Noriama: Chapter 2
A little less than an hour later, Michael Donnahill stepped off the mag-train at the New Bath Airport, carrying a single briefcase and dressed in his lightest clothing. He had been cursing himself the entire trip, thinking about the lonely umbrella that sat next to the door in his apartment.
He had always traveled light. He had to; a government salary didn’t give him the resources to bring extra shoes or changes of clothing. Travel was expensive, and every pound counted. When it was possible, he didn’t even bother to bring his briefcase, opting instead to slip his computer in his pocket and be done with it. Packing, for Michael, could take hours as he inspected each shirt, sock, and toiletry to decide if he really needed to bring it.
This trip, however, had inhabited that rare paradox of being impossible to pack for and therefore easy to pack for. Michael knew nothing about what Antje wanted, except it was for more than just a drink. Free from the knowledge of what to expect, he was able to forego agonizing what to bring. Instead, Michael threw on the lightest clothing he had and stuffed an old jacket and tie in a side-bag. He could remote-terminal into his office if he needed to access information back at the EUSAA.
He had even opted not to bring his umbrella to save weight, a decision that he was now regretting as he stepped off the train and ran through the thick rain to the airport doors.
By the time he reached the concourse, he was soaked to the bone. He paused only a moment to squeeze a few euros of weight off of himself and into the specially designed porous floor, where it vanished almost instantly.
“Missiour Donnahill?” A thin voice drifted through the air. Michael looked up into the clear gray eyes of a rather stern looking woman. Behind her, three men and women in dark suits stood with their hands hanging loosely at their sides.
“Yes?” he paused in his wringing, “that’s me.”
“Faustine Bertrand,” she smiled, extending her hand. After a quick shake to rid his hand of excess water, he took it. “EU Liaison Officer. I am here at the request of Representative Seidel. I have your official waiver here,” she held up a thin brown folder. “Did you happen to speak with anyone about this trip?”
“No. Well, my office manager; I told her I might be gone for the day.”
“The day?” Her cheerful demeanor took on an edge. “Do you know how long you will be staying in Brussels?”
“No,” he admitted. “I just —”
“Did you mention that you would be traveling to Brussels?”
“No,” Michael shook his head. “At least, I don’t think so.”
“What is her name, please?”
Michael glanced at the agents. They hadn’t moved. “Look, what’s this all about? What classification is this trip, anyway? I wasn’t told to keep anything a secret.”
Instantly, the steel was gone from Faustine’s face. She smiled, ushering Michael deeper into the airport. “Of course, my apologies. You understand, I am under orders to keep your trip as secure as possible. Would you please follow me?”
The New Bath Airport was the most modern transport center in the EU. While the African Union and the Seven Nations had constructed several airports capable of mass transit across regional borders, the EU only had two. On the southern continent, there was the Aéroport interrégional de Paris. On the English Isles, there was New Bath. Space was at a premium on the English Isles, so to accommodate the security regulations of the United Regional Council — the second attempt for a global government that could prevent wars, distribute aid, and solve global problems that a single region couldn’t — the airport had to be built tall, moving up and down again like a cramped inchworm. Passengers moved through the bureaucracy all the way to the top of the concourse, and then make their way back down again to the terminals on the other side.
It was a headache Michael abhorred. They did it so much better in the Southern Americas, though their rejection of URC travel regulations had been a double-edged decision at best.
The first stop of any traveler was the Rationeur. Michael walked up to the closest booth with his unexpected entourage.
“How many traveling?” the woman smiled the practiced smile of a service attendant.
“One.” Faustine handed over her folder. “Director Michael Donnahill, EUSAA. Special waiver.”
The attendant’s eyes flickered over the seal before opening the folder. Her smile faded as she looked the papers up and down, her unfamiliarity with the situation immediately becoming clear.
“Will you excuse me one moment?” Her perfect smile returned as she backed away, leaving Michael and Faustine alone in the small cordoned booth.
“She must not be used to ration waivers.” Michael muttered.
“Approvals have decreased,” Faustine shrugged. “I think the EU is becoming more conservative. Allowing less travel.”
“Really?” Michael frowned. “You think there’s a rationing problem?”
“Perhaps.” Faustine smirked. “What do I know? I’m just a Liaison officer.”
