Critical Mass, page 6
Chindarkar looked after him. “He seems nice—although, you should let him do his own talking, Lukas.”
“Perhaps later.”
Chindarkar sat down on a sofa and looked around. “This is really nice.” She took a bite of the croissant.
Tighe and Yak moved forward, past the bar area.
Just then a man in a black flight uniform and peaked hat approached from the pilothouse at the bow. He extended his hand to Tighe. “Welcome aboard. I’m Captain Bernsen.” He shook hands, first with Tighe, then Yak. “We will be departing in a few minutes. The forecast calls for light winds and clear skies down through France. So it should be lovely sailing today.”
Jin asked, “How long will the flight to Lagos take?”
“Depending on winds, our journey should take approximately a day and a half. We’ll be departing France near Marseilles, out over the Mediterranean to Algeria, then Niger, and finally western Nigeria. Estimated arrival in Lagos on Saturday afternoon.”
Jin turned to Rochat. “Depending on winds . . .”
Rochat said, “I realize you may find this mode of transport archaic, Han, but climate change has made casual jet travel problematic. Private jets have their tail numbers read at almost every airport—the fliers shamed in social media. And our host—and main investor—Marius Hanssen takes carbon sequestration very seriously.”
Yak pointed out the window. “Look at that . . .”
They all turned to see one of the airship’s rope lines anchored in the grass suddenly rise as the spike at its end took flight. It was apparently a lawn-mower-sized octocopter drone with an auger at its base that it used to burrow into the ground. It—and several other drones like it—were reversing their augers and lifting off, coiling their rope lines in as they went, preparing to dock back onto the hull of the mothership.
Yak observed this with interest. “Tether lines handled by drones. Clever.” He accepted a steaming coffee in a porcelain cup and saucer from the steward. A silver urn was placed on the table before him. “Slow or not, I could get used to this type of travel.”
After a few more minutes of preparation, the electric motors of the airship revved outside, and the vessel moved forward, lifting up and away from the ground smoothly, gently.
Tighe took note of the silver coffeepot standing on the table in front of him as they ascended gradually. It barely quivered. The storybook medieval streets of Luxembourg City came into view in the downward-angled windows nearby.
The team busied themselves sightseeing for the next twenty minutes or so as the airship cruised southward in the dawn light over a patchwork of fields, forests, and villages. The countryside below was serene and picturesque. The flight was smooth, and the sky dotted with just a few puffs of white clouds, whose ceiling they gradually approached.
Rochat spoke to the nearby steward. “Can you please serve breakfast in the conference room in approximately one hour?”
“Of course, Mr. Rochat.”
He turned to the others. “Since we have this travel time, let’s use it for confidential business. There’s a great deal we need to discuss.” Rochat motioned for them to follow.
The team moved aft along a hallway of numbered cabin doors and toward the glass-walled conference room.
CHAPTER 4
Master Plan
As they entered the airship’s conference room, Priya Chindarkar walked around a long table ringed by a dozen chairs, with windows to either side providing breathtaking aerial views. She gazed at the ground far below. “This is really something.”
Lukas Rochat tapped a button near the door to lower translucent shades. “And more secure against eavesdropping than our corporate offices. Let’s get started.”
They all took their seats, with Rochat claiming the head of the table.
Rochat opened his dispatch case and placed a Rubik’s Cube–sized electronic device on the table beside him. He spoke to it. “Commence stenographer mode. Inaugural board meeting, Catalyst Corporation 2.0. Quorum requirements met. In attendance are board members . . .” He pointed, apparently for the benefit of the system’s integral camera. “. . . Priya Chindarkar, Jin Han, James Tighe, Sevastian Yakovlev, and myself. Proxy votes—Isabel Abarca by Jin Han. Adedayo Adisa by Priya Chindarkar. Documentation on file.”
Rochat glanced around the table. “Those here in attendance collectively represent 63.64 percent of voting shares in Catalyst Corporation. As the chief executive officer, I hereby open this meeting of the board of directors.”
Rochat passed out folders. “The first item on the agenda is our plan for getting you all back into space to secure our resources in lunar orbit. Toward that end, I move that we accept an invitation to meet with representatives of the United States government at Cape Canaveral Space Force Station in Florida.”
Jin frowned. “Space Force?”
“Space Force Station is merely the location, Han. We’ll be meeting with numerous officials.”
“But why meet with the US government at all? We should buy seats on one of Macy’s or Burkette’s commercial rockets. They routinely launch crews into low Earth orbit.”
Rochat replied, “And both of them launch out of the Cape—meaning you’d still need FAA clearance.”
“Then launch us out of Kourou, French Guiana, like I did back in 2032. We have the money to pay our way.”
“Nathan Joyce had the money to pay your way to orbit in ’32, but right now our funding is contingent on Catalyst establishing legal title to those asteroid resources in lunar orbit.” Rochat looked around the table. “And that legal title has yet to be established here on Earth.”
