As a child on board El Cavador, Victor had feared the name Ukko Jukes. Whenever spotters spied a Juke ship in the vicinity, Victor knew it meant trouble and sometimes even violence. As a boy of four or five, Victor had assumed that Ukko captained all those ships himself, shouting orders from the helm like a giant menacing warrior. And even later, when Victor had learned the truth of who Ukko Jukes was, the name still carried an air of dread and danger.
Yet here was the man now, shorter than Victor had expected, with thinning white hair and a trim white beard and a woman at his side dabbing his cheeks with makeup. It made Victor almost laugh to think that he had ever feared such a man.
Simona put a finger to her lips and led Victor and the others to the back of the room where a few dozen chairs had been set up in the darkness. Most of the chairs were empty, but a handful were occupied by people who appeared to be helping with the production. Victor took a chair beside Imala and waited. It galled him to sit here and watch these people fret over something so insignificant. Whatever this production was, it was completely meaningless compared to what was coming.
A woman with a headset and a holopad called for quiet, and Ukko dismissed the makeup lady with a brusque wave of his hand. The lady scurried off as someone in the shadows counted down from ten. At zero, a dozen heads appeared in the holofield in front of Ukko, all of them smiling and courteous. Ukko greeted them warmly, thanked them for their time, then the text of Ukko's presentation appeared in front of him.
"Today is a special day in the history of our organization. For the past twenty-five years, Juke Limited has been the leader in space mining, extracting hundreds of millions of tons of minerals a year and growing every economy in the world. Some might say, if it ain't broke don't fix it. But Juke Limited will never stop innovating. We continuously look for ways to make our industry more efficient and more productive. Today I give you proof of that. Today the space-mining industry takes a revolutionary leap forward."
A family portrait appeared in the air beside him: a father, mother, and three young children, all sitting under a tree and smiling for the camera. "Ask yourself, what is the one resource we waste the most in space? Is it oxygen? Fuel?... No. It's time. We waste millions of man-hours prospecting for viable asteroids. Each of our prospecting ships has a crew of ten to twenty men and women, who spend months in space, oftentimes with little or nothing to show for it. That translates into lost time with spouses and little ones. What we need is a smarter, faster, less expensive way to determine an asteroid's mineral content. Is it full of rich ferromagnetic metals? Or is it a worthless rock? Today, ladies and gentlemen, I give you the solution. The answer to all that wasted time."
The family portrait disappeared. Ukko walked to his left, and the holofield and light rig moved with him. He stopped at a large object no bigger than a skimmer covered with a black sheet. Victor hadn't noticed it before in the darkness. The light rig shot up into the air, and the holofield expanded to five times its original size so that it now included the draped object.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the world's first space-mining drone ... the Vanguard!"
Ukko made a sweeping gesture with his arm, and the black sheet flew backward out of the holofield, unveiling a small, white, seamless vessel that sparkled in the rotating spotlights. "Working as a scout, the Vanguard will seek out mineral-rich asteroids via remote control and preprogrammed flight paths. By firing digger bots no larger than an apple down into the surface of the asteroid from space, the Vanguard can determine the asteroid's approximate mineral content. That information is then relayed back to Juke. If the mineral content is high enough and the asteroid large enough, a mining crew is dispatched for immediate mineral extraction."
The floating heads in the holofield began asking questions. As each one did, Ukko brought the head forward and made it larger than the others. What is its fuel source? How soon will these be operational? How do you safely fly it via remote control if there's a time lag between it and headquarters? What will happen to all the prospecting crews? Are these people out of a job?
Ukko answered them all deftly, as if he expected each one. No, the crews would not lose their jobs. Drones would increase the discovery of minerals and thus increase the need for mining crews. All those employees would be transitioned to mining vessels.
Well, doesn't that debunk the whole "saving time" argument? Victor wanted to ask. How are you giving people more time with Daddy dearest if you're moving him from one ship to another and keeping him in space just as long?