There was a long pause before Michael to bring himself to look at his companion, and ask the question he was sadly confident of the answer to.
“Any idea what this is all about? Why mine was approved?”
Faustine shrugged again, “My job is just to get you on the plane.”
There was something comforting in his companion’s dismissive apathy. It was a familiar despondency he was used to seeing on the English Isles, not as common among the greater EU. Michael turned back to the counter as the attendant returned with a fresh smile plastered on her face.
“Thank you for waiting. The waver has been processed, and Mr. Donnahill, you are free to continue with your journey. Please keep your confirmation with you until you have acquired your ticket, and I hope you enjoy your flight.”
“Me too.” Michael took the small plastic card from the woman’s hands.
From there, getting on the plane was astonishingly easy. Purchasing the ticket was the same process as always; standing on the scale to measure his weight and the weight of his baggage, assessing what electronic equipment he was bringing on board, the deep body scans, the questionnaire, all contributing to a unique and final price for his ticket.
After the ticket, though, his handler turned him left instead of right, through doors clearly marked “No Entry.” She flashed a government ID to several armed guards, and within a moment he was outside, walking on the tarmac towards a tiny jet plane, barely big enough for eight.
It was at once luxurious and terrifying. On the one hand, not needing to explain your travel itinerary in detail to multiple travel agents, sitting through brief but tedious lectures on safety, or undergoing mild medical evaluation was a pleasant change. On the other hand, it was chilling to realize that Antje considered his presence important enough to bypass almost an hour of checking his background, medical state, and philosophical leanings.
His unease didn’t leave when he entered the airplane to see only two people on the plane, who spared him no more than a glance. They each likely had their own waivers for their own reasons, perhaps consulting with labor secretaries or returning with farming reports; nothing to do with him. Even so, all together they were important enough to warrant five empty seats on a plane.
He didn’t recognize either of them, but out of an unexpected survival instinct he didn’t try very hard.
“Michael! So glad to see you!” Antje smiled warmly as she shook Michael’s hand. “Please, come have a seat. Can I get you anything?”
“Scotch, if you have it.” He meant it as a joke. The plane ride had been a quick one; it was only one-o-clock in the afternoon.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” Antje stepped around her desk to the small cabinet at the other end of her office. She bent down, opened the cabinet, and stood up again, holding a small brown bottle. “I feel bad that I haven’t kept in touch as much as I’d like. How are you doing?”
Michael stared as she poured the amber liquor. “…Fine. No, not fine, really.”
“I know,” she sighed, picking up the half-full glasses and handing one to Michael. “Tut mir leid. The budget hurt all of us, frankly. I can only imagine what you have to deal with at EUSAA.”
“No, you can’t.” He stuck his nose in the glass, inhaling the thick peaty smell of the English Isles. It had been years since he had tasted proper Scotch. It was an expensive luxury.
Michael stared at his drink. The promise of another blissful hour of dizzying forgetfulness beckoned to him from the glass, but he knew from experience that he wouldn’t forget. He would remember in excruciating detail, the alcohol loosening his tongue to spew epithets that would have made his leathery grandmother blush — and she had been a construction worker when she was younger.
He wrestled with himself for only a moment before taking a sip. “Where did it all go?” he asked. He still wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
“Where you’d expect,” Antje answered, sipping her own glass. “Infrastructure, Military, pet engineering projects…with Weather Events getting worse every year, the EU is focusing their efforts on repair, mitigation, and preparation.”
“Well, good thing they cut money to the space program,” Michael sneered. “Not like a satellite’s-eye view would help with that.”
Antje shifted. It had not been so long that Michael couldn’t still recognize her tells.
“The EU Military brass is designing and planning to launch their own satellite,” she admitted, after Michael’s stare forced her response.
Michael bit his lip. Hard. “Well. Good. Keeping military secrets from the other member regions never caused friction before.” He dropped his glass to his lap. “Is that it? Are they trying to be snitty with the Seven Nations because of the damned fusion reactors? You hide something from us, we’ll hide something from you?”
Antje shrugged. “I’m not on any citizen-military committees. I don’t know what their excuses are.”
Michael took a deep drink, hoping against hope the scotch would help sort through which questions he wanted to ask first. He settled on: “When?”
“As far as I know, within the year.”
Michael took another deep drink, and held out the glass for Antje to top him up.
