Delta-v, page 8
Tighe squinted, and sure enough, dozens of small crabs seemed to be scuttling across the asphalt in the darkness—even though the road was thousands of feet up and miles from the ocean.
“Freaking land crabs?”
“Must be gettin’ us ready for alien encounters.”
The candidates around them laughed.
Tighe tried to sidestep the crabs, but they were all over the road, with runners ahead blocking his view. Eventually he just had to accept squishing the occasional crustacean.
Before long, Spot’s flashing light led the candidates off onto a dirt road, across a stony slope dotted with light brush, headed toward the island’s largest mountain, which was covered with actual trees.
As they ran, Tighe fell into the sort of absent physicality he sometimes experienced when ascending a long pitch in the blackness of a cave, away from any stone wall. In such situations, he often extinguished his helmet light and rose in sensory deprivation—his entire world just the pressure of the rope, his harness, and his hands in the darkness.
The robo-dog soon brought them over the crest of the hill, which overlooked DAC, and then down the far side.
Despite the morning chill, Tighe was soaked in sweat by the time they crested a second rise and began taking a switchback path toward the sea. This was followed by a run along the coast, an ancient lava flow that broke off like peanut brittle at the water’s edge.
The Sun had still not crested the horizon by the time Tighe followed the robo-dog back into the DAC via a side gate. Uniformed guards watched the candidates stumble in, soaked in sweat. Tighe estimated they’d been running for roughly an hour and that they’d covered about 12 kilometers.
Spot guided them back to the mess hall, where another barracks of runners was gathering their breath and mopping sweat off their faces. The moment Spot reached the mess hall, its flashing light turned off, and a uniformed coordinator bellowed, “Barracks 4! Half hour for chow! Get inside!”
Over breakfast most of the trainees were too exhausted to do more than eat and drink. Morra looked up at Tighe and nodded as he spooned oatmeal into his mouth. Tighe sat across from him and did likewise.
Bhaduri sat down next to them and looked around. “Have you seen Mr. Parks?”
Morra answered, “Just eat, Rabby.”
Afterward they formed up again outside—but this time not in barracks groups. Instead, they were called out by candidate number and re-sorted according to some unknown calculus.
Tighe found himself among a group of twenty new candidates—half men, half women—and brought to something resembling a construction site, with a barren concrete pad and modular construction materials stacked on worktables nearby.
A female coordinator called out, “Ascans, gather round!”
Someone muttered, “Ascans?”
“That’s right! Asteroid-mining candidates—ascans! Now, gather round!”
They did so.
“You’re to work together as a team, building the shelter detailed on this printed schematic.” The coordinator held up a document. “You will be assessed on both speed and adherence to the printed spec. Camp staff will not answer questions or provide additional information.” She offered the schematic to the nearest candidate, a Japanese American woman with elaborate tattoos visible along her neck and wrists. “Get busy!”
Tighe glanced around. There were half a dozen other groups at nearby construction sites of their own, also being briefed by a coordinator. He spotted Morra, and also the woman he’d seen from Baliceaux, both in different groups. The entire work area was ringed by metal poles holding surveillance cameras.
The Japanese American woman flipped through the pages of the document. “We should divide this work.”
A man with a Scottish accent said, “Anyone here wi’ construction experience?”
Two other men raised their hands.
“Take charge then, lads.”
The Japanese American woman cast a look his way and showed the cartoonish diagrams on the document. “This is basically an IKEA assembly guide.”
“Na offense, but I don’t think we should be takin’ instructions from you jus’ because they handed you the document.”
“I’m an industrial chemist. I think I can figure out a—”
“Yer bum’s oot the windae! Chemistry’s not construction.”
One of the other men said, “This isn’t a man-woman thing.”
A nearby woman answered, “No one said it was a man-woman thing.”
Tighe glanced up at the camera domes. He whistled loudly. “Hey!”
Everyone looked his way. “See those cameras?” He pointed out the surveillance domes. “The shrinks are scoring our ability to work together—not our debating skills.” Tighe pointed at the Japanese American woman. “What’s your name?”
“Amy Tsukada.”
“Amy, I’m fine with you being in charge. Maybe you guys who know construction can counsel her as we go. I’m happy to just be a grunt.”
The others exchanged looks, then nodded.
One of the men started examining the pile of materials. “These parts all have numbers on them. Amy, start calling out the inventory list in the order it’s needed, and we’ll get it organized.”
More group members moved into action. Soon they’d lined up and counted all the parts and tools, comparing them with the printed list.
Tsukada slapped the paper. “We’re missing parts. A socket wrench, six 20-millimeter nuts, a door hinge, a 2-meter I beam, and a 20-millimeter bolt for the joist hanger.”
The Scottish man held up some parts. “We’ve got an extra door handle and a wee bag of bolts.”
The construction guys searched to see if anything had fallen behind the panels or beams.
Tighe gazed across the work area to see that some groups had already started construction. I beams were rising on foundations. The field contained a couple hundred workers in blue jumpsuits and caps while camp staff observed from the sidelines.
