Critical Mass, page 8
“At present, global civilization requires approximately 22 terawatts of constant energy to function, but the UN estimates at least 55 terawatts will be needed by 2100 AD. The only way to satisfy that demand in an increasingly chaotic world is by beaming energy down from space.”
The image zoomed out to show more solar power satellites populating geostationary orbit.
“Fortunately, 332 terawatts can be drawn from the geosynchronous belt, safely populated with solar power satellites.”
Joyce once more stood next to his solar power satellite model.
“By constructing a mass-driver on the Moon’s surface and establishing the infrastructure for cislunar industry, Catalyst Corporation is poised to deliver on cost-effective, sustainable space transportation and unlimited space-based energy, and in the process to also become the largest transport and energy firm in human history.
“But it doesn’t end there. Atmospheric CO2 is already approaching four hundred and fifty parts per million, a level that last occurred six million years ago, on an almost alien Earth wholly unsuited to Homo sapiens and the animals and crop plants we depend upon for our survival. The most optimistic studies predict that climate change will shave an estimated 20 percent off global GDP by 2100 AD—an economic loss of two thousand trillion dollars. If we want to return our economy and climate to normalcy by restoring Earth to preindustrial levels of CO2, then we must actually pull CO2 out of the atmosphere—and that will require even more energy. Vast amounts of it.”
The screen showed renderings of an Earth-based power substation with arrays of fan housings pulling in ambient air.
“Here, too, Catalyst is ready to leverage its spaceborne power solutions, beaming terawatts of energy down to surface CO2-removal plants, essentially reversing combustion—and in the process creating flexible, efficient, carbon-neutral liquid fuels as a by-product, even as we reduce overall CO2 concentrations in the atmosphere. Why is this important?”
The screen depicted scenes of environmental devastation and pollution juxtaposed with high-tech electrical manufacturing.
“Because increased mining to obtain the lithium, cobalt, and rare Earth minerals used in electric vehicle production is devastating ecosystems worldwide, and also releasing vast amounts of carbon as forests are leveled and water sources polluted with heavy metals. Likewise, wind turbines, solar panels, batteries, and electric motors all require those same ecologically devastating rare Earth metals for their manufacture. It turns out that ‘green energy’ is not so green. At least, that is, unless Earth markets purchase our off-world-sourced cobalt and rare Earth minerals, which Catalyst’s lunar mining operations will be able to supply.”
The screen displayed the Earth ringed by a belt of solar power satellites in geosynchronous orbit, beaming invisible energy to Earth, while below, a massive tether rotated in low Earth orbit.
“Ready access to and from space and more clean energy than we can use on Earth—plus limitless energy and resources available for industry in space. That is the opportunity. Every expansionist stage in human history was sparked by either new modes of transport, vast increases in energy, or vast increases in resources. Our move into cislunar space will entail all three, and to a degree that will enable a multi-thousand-year continual economic expansion. That, or we continue on the path we are on. Ever-increasing chaos. Shortages. Conflict. And eventual extinction.”
The image instead panned out into cislunar space, where a glittering celestial civilization was already taking shape.
“Yes, space will challenge us, have no doubt, but this is the very challenge humanity needs to cure us of our propensity for bullshit—because space is where bullshit goes to die. Out there only facts and competence keep you alive. Superstition, uneducated guesses, and comforting lies are what must go extinct. Not us.”
The screen returned to a view of Joyce, standing next to his solar power satellite model. He walked back to sit on the edge of his desk.
“I wish there was a cataclysmic asteroid hurtling toward Earth, to spur us to this necessary task. Instead, we face risks of our own making, and our ability to reach space could disappear as we get consumed by Earthly crises. To reach this next stage of civilization—and to create unimaginable wealth for ourselves and for others—we must make this leap. And we must do it now, while the orbital window remains open to us. We may not get another chance.” Joyce paused before he said, “Join us . . .”
With that, the screen went black, and the Catalyst Corporation logo slowly resolved from the void.