“Speaking of short notice,” he sniffed at the glass again, letting the aroma curl through his sinuses. “This little get-together certainly happened quickly. Anything you can tell me now?”
“Maybe,” Antje frowned, sipping her own drink. “I’m meeting with Takuya Takenaka in an hour, and he asked for you to be there.”
“Who?”
“I thought as much,” Antje leaned back in her chair with a resigned air. “Takuya Takenaka is the Japanese member of the Seven Nations’ mineral and resource council; something akin to our EUMA. He’s on the UNC’s resource rationing board, heads three different committees, and has a chair on six other rationing and environmental monitoring sub-committees. You sure you’ve never heard of him?”
Michael shook his head as he took another sip. He rarely paid attention to departments outside of the EUSAA, much less foreign governments. It had caused problems for him before, but he couldn’t bring himself to devote his energy to the intricacies of politics when there was so much going on in the universe.
“Well, he asked for you by name,” Antje turned her glass in her hands. “He didn’t ask to meet with ’the head of the EUSAA,’ but with you. Do you have any idea as to why?”
It was a silly question, and Michael shrugged instead of answering. “I suppose I could have met him when I toured the Seven Nations, but that was decades ago. I doubt anyone remembers me. Besides, I only met with scientists and a few engineers, not politicians.”
“Well, he wants to meet you. Or at least, he wants you to hear whatever we’re going to talk about in this meeting. We have a dossier on him you can look at if you want. Public financial holdings, back-history, that sort of thing if you’re interested.”
Michael shook his head. “What does he want to talk about?”
“Keine ahnung. He didn’t say. He wants the meeting to be casual.”
“Casual?” Michael frowned. “A member of the Seven Nations wants to meet with a Representative of the EU and the head of the EUSAA ‘casually’?”
“That’s what he said,” Anjte cocked her head, giving Michael her impression of exactly what she thought of that.
“You think he wants something?”
“He obviously wants something, the question is what? I’ve been trying to think of what the EU has that the Seven Nations doesn’t, especially when it comes to the EUSAA, and I’ve been drawing blanks. Do you have any ideas?”
Michael took another sip of home. “Astronomically? Ten years ago we had a larger radio telescope, but after their expansion outside Guizhou Province, I can’t think of anything we have that they don’t have, and better. Our computational power is slower, we have fewer observatories, radio telescopes…” he shook his head before locking a sharp glare on Antje. “Ironic, I think. If he knew how little we were funding our own scientists, he might try the AU, or Austrilasia.”
Antje nodded, poorly hiding the regret that leaked from her face. Michael felt strangely satisfied; For the past few years he had been ashamed of the EU’s failures to keep up with the other member regions of the URC. It was nice to see that he wasn’t the only one.
“What about Japan specifically? Does the EUSAA have anything that Japan itself doesn’t?
“Quite a few things,” Michael narrowed his eyes. “The Seven Nation’s research organizations mostly operate out of Unified Korea and China.” He paused as he considered Antje’s question. “Do you think he’s doing a runaround? Avoiding the Seven Nations government entirely?”
Antje shrugged again. “It would explain the secrecy. I checked with their Security Council; officially, Mr. Takenaka is traveling as a private citizen, to ‘see the sights.’”
Michael took a slow drink. “This is a vacation for him?”
“That’s what he told the Seven Nations. And, at his request, as far as our record is concerned, we asked him to stop by to discuss mineral trade tariffs.”
Michael nodded, and sipped again, filling his mouth with the sweet aroma of smoke and spice. “Is this some sort of parachute? Are you trying to offer me a job as a secret agent?”
After a pause, Antje grimaced, swallowing her own drink down. “Look, don’t think I didn’t fight hard for more funding, but as you’ve said, the budgetary committee doesn’t see any point in throwing more and more money at an organization that has been so outclassed by another region, especially with the Kwanso pact.”
“It’s not about being outclassed,” Michael snapped. “It’s not about winning. It’s about taking part, and offering differing viewpoints. It’s about combining our efforts to learn more about our universe —” he stopped, rubbing his palm into his eyes. God he was tired.
Antje reached out her hand. “Don’t be concerned, this sort of diplomatic slight-of-hand happens all the time. It could be nothing more than someone in the Seven Nations wants to float a joint project, but don’t want anything official until we agree.”