A fair-skinned woman with zinc oxide protecting the bridge of her nose approached from a neighboring group. A wool cap gave her the look of a snowboarder. She smiled at Tighe as she approached. “You guys missing any parts?” She had a barely detectable accent and like everyone else smelled of sweat.
Tighe nodded. “Yeah, we are.” He tried to ignore the fact that she was physically attractive, and turned to his group. “Hey, guys! They’re missing parts, too.”
The woman in the cap looked around the field. “You’re the second group I’ve talked to. The instructors are screwing with us.”
He guessed she was Scandinavian.
She deftly climbed onto a nearby worktable and stood, cupping her hands over her mouth. “Hey, everybody! Listen up!”
Her voice wasn’t loud enough to get the entire field’s attention.
Tighe whistled as loudly as he could. The entire field of candidates stopped and looked up.
She cast a slight smile down at Tighe and then shouted, “Raise your hand if your group is missing parts or has extras!”
Hands in every group went up.
“This is by design! The true purpose of this exercise is most likely to see how we cope with frustrating difficulties! This is how we’ll cope. . . .” She pointed at the ground. “Bring me a list of all the parts you are missing and also bring me all the extra parts you have. We’ll sort this out in short order.”
The entire field of candidates talked among themselves before getting busy making their lists.
Tighe offered his hand as the woman moved to descend from the table, but instead she hopped down to the ground beside him, alighting with the dexterity of a gymnast.
She tsk-tsked. “Sneaky of them to sabotage us.”
“I’d say it’s just the beginning.” He extended his hand. “James Tighe. Call me J.T.”
“J.T., Eike Dahl.”
“Eike.” She had a natural beauty and easygoing confidence. “I can’t quite place your accent.”
The edges of her mouth turned up. “From Bergen. Have you ever been?”
“Norway.” Tighe nodded. “Yeah, I had a diver friend who brought me through there years ago. The fjords are beautiful.”
She grabbed his arm as her eyes came alive. “You should try the wing-suit flying. Stryn is fantastic.”
Looking down at her hand on his forearm, Tighe was starting to think he was going to like the Devil’s Ashpit.
* * *
—
Hours later Tighe ran an obstacle course for the third time as an Australian stunt woman named Cassie Elwyn screamed into his ear from inches away while she kept pace on the sidelines. She was freckled and fierce. “Move, ya cunt-ass blodger! You call this hard yakka?”
They had all run the course separately at first but were then randomly assigned to another candidate, with the instruction to coach that person into improving their initial course time by 5 percent. Afterward, the coachee became the coach.
Tighe had the poor luck of clocking an excellent time on his first run, and Elwyn had her work cut out for her. Tighe started climbing the rope wall.
“Move yar arse! This is a piece a piss!”
By the time they had lunch at eleven a.m., Tighe already felt they should be having dinner. It was hard to believe the better part of the day was still ahead.
After lunch they were brought to classrooms to watch a film on the physical rigors of spaceflight. It gave him a chance to digest and rest his muscles.
Afterward, they were told to change into swimsuits and brought to an indoor pool facility where they were timed on 100-meter, then 250-meter freestyle in an assembly-line format. Immediately afterward, they were instructed to swim twenty solo laps—a kilometer in total.
As Tighe stepped up to the starting block, awaiting his start, he looked over to see the dark-haired mountain climber he’d seen in the parking lot and back in Baliceaux—although she, too, was now bald. She was second in line in the neighboring row and wore a one-piece bathing suit. Her lean body was impressively fit, unadorned by tattoos, and with a scar from a serious injury running under her right suit strap.
She soon stepped up onto the starting block beside him.
He called over to her. “I didn’t catch your name, by the way.”
She affixed her swim goggles. “If you’re still here in a month, I’ll tell you.”
A whistle and a shout from the coordinator. “Go!”
They both dove into the pool and started their kilometer swim. Her words fired Tighe up, and he soon outpaced her.
CHAPTER 7
Rue de Marche
Twenty-seven-year-old Lukas Rochat sat at a window table in the Café de Trullue, on Krautmaart across from the Hôtel de la Chambre des Députés—the Chamber of Deputies—in the heart of Luxembourg City, capital of the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg. Though smaller than the US state of Rhode Island, on a per capita basis Luxembourg was the richest nation in the European Union. Precisely why wasn’t common knowledge, but despite the city’s medieval charm, its success had a great deal to do with spaceflight.
Like the other attorneys and political staffers conversing all around him, Rochat was nattily dressed. This morning he’d worn his three-button gray mohair Prada suit with a blue silk necktie and orange pocket square. It would help him stand out, and he would need all the help he could get to be noticed this morning.
Rochat nursed a caffè Americano as he divided his attention between watching people exiting the Victorian-era chamber across the street and glancing at his phone to view photos of American limited-edition athletic shoes on an auction website. The kicks on-screen right now were signed by the Chinese rapper Smoov-OB and boasted a striking crimson and white colorway, with silk laces, gold eyelets, and gold aglets. He thought of two outfits they would perfectly complement, and, more important, no one else in Luxembourg City would have them. They’d make him unique.