Rochat turned the screen off. He looked up.
The team sat in stunned silence.
Pointedly, no one had asked Rochat to stop the video.
* * *
—
Hours later, Chindarkar sat alone in a wraparound sofa upholstered in what she’d been told was “mushroom-derived leather.” She gazed through a broad window in the floor of the airship—pondering the alpine city of Grenoble, France, passing by three thousand meters below. The view was breathtaking, with a fortress overlooking the city and a river winding along the foot of mountain cliffs. The ice-capped Alps loomed to the east and north.
Earth was so beautiful. Chindarkar felt gratitude to everyone and everything on it, and she’d felt this way ever since returning from space. Astronauts called this the overview effect. After years in deep space, she intimately understood just how rare and fragile the jewel of Earth was—the only place in the universe known to harbor life. In the entire vastness of space, all we had was each other. If only everyone in the world realized that.
Chindarkar thought about her family back in Mumbai. Her conservative, Kshatriya-caste parents had disowned her, their eldest daughter—had refused to accept her independent spirit. Since returning to Earth she had looked up her brothers and sisters on social media—peeked into their seemingly happy lives through photos of family gatherings. Her father’s stern face in several of them. They had moved on without her as if she had died, and yet, here she was. Chindarkar knew that Tighe’s situation was not unlike her own. Or Jin’s, for that matter. Most of the Konstantin crew members were unlikely to be missed.
Yet, even though Chindarkar had been cast out of her own family, she was still part of the human family—and the family of all living things. Joyce’s investor video had outlined a plan to rescue civilization from climate change, while also putting it on a path for centuries of prosperity. If what Joyce said was true and the fate of Earth’s biosphere hung in the balance, then as a board member of Catalyst Corporation, she was in a position to act. In fact, she bore a responsibility to do so. This master plan was so much more than a rescue mission for Abarca and Adedayo.
Just then she noticed Jin approaching from the stern. He joined Chindarkar, sliding onto the curving sofa.
“Where are the others?” Chindarkar asked.
“J.T. went to his cabin—to catch up on sleep. But Yak and I have been going through the designs Nathan left behind. There is a lot. His people did years of work on phase two—the L2 station has electrical, life support, thermal management, waste, integrated SCADA systems, software—all of it already designed.”
“There will still be problems. Glitches. You and I both know it.”
“Yes, but that would be true for anything we design as well, and regardless of my personal opinion of Nathan, the Konstantin kept us alive in deep space for over four years.”
She leaned forward, fists balled under her chin, gazing down at the terrain slowly passing by below. “I ran the numbers. Lukas is right; we don’t have the resources in orbit to build a capable rescue ship. An unfinished lunar station and a mass-driver on the Moon’s surface is arguably our best bet for obtaining what we need.” She looked up. “Plus, it also lays the foundation for an entire off-world economy.”
Jin thought for a moment. “No wonder Nathan pushed us for every ton we could put on those first shipments.”
“L2 is a good location. From there we get low delta-v access to deep space, the Moon, and the Earth.”
“Yes, but will China, Russia, and the US allow us to build this station?”
“Even if they do, how long would it take us?”
“To build the space station . . . the solar power satellite . . . and the mass-driver on the lunar surface. I figure several years at least.”
“And we’d still have to build a rescue ship. Ryugu comes around again in just four years.”
“It will be tight.”
Chindarkar looked to him hopefully. “Others can help us. There’s room for dozens of people on that space station—even in the partially completed initial portion.”
Jin appeared to be reconciling himself to the plan. “We do need a spin-gravity station in deep space if we mean to stay in orbit for long. And no one else has one.”
Chindarkar found herself nodding along with his thinking. Microgravity was not optional for months or years in space. “But where do we stay while we build the station?”
Jin said, “Earth. Lunargistics has a plan to use telepresence construction robots for most of the work—like they did with the Konstantin.”
“So then we need permission from an Earth nation to launch telepresence construction robots.”
