Bogdan cranked back the filter opacity and followed the microbeam to Trailing Earth. The ship passed corrals on the outskirts of the colony where thousands of captured iron-nickel asteroids awaited processing. It passed a row of microbeam targets: large, utterly black disks limned with nav beacons. Bogdan cut his speed when they reached the shipyards.
In the yards were rows and ranks of giant hoop frames. Many of the frames were covered with barnacle-shaped construction arbeitors that were busily weaving the seamless skin of the hab drums. The shipyards were crisscrossed with tightly choreographed flight paths of support tenders, construction bots, material trains, and waste scuppers, which seemed to fly at Bogdan from all directions. He zigged and zagged a lurching path through them, but there were too many, and his ship clipped the tail of a scupper and slammed into the side of a tender. There was a satisfyingly fiery explosion, and the holo ceased.
“Feck!” Bogdan said and brought his seat to its upright position. But the booth lights did not come on. Happily, the testing objectives of this vid seemed to be more important than his lack of piloting skill, and he and the Aria Ranger and his unnerving passenger were reset as good as new at the far border of the congested space yard. They were entering a second yard where there was very little traffic to avoid. A dozen or so hoop-shaped ships docked in the yard appeared to be complete. Their rings of sixty-four rotating hab drums were marked with names in giant letters: GARDEN TBILISI, GARDEN ANKARA, GOODACRE, GARDEN HYBRID, and so on.
“These Oships are taking on provisions,” said Myr Meewee. “Everything they’ll need to travel to another solar system, find a habitable planet, and colonize it. Steer that way, young man.” He pointed to a passage through the donut hole of the King Jesus. “It’s all right. The torus isn’t energized yet.”
Bogdan steered a course through the center of the Oship. At last he gained a sense of the size of these things. The King Jesus just got bigger and bigger. What had seemed like a bump on its lattice frame was actually a megaton freighter docked at a transfer port. The “I” of “KING” was as long and broad as a runway.
“When the torus is energized,” the man said, “this area in the middle of the Oship will become a magnetic target. We’ll propel the ship by bombarding it with a river of particles and pellets from the same Heliostream harvesters that supply the microbeams. Would you like to hear more about this awesome technology?”
“By all means,” Bogdan said, steering for the next Oship, the Octopus Garden.
His simulated host launched into a long-winded explanation of self-steering particles, laser course correctors, shipboard maneuvering rockets, and a redundant system for deceleration once the Oship arrived at its new home star system. As he talked, they passed out of the second shipyard and entered a traffic inwell leading to the populated core of the mushrooming space boomtown. The docking grid that extended out this far was incomplete and hosted few fabplat tenants. Bogdan aimed his Ranger at the inner core and punched the throttle.
“Lecture complete!” the Meewee sim said. “Had enough? Or would you like to hear about the Garden Earth Project and our ‘Thousandfold Plan’?”
“Spare no detail.”
“Splendid,” the Meewee sim said. “Heliostream and its parent corporation, Starke Enterprises, are major partners in a consortium of leading industries working together to spread seeds of humanity throughout the galaxy.”
The sim paused solemnly before continuing. “Those Oships back there, and hundreds more under construction, will each ferry a quarter million plankholders on a millennial voyage to newly discovered Earth-like planets in neighboring star systems. Each plankholder on board will receive title to a thousand acres of land on a new world, as well as a dwelling; a generous, lifetime share of food and supplies; unlimited access to education, medicine (including rejuvenation), cultural centers, sports facilities, vocational training, and full citizenship in whatever form of governmental structure the plankholders incorporate.
“Think of it, young man, a thousand acres plus all the ingredients of a happy life. Sounds like a lot, doesn’t it? Frankly, it is. And do you know what we want in exchange for all of that?” The sim waited for an answer.
“Not a clue,” Bogdan said. “A million yoodies?”
“That’s probably how much it’s worth, but we’re offering plankholder shares for much less. We’re exchanging shares for real estate here on Earth. How much real estate? One share per acre. Let me repeat that. For title and usage rights to one acre of Earth, you can get one thousand acres, lifetime material support, and citizenship on a new Earth. What do you think of that?”
“I think it’s crazy,” Bogdan said. “Where is someone like me supposed to get title to an acre of land?”
The simulated pitchman looked at Bogdan, seemingly for the first time. “I imagine what you spend on rejuvenation treatments alone over five or seven years could buy you an acre of Amazonian desert. We don’t care about the quality or location of the land, as long as it’s in a country or protectorate that guarantees private property rights. Even an acre of deeded continental shelf will do.”
“What are you going to do with all that land? Build more gigatowers? Store nuclear waste?”
“You possess a healthy skepticism, young man, but you’ve got it backward. Remember the name of our project? Garden Earth? That’s what we’re building—a planetwide nature conservancy. We put the land we acquire into a trust for a period of two hundred years. During that time, the land lies fallow. No one lives on it or uses it for any purpose whatsoever. Our experts will help restore it to its pre-industrial ecology. Can’t you hear Ol’ Gaia sighing with relief?” The sim sighed theatrically.
“So, you’re doing this thing as a sort of public service?”
“That’s it exactly,” the unfrocked former bishop’s sim said, “a public service in the name of Mother Earth.”
Bogdan rolled his eyes and raced for the heart of the space colony.
2.9
“Can’t you get closer?” said Inspector Costa. Easy for her to say. She had remained behind in Chicago, as per protocol. She directed this phase of the hunt from a safe, dry booth in the UDJD tower. It was Fred and another on-call HomCom officer, Reilly Dell, who were in the GOV, churning up the muck at the bottom of Lake Michigan. This was turning into a long, long Monday.
In a pinch, a HomCom General Ops Vehicle made a dandy assault car, but a poor submersible. Its cabin could pressurize to only three atmospheres, it had no air lock or ballast tanks, and none of its array of weapons performed well at the bottom of a lake. Worst of all, its six powerful Pratt and Whitney hover fans adapted poorly to water propulsion. For these reasons, Fred was less than enthusiastic about tracking down Cabinet’s new hideout.
Fred said, “I can’t seem to get clear of this turbulence.” He had submerged too deep and had disturbed the lake bed. He was trying to approach a Chicago Waterworks aquifer crib. The crib quickly sucked the cloudy water down its voracious inflow manifold, and when their visibility improved, Fred saw that they, too, were being sucked in. He fed power to the hover fans. At first the GOV responded sluggishly, but it broke free all at once and bobbed to the surface of the lake before he could compensate.
“Crap,” he muttered as the car settled on the choppy water.
“Now, now,” Costa said from her booth.