The online auction commenced but the price instantly surpassed Rochat’s bid of 851 dollars, soaring past 6,000 dollars in the couple seconds it took him to close the browser tab with a sigh of disgust.
Story of my life. Outpaced and outspent.
Rochat glanced across the street and spotted the person he was waiting for—Athelme Gagneux, Ministry of the Economy deputy director of space affairs.
Rochat called out, “Miretta, je dois courir!”
A young Turkish woman nodded to him and moved to a hundred-year-old espresso machine encased in artfully pounded copper. She poured espresso into a to-go cup, quickly adding steamed milk, then raced over to him with a payment terminal.
Rochat waved his phone over the device.
She grabbed his elbow as he tried to leave. “Merde! The charge was declined, Lukas.”
“Shhh.” He dug in his pocket for a ten-euro note and quickly passed it to her.
“Let me get your change.”
“No time. Merci!” With that he abandoned his own coffee and grabbed the to-go cup. Rochat exited the Café Trullue and fast-walked in pursuit of his prey, who was already headed down the Krautmaart. Rochat navigated through a crowd of bureaucrats, lobbyists, and staffers.
Outsiders tended to perceive Luxembourg as the world capital for collectible postage stamps, but in fact, it had long been a center for the private space industry. Back in 1985 a consortium of Luxembourg bankers known as the Société Européenne des Satellites (European Society of Satellites)—now known simply as SES—made bold investments in what was then an unproven industry: communications satellites. Those investments paid off handsomely, and by the dawn of the twenty-first century, Luxembourg was receiving two billion dollars a year in royalties alone from global comsat firms.
So when commercial Moon- and asteroid-mining startups began forming at the turn of the millennium, the grand duchy doubled down on investments in space. To lure this new industry to its borders, in 2017 the Luxembourg parliament passed the world’s most progressive commercial space legislation—known simply as the Space Law—which guaranteed space-mining companies headquartered in Luxembourg the legal right to profit from resources extracted from celestial bodies. This meant space revenue could flow through Luxembourg’s banks—and, thus, EU banks, and from there, the world. It was, in fact, Luxembourg’s express goal to make itself the most space-commerce-friendly sovereign state on Earth.
As he walked, Rochat knew that the people in these streets were helping to chart the future of space commerce. Rochat was convinced this would be the biggest single industry in human history—that it would make the Internet look like a toy. If now was not the time to risk all and put out his own shingle, then when?
That’s what he’d told Sheila, the mother of his two-year-old son back in Vevey. She was legal counsel for a major food company, and their life was secure in Switzerland—but boring. Now was the time to strike out on his own. To make his mark. He’d clerked for a year at Pritzer & Wallace, one of the leading space-law firms with an office in Geneva. But LC was where the real action was. All the best space lawyers were setting up shop or hiring on with space startups here. Opportunity was everywhere.
Rochat knew he had to make his move now or be left behind. Again.
The balding, pear-shaped deputy director of space affairs was apparently not in a hurry, but he was also unfortunately talking on his phone as he walked.
Damn. Rochat couldn’t very well interrupt Gagneux’s phone call. He kept pace several people behind. No personal security detail, thank goodness. Not for a middle-level bureaucrat.
Then Gagneux hung up, and Rochat made his move as the man slipped the phone into his coat pocket.
“Good morning, Deputy Director.”
Gagneux glanced up with a neutral expression at first, but not recognizing Rochat, he turned away. “I am late for a meeting.”
“I won’t delay you.” Rochat handed over the coffee. “A caffè caramel, as you like it.”
This didn’t have the desired effect. “You think spying on my coffee preferences is the right approach?”
“I’m in the Trullue every morning and noticed you were too rushed today to go inside.”
“Early hearings.” He eyed the coffee. “I cannot accept that.”
Rochat dug into his coat and held up a completed gift declaration form. “Lukas Rochat, Sirius Legal Services. I am registered with the Ministry of the Economy. I’ll submit the paperwork. Surely, no one will begrudge you coffee during a meeting.”
“That’s only if I agree this is a meeting.” The deputy director eyed the coffee and finally accepted it. “Speak fast, Mr. Rochat.”
“I’m following up for a client—Lunargistics, LLC.” Rochat produced a sheaf of papers a hundred pages thick from his dispatch case. “I submitted their 37-B Space Operations Permit application five months ago, and—”
The bureaucrat cast a bemused expression Rochat’s way. “Lunargistics?”
“Yes, sir. I know they’re not a big player—for the present. They’re a cislunar logistics services firm, proposing to support operations of lunar mining companies. Market cap of just over fifty million euros, but on the strength of an approved SOP they’ll have a second funding round. I’ve been trying to get word about what’s delayed their application so they—”
“Don’t sack you?”
Rochat paused. “In short, yes, sir.”
“Brevity is a blessing in business, son. Remember that. This Sirius Legal Services you work for, I’ve never heard of them.”
“We recently opened an office here in Luxembourg City.”
“We?”
Rochat cleared his throat. “Me. I started the firm six months ago. Lunargistics is my first client. I just need to get them an answer on the status of their permit application.”
“You should have done some time in the bigger space-law firms. Made connections before hanging out your own shingle.”
