know.”
“It was built by the Americans during World War II. The noise of thousands of nesting birds kept the GIs awake at night.” He spread his hands. “Wideawake Field.”
Tighe was busy reading. The rider basically said that if he was killed or maimed in the course of his selection or training (with fatalities euphemized as a “Type A Mishap”), he would be covered by a standard insurance clause but otherwise prevented from bringing suit against the company. Likewise, all disputes would go into binding arbitration. As he read through the arbitration details and maximum payout amounts, Tighe realized this would be the first time he had ever had life insurance.
Tighe sighed. “What the hell.” He signed his name and dated the rider, adding his mother’s name and address as the insurance beneficiary.
The company man nodded. “At this point I’ve been instructed to remind you of the confidentiality clause in your candidate selection and training contract.”
“So go ahead.”
“You are not to share with any outside person or organization anything you learn or experience during candidate selection, up to and including the fact that you undertook this candidate selection program. You will take steps to actively maintain the confidentiality of such information, and you will immediately alert the company upon learning of any breach of this agreement, either intentional or accidental, committed by yourself or by another.”
The company man added Tighe’s signed rider to his pile. “Do you understand the terms of the confidentiality clause you have already signed and of which I have just reminded you?”
Tighe waited for several seconds before replying. “Yeah, I understand.”
“I’ve also been instructed to remind you of the special terms of the company’s sexual harassment policy.”
Tighe was bemused. “Such as?”
“Article 17, subsection B: selection candidates accept that in the course of this program they will lack personal privacy. Likewise, they will be working in close proximity to other candidates—either male, female, or transgender—under conditions that may require nonsexual physical contact. Candidates may also be exposed to the nudity of other candidates and/or the sexual activity of other candidates, of any sexual orientation. However, under no circumstances will any selection candidate be required or expected to engage in sexual activity themselves or be required or expected to tolerate unwanted intimate sexual contact or sexual harassment.” The company man stared at Tighe. “Do you understand the special terms of the sexual harassment policy you have already signed and of which I have just reminded you?”
“Now I do.”
“Do you have any questions?”
Tighe thought hard for several seconds. “Why aren’t there any young people here?”
“You’re hardly old, Mr. Tighe.”
“I’m thirty-seven. Everyone I’ve seen out there is in their midthirties to early forties. Why no one younger?”
“There is one candidate in his twenties.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
After a few moments the company man said, “Cosmic rays. Older people are less susceptible to cumulative radiation exposure. Most of you will die of old age before you develop more serious cancers.”
“Then why the twenty-something?”
“He’s from a region with below-average life expectancy.”
“Charming.”
“Any other questions?”
“Nope.”
“You may exit through that door.” The company man pointed behind him.
Tighe pushed through the doorway and into a tiled corridor. A uniformed staff member directed him to a set of double doors, opening one for him.
Tighe entered a tiled room where trainees, male and female, were sitting on stools to have their heads shaved by camp staff. Piles of multicolored hair were being push-broomed into the corner.
Tighe sat at the first open chair, and after he was draped in an apron, his head was buzz-cut for the first time in many years. He hoped it would all grow back.
Afterward, he was directed to the next room, where he joined a queue of trainees, male and female, that snaked down a corridor lined with square openings. Through these, he could see camp staff passing folded clothing and other items to trainees.
Just then Tighe noticed the lean black man with prosthetic legs step up behind him. He nodded. “Good to see you made it, Morra.”
Morra laughed. “These wankers won’t get rid of me that easily.” He held out his hand. “What are you called?”
“James Tighe. J.T.’s fine.” They shook hands.
“J.T., Dave Morra, British Army Royal Engineers.”
“A soldier?”
“Ex-soldier. More of a builder really. I did what I had to, to get an engineering degree.”
By then they’d come to the first window, where staff members passed them both half a dozen sets of folded dark-blue jumpsuits.
Tighe leaned down. “I usually take a medium.”
The staff member said, “You’re all mediums. Part of the selection process. There’s Velcro straps for minor adjustments.”
Tighe looked up the line and realized that the trainees were indeed largely the same height. Different builds, but no one was dramatically taller or shorter than anyone else.
Soon the trainees were all piled high with gear as they entered a room lined with benches.
A thick-necked camp coordinator walked among them handing out numbered plastic bags, shouting with an American accent. “Strip off all personal clothing—including socks and underwear—and place them in the storage bags provided. Place all jewelry or other valuables in the small security bag. The contents will be returned to you upon departure. If you are found with any personal, unassigned items in your possession beyond this point, you will be dismissed from the program.”
There were thirty or so people in the bench-lined room, half of them women and half men. Several raised their hands.
The coordinator pointed at a blond woman. “What don’t you understand?”
She gestured to the others. “We’re supposed to strip down right here in front of each other?”
“You should already know this.” The coordinator turned and shouted for everyone to hear. “Listen up, people. There is no privacy at this facility. You will not have privacy in outer space either. If you’re shy, drop from the program. Otherwise, get naked, put all your personal items in the storage bag, and suit up in your utility dress: jumpsuit and boots.”
After a moment’s pause, several trainees started peeling off their shirts and dropping their pants—possibly thinking about their ticket to space. The others did the same. The blonde who asked the question finally shrugged and started disrobing, too.
Morra didn’t seem affected in the slightest. As he pulled off his shirt, Tighe noticed burn scars and shrapnel marks on the man’s sinewy frame, as well as a florid tattoo of flames issuing from a round vessel above a banner bearing the word “Ubique.”
Looking around confirmed that everyone was in excellent physical shape, yet they all bore scars and tattoos that made it apparent how much life experience was assembled here. Everyone seemed to be taking the lack of privacy in stride.
Soon the trainees were all dressed in blue jumpsuits, carrying the rest of their issued supplies in a duffel. Each jumpsuit had a reflective white number on it. Tighe’s number was 363. Morra’s was 173.
The coordinator marched them out, and moments later they were walking on a blacktop road between metal barracks. Staff members motioned for them to enter a building marked with a large number 4, and once inside, they saw lines of Spartan bunk beds with lockers between—ten to either side. Forty cots in all.
The coordinator shouted, “Grab a bunk, and stow your shit!”
The group surged forward, but not as fast as Morra, who bypassed the nearest bunks and headed to the middle of the barracks. Tighe decided an ex-soldier like Morra would know where to bed down, and he headed toward the middle, too.
Morra gestured to the lower cot just past his own. “That’s a good one there.”
Tighe tossed his duffel bag onto the cot before anyone else could claim it and then opened the locker to start stowing his gear. “Why’d you go for the middle of the barracks?”
“When they come in before dawn banging trash cans, you’ll thank me.”
Tighe spoke softly. “You think this place is legit?”
“Whadju mean?”
“I mean, are we sure this isn’t just some reality TV show instead of an asteroid-miner selection program?”
Morra was stowing his gear as well. “I read through the contract. There’s no grant of telly rights.”
“What about the ‘no privacy’ clause? Everyone getting naked?”
Morra laughed. “You have a skeptical mind, J.T. I like that.” Morra pointed at the ceiling. “I did notice the cameras.”