But none of the journalists seemed concerned with that detail. The technical specs and increased efficiency potential had them practically salivating. By the time the questions ended, the journalists were all applauding enthusiastically. Ukko thanked them for their time, promised them each packets with further specs and photos for their stories, and bid them all good-bye.
When the last journalist winked out, the holofield disappeared, the lights in the room came on, and the small production crew rushed forward to congratulate Ukko on a job well done. He took an offered water bottle and downed a long drink, mostly ignoring the praise around him. When Simona approached and whispered in his ear, Ukko stopped, listened, and looked in Victor's direction. A moment later Simona was ushering the production crew out of the room.
When they were alone, Ukko smiled, approached Prescott, and put a hand on the man's shoulder. "Richard, this is a wonderful surprise. I haven't seen you since the Deep Space Expo. Linda is well, I hope."
"Yes, sir. Thank you for asking."
Ukko continued down the receiving line. Without looking at Yanyu's gimpy right arm or giving any sign that he noticed it, Ukko deftly offered her his left hand instead, which was the hand she preferred to greet people with. "And Yanyu," he said, smiling affectionately, "one of our prized grad assistants. I hear only good things about the research you're doing for us at the observatory. Keep it up. There will always be a place at Juke for the best and the brightest. Or as my finance team likes to call them, profit producers." He winked and moved on.
Ukko turned to Imala and didn't appear at all surprised to see her. He took her hand gently in both of his. "Imala Bootstamp. When last we spoke I believe you were turning down my generous job offer."
At the LTD, Imala had learned that auditors were being paid under the table by Juke Limited to ignore the company's tax and tariff evasions. Ukko had offered Imala a job within the company to silence the scandal, but Imala had refused and left Ukko with a few colorful remarks instead.
"You're wearing a Juke jumpsuit, Imala. And running with my scientists now. I'm confused. What could pique the interest of the Customs Department and two of my finest astrophysicists?"
"A matter of mutual interest."
"Clearly. And tell me, Imala, how are things at Customs? Are you regretting turning down my offer?"
"I'm no longer with Customs, Mr. Jukes. At least that's my suspicion. I was on administrative leave, but after yesterday's events, I suspect they've since given me the ax."
"I'm sorry to hear that. You must stop this habit of getting fired, Imala. Your resume is turning into a list of terminations. It will make recruiters nervous."
Victor could tell Ukko was enjoying this.
"If I can do anything to help," said Ukko, "be a reference perhaps, just let Simona know. I'd like to think my opinion still holds a little weight in the world."
"How generous of you to offer," said Imala. "I'm sure you'd be all too eager to give others your opinion of me."
"I would indeed."
They stood there facing each other a moment longer, hand in hand, each of them maintaining a mask of politeness. Ukko finally broke his gaze and turned to Victor, offering his hand. "And who is this fine-looking young man?"
"Victor Delgado."
"A pleasure to meet you, Victor. And are you on my payroll, or is this a loaner as well?" He gestured at the jumpsuit.
"A loaner. I'm a free miner actually."
Ukko rai
sed an eyebrow. "Free miner? Interesting. The surprises never cease. Tell me, are you with a clan I may have heard of?"
"We only have one ship. My family's not big enough to be considered a clan."
"I see."
"We work the Kuiper Belt. Our ship is called El Cavador."
"A Spanish name."
"We're Venezuelan. It means 'The Digger.'"
"An appropriate name for a mining vessel. Kuiper Belt, you say. You're a long toss from home, aren't you?"
"You could say that."
"I've never been out that deep myself. I never saw the appeal, quite frankly."
"There are fewer corporates," said Victor. "That's what makes it so attractive. My family used to work the Asteroid Belt, but we were bumped by Juke ships so often, we could no longer survive there. It's hard to make a living, Mr. Jukes, when someone is always stealing your mine shafts."
Simona stiffened slightly. Ukko's expression remained pleasant. "Yes, well I'm sorry to hear your family had a hard time. I'm glad to hear they're doing better deeper out."
"I didn't say we were doing better, Mr. Jukes. We're not. We were doing better, but then your son Lem bumped us off an asteroid, crippled our ship, and killed a member of our crew."