They looked at each other.
Jin asked, “Why do you suppose Nathan did not build this mass-driver on the Moon to begin with, rather than go through with our Konstantin asteroid mission? Would it not have been easier?”
Chindarkar shook her head. “To launch all the mass we now have in orbit up from Earth? That would have cost more than twenty-four billion. Much more.”
Jin added, “And they wouldn’t have let him build it. Maybe they will stop us, too.”
They sat considering this for several minutes as the beautiful landscape of Earth passed beneath them.
CHAPTER 5
Ajegunle
James Tighe awoke in his cabin in the early evening—unsure of what day it was. A wave of nausea came over him, and he raced to his en suite bathroom to vomit. The droning of the airship motors helped conceal his retching, but he ran the faucet just in case. When he finished, he cleaned up and went back to sit on the edge of the bed.
A little over a week and the chemo meds were already kicking his ass.
Tighe stared through the wide, downward-angled window. The sprawling city of Lagos, Nigeria, shimmered below in the twilight. It was unmistakably huge—thirty million people, and according to Lukas Rochat, the fastest-growing city in the world. Tighe knew that Adedayo Adisa had grown up somewhere down in that cauldron of ruthless competition, and Adisa’s siblings and mother were there still, living in abject poverty. Helping Adisa’s family was the very least the team could do.
If Tighe skipped his meds, perhaps he’d have the energy to go along when they landed tomorrow morning. He needed to go.
Tighe lay back down and sleep soon enveloped him once more.
The next morning, Tighe, Jin Han, Priya Chindarkar, Sevastian Yakovlev, and Rochat descended the airship gangway and emerged into harsh sunlight and withering humidity. The scent of smoke and trash immediately swept over them. It was an odor Tighe recalled from his many years in the less developed precincts of the world.
The Eos had landed in an unfinished business park built on a several-hundred-acre landfill jutting out into the Atlantic. The sandy peninsula was spiked by half-finished high-rise office buildings that already appeared to be decaying. The abortive waterfront development was lapped by ocean waves in places and crisscrossed by a semi-submerged grid of streets-to-nowhere, replete with sidewalks. The actual city skyline was visible a couple kilometers to the north.
Three black Range Rovers and a police van were parked near the airship, with a dozen or so armed men standing around. Meanwhile, two uniformed Nigerian customs officials spoke with Captain Bernsen as they examined the airship’s documentation and the passengers’ passports. These they stamped and returned after a cursory examination.
Tighe’s energy levels were low, but he hoped that skipping his meds would see him through the day. He looked out at their security detail—a lean, sharp-looking crew of West Africans dressed in khakis and pastel polo shirts, most of whom carried black polymer submachine guns on single-point slings. But instead of looking toward Tighe, their eyes were cast outward, scanning for threats. They each wore radio earpieces. Clearly not a low-rent group. Probably a corporate security team.
Leave it to Rochat to overreact. The man was Swiss, after all. Nigeria probably seemed like a Mad Max film to him.
Rochat, himself, was dressed more casually than Tighe had ever seen him, and was busy stowing his passport in a zipper pocket before motioning to his companions. “Captain Bernsen will handle the rest. Let’s get moving.”
Tighe nodded toward the motorcade. “We’re taking all of this?”
“Yes. Lagos is one of the most dangerous cities in Africa, and Ajegunle—Adisa’s neighborhood—is its most dangerous district. Security is not optional.”
Rochat advanced toward the head of the security team and extended his hand. “Mr. Tinubu, you come highly recommended.”
Tinubu was a bald-headed, imposing man who extended his beefy hands for a two-handed shake. The cadence of his accent reminded Tighe of Adisa. “Mr. Rochat. It is a pleasure. The area boys will be no problem for you today. I assure you.”
Tighe noticed that Yak was still on the gangway. “You coming?”
Yak shook his head. “I remain here in case of trouble.”
“Capcom again?”
“For now, yes.”