“Why would they join with us?” Michael blurted out. The scotch was doing its work. “What do we have that they don’t? We still have no idea how their Sunessen drive works, and we’ve been at it for a year! They have seven times the imaging capabilities, their AI projects are years ahead of ours, and since the Kwanso pact was signed they’ve had fifteen successful space launches compared to our two! Whatever your mineral magistrate wants, he damn well doesn’t need us to give it to him!”
He stopped when he saw Antje’s face; it was sad and empathetic, the face of a comrade in arms letting someone else say the things they both felt. Michael took a deep breath, rubbing his face. “I’m sorry, it’s been a hard year.” He knew he was yelling at the wrong person, but it didn’t change how he felt; like the world was laughing at him.
“It’s been hard for a lot of us, but I know how you feel,” she set down her glass. “Look, the meeting is in half an hour. Why don’t you lie down for a bit before we head out? I have a bit more reading to do, to prepare.”
“Hello, Representative Seidel,” Takenaka held out his hand to shake. His English was slow and accented, a sign of how little he dealt with foreigners.
“Kon’ichiwa,” Antje Seidel’s Japanese was no less clumsy. The courtesies dispensed with, the two delegates sat down at opposite ends of the thick meeting-room table, their translators at their sides.
Meetings were daily occurrences at the EU, and so the plethora of meeting rooms on the EU grounds were designed to facilitate the process. The central table could accommodate up to sixteen people, while the rest of the rectangular room was filled with auditorium seating, rising up the walls like a lecture hall so the meeting could be observed, studied, and supported by the diplomats’ respective teams.
There were only four people seated at the table now; Antje, Takenaka, and their translators. In most cases with the EU, translators were not necessary, but URC policy mandated a translators whenever two people from different URC member regions met. It was a safety measure, insuring that whatever was said could be understood by more than just one state employee.
Michael was sitting at the back of the room, behind seven other EU aides, diplomats, scientists, and specialists, all providing a perfect barrier of bureaucracy between him and Antje. Takenaka had his own entourage of five, sitting stoically across the room like the opposing party in parliament, or perhaps a football match.
“First of all,” Takenaka’s translator began, “thank you for allowing me to visit your wonderful offices here at the EU. I always find it most illuminating.”
“It was our honor and pleasure,” Antje nodded. Michael couldn’t see her face, but he could hear the smile in her voice. “We are always delighted to have anyone from the distinguished Seven Nations visit. Even for a casual vacation.”
Takenaka nodded as the translation finished. A small pause filled the empty room before the man leaned forward, clasped hands resting on the table.
“I will come right to the point,” his translator supplied. “While undertaking some regulation book-keeping, I came across a very old report of some research being carried out by the EUSAA, that was shared with the Seven Nations in accordance with the Kwanso pact. I would appreciate it if you could see your way to providing me a copy for my own files?”
Antje cleared her throat. “I…That could be possible, of course, but it might be a little difficult. The Kwanso pact only accounts for exchange of research between scientific institutions, not government officials. If the Seven Nations would like to invoke Article Six, then I can speak with our scientific —”
Takenaka held up his hand, stopping both Antje and her translator. “Forgive me,” his translator continued, “but I do not wish to involve the Seven Nations in this conversation.”
Michael was acutely aware of sudden activity on his side of the room. Antje’s aides were passing notes, shuffling papers, and whispering in sharp cut-off sentences. Antje and Takenaka waited patiently for a moment, a polite gesture to allow the churning bureaucracies to catch up to what was being said.
“I see,” Antje continued. “Can you tell me what research you are interested in?”
“The results of a deep space scan, conducted several years ago by the EUSAA.”
Deep space scan. Michael’s brain clicked into gear. What deep space scans had they performed in the past few years? Hundreds, maybe tens of hundreds, but what could be of interest to the Seven Nations? What had they ever looked at that they couldn’t find on their own?
“And what purpose would you be using this research for?”
“I’m afraid that is personal.”
Antje glanced back at her team, a look of uncertainty on her face. Michael could guess why. Claiming something was personal after making a request of an official representative of the EU was hardly reasonable, much less believable. The whispering and muttering of aides was cut off by her reply.