"Victor," Imala protested. "This isn't why we came here."
The smile on Ukko's face had vanished. He shot a look to Simona, who was now wide-eyed with shock. "I assure you, Mr. Jukes, I don't know what this man is talking about!"
"What the hell is this?" said Ukko, rounding on Prescott.
Prescott opened his mouth to speak, but Ukko was already back at Victor. "What do you know of my son? Is this some kind of extortion attempt?"
"Marcus!" said Simona.
A bodyguard lumbered into the room. Ukko held up a hand, stopping him, his eyes now boring into Victor. "You have three seconds to explain yourself, boy, or you will not like where this conversation goes."
"Like father like son," said Victor. The words came out of him before he had even considered what he was saying.
Ukko's cheeks flushed, and his expression hardened. "You rock suckers are all the same. Ignorant, pompous heathens."
"This isn't helping, Victor," said Prescott. "We need him."
Victor looked at Prescott, considered his words, exhaled, then turned back to Ukko. "We didn't come hear to talk about your son. We came here to discuss--"
"To hell with whatever you came here to discuss," said Ukko. "If you mention my son, you explain yourself."
"Fine. About ten months ago, your son's ship jumped ours during our sleep-shift, cut our anchor lines, and bumped us off a rock. One of his lasers sliced off an external sensor, which then struck and killed my uncle."
"That's a lie."
"It's not a lie. It happened right in front of me."
Ukko shook his head. "My son wouldn't bump you. He had no reason to. He isn't on a mining mission. If you think for an instant you can muscle money out of me with some made-up story--"
"I can describe the ship," said Victor. "I was out on spacewalk when it struck us. It hit me as well. I got a very good look at it."
"Anyone with access to flight records here on Luna could find out what type of ship my son is on. That doesn't prove anything." He stepped closer to Victor, his smile acid. "You think you're the first pebble pusher to try to blackmail me?"
Victor didn't flinch, though he realized now how foolish he was being. If they lost Ukko as an ally, or worse, if they made him an enemy, they would never get a warning out in time. "If you don't believe me," said Victor, "you can ask him when he returns to Luna. Assuming he isn't dead already."
The color drained from Ukko's face. "What are you saying? Are you threatening my son?"
"I'm not threatening anyone, Mr. Jukes. But something out there is. The same thing that has threatened every ship in the Belt and destroyed a good number of them. That's why we're here. I know what's causing the interference. And if you don't help us do something about it soon, we're all in a world of hurt."
CHAPTER 5
Mazer
Lieutenant Mazer Rackham jogged across the tarmac to where the HERC sat on the landing pad and climbed up into the copilot's seat. It was three o'clock in the morning, and cloud cover from the west off the Tasman Sea had blotted out the Moon and left all of Papakura Military Camp in near total darkness. Mazer put on his helmet and switched on his HUD while the other three members of his unit climbed into the HERC and did the same. A holo of the HERC appeared in the air in front of Mazer, covered with blinking dots. Six months ago it had taken the team ten minutes to run through the preflight sequence. Now they could do it in twenty-seven seconds flat.
Mazer blinked the appropriate commands to begin the sequence and saw that Reinhardt, the pilot, was doing the same. Avionics? Check. Load talons? Check. Gravity lens? Check.
The HERC--or heavy equipment recovery copter--was a scooper, a low-flying aircraft designed to rush into hostile territory; scoop up troops, vehicles, or supplies; and get out as quickly as possible. Since it was primarily used for extraction and not direct combat, it didn't pack a lot of heavy air support. Yet what it lacked in big guns, it made up for in armor. The standing joke on base was that a tank and a helicopter had done the funky watusi in the bushes, and the HERC had popped out nine months later.
Yet to call the HERC a mere flying tank was an insult to its design. Engineered by Juke Limited, the HERC was the world's first gravity-lensing aircraft, which used lenses to deflect gravity waves from Earth and send them around the aircraft. The lenses were not mechanical lenses like glass lenses that refracted light, but rather fields created by a center point. By adjusting the shape of the field, it adjusted the direction that gravity waves were focused or deflected. The result was the aircraft felt less gravity. It hovered. It flew without rotor blades. And because gravity lensing adjusted continuously to provide vertical placement above the Earth's surface, all that was needed to make the HERC fly forward was a means of propulsion, which the rear jet engine provided.