Tinubu opened the rear passenger door of a Range Rover and rapped his knuckles on the extra-thick doorframe. He looked to Rochat. “As you can see, your vehicle is armored. You will all be perfectly safe.”
Visibly pleased, Rochat got inside. Tighe, Jin, and Chindarkar joined him.
Tighe leaned toward Rochat. “Couldn’t find a tank?”
“I’d rather be prepared.”
“In my experience the best defense is to fit in.”
Tinubu got into the front passenger seat and spoke to Rochat. “We will bring you to the residence of Mrs. Adisa in Ajegunle. It is only a few klicks, but will take some time due to traffic.”
With that, the motorcade accelerated rapidly. The roar of old internal combustion engines brought back memories from Tighe’s childhood. Before long they reached the business park’s front gates, and armed guards there waved them through. The motorcade then raced out onto the streets of Victoria Island and drove aggressively through moderate traffic, the lead vehicle making way by flashing their headlights and honking.
Chindarkar spoke to Tinubu. “Do we need to drive this fast?”
Tinubu craned his neck. “It is no problem, miss.”
Tighe watched the waterfront roll past. As ramshackle as Lagos appeared, it was bustling; people moved about everywhere, most of them young, pushing hand wagons, driving electric scooters, or hawking wares. It was a hive of activity—none of it hyperefficient. But then, there were plenty of people to do it.
After ascending onto a brand-new elevated expressway, they crossed several harbor bridges at speed. In the distance stood sprawling factories whose buildings bore Chinese-character logos. Mandarin-language video billboards along the highway presented a fast-moving montage of products, showcasing the manufacturing expertise of various contract factories—everything from electronic components to textiles to plastics.
Rochat spoke to Tinubu. “I had no idea Nigeria had so much industry.”
“Chinese-owned.” He waved his hand. “All of this.”
After a few kilometers their motorcade had crossed over water and exited the expressway to descend into a warren of dilapidated low-rise structures that stretched clear to the horizon. The reek of trash and shit enfolded them like a curtain. It was a stench so dense it made Tighe wince.
Tinubu pointed at a nearby brown waterway choked with trash. “It is the canal. City services are unfortunately lacking in this precinct.”
It was the sort of understatement that made a mockery of the reality just beyond the window. The haze of smoke made it difficult to see far along the canal. Soon their vehicles got bogged down in surface street traffic as they headed deeper into the neighborhoods. Towering cranes indicated a container port close by. People walked and rode motorbikes around their SUV—but no one peered too closely into its tinted windows as it inched along in traffic.
Tighe noticed extremely thin video screens peppering wall surfaces in clusters here and there—silently playing advertisements on endless short loops. They were placed haphazardly, with pieces torn off here and there. “What’s with the video screens everywhere?” A nearby ad scrolled Chinese letters.
Tinubu groaned. “Video stickers. They are a pestilence!”
Tighe tried to understand. “So . . . they’re stickers?”
Rochat interjected. “Technology has moved on while you were away. Cheap, thin-film video screens that absorb wireless energy. Ad companies use them now. They’re banned in the EU.”
Jin made a face. “I can see why. They are awful.”
Soon their motorcade inched down narrow lanes lined by apartment blocks—dingy, four-story buildings whose balcony railings and windowsills were festooned with clothes hanging out to dry and studded with small satellite dishes. Faded political posters and banners featuring the faces of local party bosses filled the gaps in between. The ground floors were populated with mobile phone stalls, bodegas with cases of bottled water piled high, and shops crowded with mannequin torsos featuring colorful garments. Tighe glanced up to see a large, soot-stained Christian cross, mounted on a railing. On the wall nearby someone had stenciled in bold white paint the English words: This building not for sale. Beware of 419.
He was about to ask Tinubu about it, when the lead Range Rover halted, sending their SUV to a jolting stop as well. Leaning forward, Tighe could see that a battered white police pickup truck blocked the road ahead. Uniformed officers stood around it with long guns.