Tighe said, “I thought that was what the Konstantin’s Luxembourg registry was for—to give us rights to what we mined in space.”
“Yes, but the Konstantin expedition was not, strictly speaking, legal. Meaning the provenance of those resources is still in question. Even in Luxembourg.”
“We mined those resources. We refined them and brought them back to lunar orbit. Three of our friends died doing it. Those resources wouldn’t exist without us.”
“All true, J.T., but those resources are also a major strategic objective in the current space race between the US and China. Both of their mining operations at the lunar south pole, in Shackleton Crater, have so far produced only a tiny fraction of material compared to what you brought back from Ryugu. So at the moment our 5,000 tons of propellant and refined metals in lunar orbit are the prize in this astropolitical competition for control of cislunar space. They can greatly expand orbital operations of whichever country gains control of them. So expect considerable political pressure for us to pick a side, and know that we will make enemies of whomever we reject. Either way, we are going to have to negotiate with a spacefaring nation for your return to space.”
Jin frowned. “You already seem to have chosen the United States.”
Tighe gave him the side-eye. “Would you prefer we choose the CCP?”
“That is not the point. I want to avoid entanglement with either superpower.”
“Han, the Space Coast in Florida is the cheapest, most reliable crewed mission launch site there is, and without US government approval, you are not getting back into orbit from any spaceport in the Western world. The EU will not defy Washington on this.”
“Can we not gain orbit as we did last time?”
“You mean through deceit?”
“I mean through plausible cover—taking an orbital training program. Satellite servicing or—”
Rochat shook his head. “There’s far too much attention on all of you this time around. It’s no secret why you want to regain orbit.” He paused. “And there’s an additional reason for us to go to Cape Canaveral—a contact of mine within NASA has reached out to personally request a meeting there.”
Tighe asked, “What contact?”
“NASA’s liaison to the private space industry—a program executive named Erika Lisowski. She worked secretly with Nathan for years—and was aware of the Konstantin expedition from the very start.”
Yak seemed suddenly intrigued.
Chindarkar cast a wary look toward Rochat. “The fact that she worked with Nathan is a strike against her as far as I’m concerned.”
Tighe nodded. “Priya’s right. Why would we trust her?”
Yak answered before Rochat could. “Because she saved your lives.”
They all turned to him in surprise.
Yak continued. “After Nathan’s embezzlement was discovered—and after he flew stunt plane into tarmac—she gave us critical information. Without her, after Nathan’s death, we would not have been able to return you to Earth.”
Chindarkar recalled Yak’s capcom role back on Earth while they were at Ryugu. He was privy to things the Konstantin crew was not.
Rochat added, “Yak is right. She broke laws to save you all.”
Tighe considered this. “And this Lisowski person wants to meet?”
“She asked for us to meet with the US government, yes.”
Chindarkar asked, “Would they be willing to give us access to the Lunar Gateway as a base of operations?”
Jin shook his head. “The Lunar Gateway is off-limits to Chinese nationals.”
Chindarkar said, “And China’s Chang’e lunar station is off-limits to Americans.”
Yak shrugged. “It does not matter. Neither has spin-gravity, so neither are suitable long-term habitats from which we can work.”
“For the sake of argument, let’s say we find somewhere to operate in space—what are we building up there?” Chindarkar looked around the table.
Tighe said, “A rescue ship.”
“What kind of ship? How big? Where do we get the design? It’s got to be at least as capable as the Konstantin was—which means spin-gravity. Able to bring us how many millions of kilometers out and back?”
Jin replied, “Ryugu’s next swing by Earth occurs in July 2042, but it only comes within 60 million kilometers this time.”
Tighe whistled. “That’s ten times the distance we traveled outbound in the Konstantin.”
Chindarkar did the math. “And 10 million kilometers farther than our return trip—we burned through a thousand tons of fuel to get that tiny spacecraft up to the velocity we did.”
Yak said, “Propellant we have.”
Jin pondered this. “Nathan’s team at Lunargistics took many years to design the Konstantin, but the actual construction in lunar orbit required only two years. Perhaps we could reuse their existing design to save time.”
Yak said, “What is minimum acceleration outbound to encounter Ryugu in 2042?”
Jin answered immediately. “A delta-v of about 4.9 kilometers per second, but there’s another 2 kilometers per second to rendezvous with the asteroid. We should aim for twice that total to reduce transit time. Otherwise, we’ll be facing too much radiation exposure.”
Chindarkar looked skeptical. “For a vessel the size of the Konstantin? That’ll take huge amounts of propellant.”
Rochat cleared his throat. “You’re forgetting something. Setting aside the fact that our current investors would not be keen on your plundering the resources of this company to launch a rescue—”
Tighe interrupted. “Don’t even start with that, Lukas.”
Jin piped in. “We are rescuing Isabel and Ade.”