It took very powerful computers to constantly adjust the direction, focus, and strength of the gravlens, however. And computers, when rattled in combat, tended to fail. As a backup, in case the gravlens gave out and the aircraft dropped like a stone, Juke Limited had installed rotor blades as well. When not in use the blades folded into a single blade that tied back parallel to the main line of the aircraft like a cockroach's wings. These could deploy in 0.3 seconds, which, in high altitude, was more than enough time to keep the HERC airborne. But since the HERC was almost exclusively a low-flying aircraft, normally going no higher than twenty meters above the trees to avoid detection and enemy fire, the backup rotor blades wouldn't deploy fast enough to save the crew. If anything, they would merely lessen the impact. And even then the rotors would do as much harm as good. Once you hit the ground the torque effects from the blades would take over and flop the bird around or try to drill it into the ground. You were almost better off deploying the huge emergency chutes, keeping the rotor blades off, and praying the airbags kept you alive.
Mazer tried not to think about crashing, focusing instead on the assignment at hand. The order had come directly from the Ministry of Defence six months ago. The NZSAS--or New Zealand Special Air Services, the special forces branch of the kiwi military based out of South Auckland--was to put the HERC through rigorous field tests to determine the aircraft's combat readiness.
Mazer had been tasked as flight-team leader, and the commission had come as a surprise. He had no training as a test pilot, and he had been in the NZSAS for less than two years. As far as he could tell, there was a line of men a kilometer long who were far more qualified.
"Don't let it go to your head," Reinhardt had told him. "When the colonel gives assignments like this, it doesn't mean he likes you. It means you're expendable. You think they want their best guys dying in field tests? Hell no. They want us getting the bugs out. We're guinea pigs, Rackham. Crash-test dummies. Bottom of the totem pole."
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It was a joke of course. In the NZSAS, there were no totem poles. Every man was equal. There were chains of command, yes, but no one pulled rank or dumped unfavorable assignments on greenies. In the unit, no job was beneath any soldier. If a ditch needed digging, Colonel Napatu was as likely to grab a shovel as anyone else.
"Check and clear," said Reinhardt, finishing up the preflight sequence.
"Check and clear," Mazer repeated.
Behind the cockpit, Patu banged the butt of her rifle twice on the floor. "Let's get a move on and get this over with. I haven't slept in thirty-six hours."
Beside her, Fatani closed his eyes and laid his head against the headrest. "None of us have slept in that long, Patu. We all need our beauty sleep." Fatani was a hundred and twenty kilos of Polynesian muscle, well over two meters tall. The safety restraints around his chest were extended to maximum length, but even so the fit was tight.
"You try to get beauty sleep, Fatani?" Reinhardt asked with mock surprise. "You must suffer from some serious insomnia."
"Keep it up, Reinhardt," said Fatani. "We'll see how long you laugh when I drop your skinny butt from this bucket at three hundred and twenty kilometers per hour."
"You'd only kill yourself," said Reinhardt. "Birds tend to crash without a pilot."
"I can pilot as well as you can."
"Yeah, and by the time you crawled up here into the seat, you'd be crashing into the ground."
"Then I'd die with a smile on my face, knowing I had just dropped you."
"Enough with the testosterone," Patu said. "Can we go now, please?"
"Blue River, Blue River," Mazer said into his helmet. "This is Jackrabbit. We are clear and flight-ready, over."
"Roger that, Jackrabbit," came the voice over the radio. "You are clear to go. Mission sequence code: lima tango four zero seven foxtrot, over."
Mazer entered the code into his HUD and repeated the sequence back to the controller. Windows of data popped up as the computer accepted the code and opened the mission file. Mazer blinked the command to forward the files to everyone else. A timer in the upper right corner of his HUD began ticking up the seconds from zero. It was a timed mission, apparently.