“I’m afraid that’s not good enough. As much as you want to avoid Article Six, the EUSAA is forbidden to deliver research to third parties without express permission from the EU, especially that of a potential military nature, unless permitted by treaty.”
Takenaka smiled. “What possible military use could a deep space scan have?”
“I don’t know,” Antje smiled back. “You tell me.”
The room fell silent for a moment before Antje shook her head.
“Please believe me, Mr. Takenaka, I would love to help you…and Japan, for that matter, but without knowing exactly what you’re after and why, we simply can’t.”
Antje’s translator finished, and for the first time since entering the room, the entourage of stern assistants behind Takenaka began to move. Several spoke to each other in hushed whispers, while others hurriedly scribbled on note pads. In seconds, a single folded sheet of paper was on its way to the table to be read by Takenaka. He did so, and nodded before turning to Antje again.
Takenaka’s voice was slow and steady. “I must now speak hypothetically,” his translator said.
The room fell still.
“It is possible,” the translator said, “that in the coming generations, a mistake might be made.”
“A mistake?” Antje prompted.
“A minor one,” Takenaka shrugged. “Or perhaps a major one. Both of our cultures, I think, deal in the future, Mrs. Seidel. We study it, we plan for it, we…we hope for it. We develop expectations, and expectations are the building blocks of the future. When a farmer promises to provide seven bales of rice, the merchant plans to sell seven bales. Prices are set. Bargains are struck. The future is built on the backs of promises, and if promises are not kept, the future is imperiled. I think you understand me.”
“I hope I do,” Antje leaned forward. “So…when someone in the future makes a mistake…”
“A mistake easily made,” Takenaka shook his head. “An official might sign off on projections for farm yield that vastly overshoots the mark. Or perhaps the expected returns on an economic investment never materialize. This mistake, when it is made, could be benign, or mitigable, or…it could be catastrophic. It could be a mistake that causes Japan, and by extension the Seven Nations, real trouble.”
Antje glanced back at her collection of aides. No one was moving or talking.
“I feel we are talking outside your expertise, Mr. Takenaka. To make this simpler for you, perhaps we should use a different hypothetical? Something you are more familiar with than farming, perhaps?”
Now it was Takenaka’s turn to glance behind him.
“Rare-earths, perhaps?” Antje prompted. “The Seven Nations are the world’s supplier of rare-earths, and has been for over a century. Scandium, lanthanum, promithium…
“Tantalum,” Takenake nodded. “For example.”
Tantalum. Michael sat up straighter.
Antje nodded. “Our scientists are quite certain that tantalum is an important material in your Chisaisan fusion reactors.”
“I, of course, cannot speak to this,” Takenake’s face was unreadable. “I am not a nuclear engineer.”
“So, hypothetically,” Antje continued, “if your geologists gave you a strong forecasts for a tantalum mining operation, and it turned out they were in error… Say… ten percent less then the promised yield?”
“That would be a problem, yes,” Takenaka’s face was inscrutable. “It could even be worse. Imagine, for example, the trouble if one of the mines our surveyors discovered only had less than a single percent of the promised amount?”
How would that be possible? Michael pressed his hand to his mouth. The Seven Nations had perfectly good imaging technology, even for deep mining operations. Had there been some glitch in their programs? Had a subordinate lied to please their superior?
“That would be a problem,” Antje crossed her arms on the table. “An embarrassing black-eye, at least.”
“Not just a black-eye, Mrs. Antje,” Takenaka shook his head, “but countless jobs lost, investments wasted, projects that depended on a large supply of valuable and rare material suddenly become less cost-effective. Projects that bring pride to the Seven Nations, and perhaps even the world.”
Michael leaned forward. He wants a deep space scan for tantalum? That’s absurd!
“I see,” Antje nodded. “It would be a good idea, then, for you to find another source of…for example…tantalum. Just in case.”
“Just in case.” Takenaka nodded.
They have their own radar. Michael brought his hand to his chin, his mind working furiously. Why take our research, from years ago, when they could just as easily point their own dishes around and look for themselves? It’s not like the global scientific community doesn’t know where rare-earth rich asteroids and exoplanets are. No…he doesn’t just want the mineral…
A sudden jolt to Michael’s brain sent his mind reeling. Why was he here?
Within seconds he was running down the steps to the table, carried forward by the burning flame of hope in his chest.
He’s talking about Proxima b!