Chindarkar leaned forward. “Guys, let’s hear him.”
Rochat held up his hands. “Be that as it may. You have a more prosaic obstacle to contend with . . .” He activated a software-defined light projector on the table before them. A holographic screen materialized, displaying a manifest of the resources the team had returned from Ryugu via robotic tugs. Each of the tugs was named after one of their fallen colleagues and consisted of a bundle of spherical polymer tanks containing various refined materials.
First shipment
Metric tons
Second shipment
Metric tons
water
720
water
3,000
ammonia
120
ammonia
500
nitrogen
140
nitrogen
550
iron
40
iron
200
nickel
36
nickel
180
cobalt
26
cobalt
100
Total tonnage
1,082
Total tonnage
4,530
He pointed. “Our two robot tugs currently accessible in lunar orbit total about 5,600 tons of payload, plus silica and polymer superstructures of about 500 tons more. But over half the total payload is water ice—3,700 tons; about a million US gallons. Another 600 and 700 tons are ammonia and nitrogen, respectively.” He highlighted the next lines with a pointer. “And just a thousand tons of materials you can build with, a bit over half of that in metals. The rest is silica and polymers.”
Chindarkar said, “So? That’s a thousand tons—a couple times the mass of the Konstantin.”
“Yes, but the Konstantin was constructed of ultralight composites launched up from Earth, not the iron, nickel, and cobalt you currently have in orbit. Look at the mass of the small return craft you built out of cobalt steel—60 tons. Yet, we’ve got less than 600 tons of metal to work with. Not enough mass to build a ship comparable to the Konstantin. Not out of iron and nickel. And polymer won’t be strong enough for spin-gravity.”
Jin pondered this, then said, “We have a third shipment en route. Thirteen hundred tons more of metal carbonyls.”
“Not yet, you don’t. The Amy Tsukada is still parked out near Ryugu. Its rocket engines aren’t set to fire until March 17, 2039—the next low-delta-v return window. And one or more of its engines could fail to ignite.”
Jin nodded in agreement. “Of course, Lukas is right. We cannot rely upon its arrival.”
Rochat continued. “Even if the rockets fire perfectly, it won’t arrive in cislunar space until December 2041—just six months before your rescue mission must depart for Ryugu. And remember: Where in cislunar orbit are you going to be based to build this new rescue ship? Don’t suggest the Hotel LEO or any of the other commercial space stations in low Earth orbit, because we all know that bringing thousands of tons of resources that close to Earth would risk their being seized by a sovereign power—and whatever you built in LEO would have to be propelled back out of Earth’s gravity well all over again.”
Rochat studied the faces around the table. “You don’t have enough building material to rescue Isabel and Ade, but even if you did, you wouldn’t have anything at all left over to establish a cislunar economy—which was the whole point of the expedition and the cause for which Nicole, David, and Amy sacrificed their lives.”
The group sat in sober silence, while the airship’s electric motors droned outside.
Rochat concluded, “No, if you are going to have any hope of rescuing Isabel and Ade, you’re going to need more resources in orbit than you currently have. Much more.”
Jin leveled a serious gaze. “What are you proposing, Lukas?”
“Here’s what we need to do . . .” Rochat gestured and a holographic 3D model materialized beside him. It depicted a diagram of the Earth and the Moon, with the Moon’s orbit and Lagrange points highlighted—in short, Earth’s celestial neighborhood.
He clicked a remote and a dot appeared somewhat beyond the Moon. “You’re all familiar with Lagrange points—the five points of gravitational equilibrium that occur within any two-body—”
Chindarkar interrupted. “Lukas, please. You hardly need to explain Lagrange points to us.”
Rochat nodded. “Yes . . . Well, what I propose is that we utilize the resources you’ve returned from Ryugu to first build—not a rescue ship—but a spin-gravity station at the L2 point.” The 3D model zoomed in to the L2 point beyond the Moon to reveal a wheel-like rotating space station that seemed to dwarf the Konstantin.
Tighe exclaimed, “Wait a minute. If we don’t have the mass to build a rescue ship, how do we have the mass to build a whole space station? And why would we?”
“I will explain how—”
Jin interjected, “Where did this design come from?”
Rochat turned. “The same German team that designed the Konstantin.”
“Lunargistics? Under whose direction? And with what money?”
Yak piped in. “Han is right. I thought new Catalyst Corporation only recently acquired funds.”
Rochat sighed. “Can you at least let me finish outlining my plan?”
“Your plan?” Jin gestured to the model. “No offense, Lukas, but I am an aerospace engineer. Yak is an astronautical engineer. You are an attorney.”
Rochat cast a look his way. “A space attorney—astro esquire.”
Chindarkar replied, “What you are is our legal representative here on Earth. You’re not a mission planner.”
“I worked closely with Nathan Joyce for several years, and I learned a great many things from him.”
“So this is Nathan’s plan?”
