What are they?
Pace seemed to think about this.
You know about the Outer Space Treaty. Bans nuclear weapons in outer space. I mean, this goddamn piece of paper is from 1967, but nations still take it seriously, or at least they have to seem to. But we’re a private company. That piece of paper means nothing to us.
United States company. Subject to U.S. jurisdiction.
Listen to the space lawyer! No no. They were launched into space by an LLC doing business in the Maldives—which is not a signatory to the treaty.
Maldives? Practically underwater.
We built a seawall and shored up our island.
Why not put objects into orbit direct from Earth? Why from space?
Maldives are still a UN member. They’d have to register my objects with the UN. The fucking UN! Isn’t that quaint?
They register your launch?
Sure, but that launch didn’t put the objects into orbit. Orbit was accomplished up here.
What are they?
Oh, so far, nothing. They’re platforms.
Platforms for what?
Pace took a silence, looked troubled, but he was enjoying it.
Let’s say that I worry about mankind. We had a close call with an asteroid a few years ago, you may remember. It’ll be back soon. We need assets out here to help us with that problem.
And so, you want to put on these platforms…
Nuclear weapons. What else has enough push for an asteroid?
Bad idea. Could end up with hundreds of small asteroids instead of one big one.
You know what would be a much worse idea? Doing nothing.
Why you?
Nobody else is doing it, that’s why.
Where you going to get nukes?
Oh, look, it doesn’t have to be nukes. Use giant lasers if you want, whatever. I’m offering these platforms to any nation that wants to contribute to the long-term survival of mankind. I’ve got interest at NASA and DoD.
No pushback?
NASA? They’ve already ceded Earth space. DoD? SecDef is ours, a former Uber VP. The Joint Chiefs are mostly on board, and for the whiners there’s always early retirement. I don’t need to own their weapons. They’d simply be under our management.
Hard to believe they give you control.
Pace tapped his glass into a slight spin. A small blob of whiskey escaped. He sucked it into his mouth, and swallowed. Smiled.
They let us manage their satellites. We’re a trusted actor. DoD would love a way to bypass the Outer Space Treaty. I offer us as a beard, that’s perfect for them. Get a few allies on board, even better.
At this point, Sergei knew it would be wise to shut up, finish his drink, say goodnight. He didn’t feel wise.
What is your long game?
Pace squinted at him. What makes you think I have a long game?
You are smart guy.
Sergei let the silence stretch. Pace was compelled to dominate a conversation, to fill up the social space. That went against the solitary, obsessive nature that Sergei recognized, but he saw how Pace had learned to deploy that nature tactically. Now he saw Pace shift out of the social space, back into his own mind. He squinted as he manipulated his headsup. It was like watching a lizard.
You’ve read Max Weber? Pace said at last.
Some.
Pace’s eyes flickered as he quoted: “A state is a human community that successfully claims the monopoly of the legitimate use of physical force.”
So?
Here’s my long game: I want to redefine “human community” for the better. My method is to redefine who’s “legitimate.”
Yes?
The nation-state as a form of political organization is recent. Treaty of Westphalia, 1648. There’s no reason it needs to persist. There are better alternatives.
Sergei gave him more silence. Pace shifted back into his public mode.
See, I’m big on dual use. Once these platforms are armed, they can also protect against dangers from below. I mean, look at the data. Nation-states have very bad metrics. You know that. So many wars, so many killed. So much property damage. We can do better. We will. We can build and manage the defense cloud.
Platforms are vulnerable.
I’m an optimist. These platforms are stealthy and maneuverable. Anyway, ASAT’s a non-starter, Kessler Effect and all, that’s unwritten but fundamental. It’s why we’re up here, am I right? Soon I’ll have memoranda of understanding with certain public and private actors, which will make any action against the platforms a lot more complicated. Let’s say that I foresee a regime in which it’s in everyone’s interest to leave them the hell alone.
Meanwhile they are traffic hazard.
Oh, they’ll be no trouble. The orbital elements are in your database. You have what you need to protect all our assets.
All our assets?
Pace held out his hands in a kind of embrace.
Everything that’s up here under our management. To quote one of my heroes: They’re our assets now, and we’re not giving them back.
Why tell me?
You’re smarter than you like to let on. There could be a place for you in our ground operations.
Sergei shrugged. Pace shook his head.
Hate to see expertise go to waste. Here’s my private email. Let me know if you’re interested.
That night, strapped in his sleeping bag after Pace and his pilot had departed the hab, Sergei thought it over.
In 2029, the asteroid Apophis had crossed Earth’s orbit. A scary close approach, closer than many geosynchronous satellites. The thing was 350 meters across. Not extinction-level, but many times Tunguska. A one-gigaton impact was nothing to sneeze at.
Sergei had been in space then, had watched it fly by. It brightened to third magnitude, moved through about 40 degrees of sky in an hour, faded, was gone. It was due back in 2036. Odds of impact were only a few in a million, but Sergei saw how useful that recent near miss and impending return could be to a system selling itself as asteroid defense. The nuclear option against asteroids made no sense, but politics made no sense. The meme of “protection” was more powerful than reason.
As to Pace’s longer game, he didn’t buy it for a couple of reasons. First, the U.S. would never hand over control of nukes. They’d invented them; they’d become the global hegemon with them, and more or less remained so because of them. But: that “more or less.” Pace was lying, but his lie had exposed a deeper truth that eroded Sergei’s faith that the U.S. was the U.S. of his imagination.
Second, it made no strategic sense to station weapons in space. Launch costs were high, platforms vulnerable, delivery difficult. Earth-based systems were the better choice.
Unless the weapons were assembled in orbit. But why do that?
He remembered a job he’d done months ago, EVA, in person, servicing an orbital nanofactory which produced microscopic pellets—flecks of material embedded in zero-G-perfected beads of glass. Manifests identified the material as LiDT: lithium deuteride and tritium. Mildly radioactive. He’d been curious, but had forgotten about it once he was safely back.
Now he logged onto SIPRNet and searched classified scientific papers. Soon he found “Typical number of antiprotons necessary for fast ignition in LiDT.” Primary author: R. Fry, Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory. The paper detailed the results of the first break-even fusion reaction a few years back.
That was it, then. The Livermore Lab had worked on fusion since its founding, eighty years ago. Its founding purpose was nuclear weapons, and its grail was a pure fusion weapon. This bomb could be small and light and still hugely destructive. Sergei was no nuclear scientist, but those pellets were clearly nuclear fuel. They were being produced in orbit; and so could bombs that used them.
What about delivery? Uber already had a thriving Earthside business in package delivery using small drones. Suppose you mounted a few dozen fusion bomblets on drones, packed those drones in a cheap capsule, dropped it from orbit, popped it open in the troposphere, where you could then MIRV the drones to individual targets. The only defense would be to destroy the capsule before it opened. If the capsule were small and stealthed, could it get through? He didn’t know.