PLUNGE As his capsule coasted toward zenith, arcing high above the Earth, Hacker didn’t know yet that anything was wrong. In fact, so far, it seemed the smoothest of his suborbital adventures.
What a sweet honey of a ship, he thought, patting the hybrid-diamond nose cone that surrounded him, so close he spent the journey folded, almost fetal. Not that he minded. It helped separate serious hoppers from mere fadboys.
Well, that and the expense. Even more than trench-yachting, this hobby is only for members of the First Estate. One of the best ways to go flaunting.
Especially since suborbital was brief-a glorious toe-dip into the vast starscape. Soon would come top of the arc. Then, he knew, soft flickers of ionic flame-at first wispy and pellucid-would flutter like ghostly ectoplasm along the heat shield rim, mere inches from his head. Already, his capsule swiveled to aim its tough, ablative backside toward a Caribbean splashdown. The maneuver turned Hacker’s view the other way, across a vast, dune-rippled expanse of southern Arizona, New Mexico, and Chihuahua Freestate…
… and, above all that, an even broader panorama of untwinkling stars. Far more-and brighter-than you ever saw back on ground.
Some call the galaxy just another desert. Most of those suns shine in vain, on empty space, or sterile stones, icebergs and gas giants. Almost never a planet that breeds life.
Hacker couldn’t avoid the topic if he tried. After all, his mother endowed fancy telescopes with as much passion as he put into things that went fast. And with similar tangible results.
How many “organic worlds” have they found, with their fancy ground and orbital mirrors, their interferometers and such, looking for other Earths? Planets that seem to orbit at the right distance from a decent star, with intermediate mass and tantalizing hints of oxygen? Five or six dusty little balls?
Sure, some kind of life probably clung to those faraway crags and narrow seas, affirmed by skimpy, spectral traces. A little better than Mars, then… but almost infinitely less accessible. Perhaps, someday, human-made robots would cross the incredible expanse for a closer look. But for now?
Finding those long-sought life worlds had unexpected effects-not rousing or inspiring, at all. It’s called the “discovery of the century.” But, after sifting millions of stars, building expectations, people felt let down by a handful of shabby rocks. Public opinion-even in bold China-turned inward, away from thoughts of outer space.
Except for a few remaining dreamers, like Mom.
And those, like Hacker, who could make of it a playground.
One that’s worth every penny, he thought, cracking a squeeze bulb and using it to squirt a sparkling pinot from Syzygy Vineyards in a perfect, languid train of compact droplets. The effervescence lay in perfect spheres, trapped by weightless surface tension, till each globe shattered delightfully in his open mouth. Hacker savored the unique way tastes and aromas tickled sensory clusters that seemed somehow less jaded out here. The same rebalancing affected every sense. Except sound, of course. Hacker’s eardrums had been clamped, to help them survive this noisy flight.
Father would approve of this, he thought, deliberately mis-aiming a droplet to splash just below his nose.
That is, if Awfulday hadn’t cut short Jason Sander’s lifelong pursuit of vigorous self-indulgence. Sometimes, Hacker almost felt the old man riding alongside, during these jaunts. Or flaunts. JT used to say that rich people bore a special obligation-a noblesse oblige. An onus to show off!
To explore the limits of experience, of possibility, of propriety… even the law. A duty more important than mere philanthropy. Letting all the world’s people benefit from the invigorating effects of envy.
“Look at history, son,” Jason once told Hacker. “Progress is made by folks trying to keep up with the other guy. The other nation or company, or their betters, or the Joneses next door. It is our role-our hard task-to be Jones! A goad for every jealous, ambitious, innovating bastard to try and match us.
“It’s a crucial job, Hacker. Though I doubt anyone will thank us.”
Oh, Dad had been a pip, all right. Mother, of course, was another story.
For the short span-a few minutes-that his capsule streaked toward the top of its trajectory, all seemed peaceful. Hacker’s ever-busy thoughts slowed as he relished a champagne interlude, alternately watching the Milky Way’s powder-sprinkle and Earth’s living panorama below.
Others, billions, may have forgotten this dream. Professional astronauts helped kill it, by making space exploration super-obsessive, communal, nerdy. Boring.
Then there are other members of my caste, who buy day trips aboard luxury “spaceship” shuttles… or take pleasure freefall holidays, up at the High Hilton. Flaunting without earning. Adventure without risk. “Accomplishment,” without putting in a lick of work.
Hacker rubbed the back of one callused hand, scarred from welding splatters and countless hours in the workshop, helping his people make this little craft, almost from scratch. Or, at least, from a really good kit. Which was almost the same thing.
But a few, like me, are bringing back the romance!
Through the transparent, interlaced-diamond nose cone, he spotted a glitter, moving rapidly past the fixed constellations.
Well, speak of the devil. But no… that’s not the Hilton. Too much reflection. It must be the old space station. Still plugging along. Still manned by a few pros and diehard scientists, at public expense.
As if that ever made any sense.
Look across four millennia. Was there ever any development or real headway that wasn’t propelled by an aristocracy? Why, I’ll bet-
Abruptly, a sharp, painful reddish glare washed the capsule! Hacker winced behind a raised hand.
“What the hell?” He cursed aloud, feeling the words vibrate in his throat, though not with clamped eardrums. Instead, his sonic jaw implant translated a computer alert.
INCOMING LASER MESSAGE.
His sudden, sinking suspicion was confirmed when a dashboard screen lit in holographic mode. That pompous blond jerk, Lord Smits, appeared to float toward Hacker, grinning. The fool hadn’t merely pushed back his faceplate, but removed his helmet entirely, defying every rule. Despite an expensive biosculpt job, the baronet’s face seemed deformed by an ugly rictus-weightlessness did that to some people-while forming words that floated between them, flecked with spittle.
Sander, I got you! You’re dead!
Hacker tooth-clicked to transmit a subvocalized response.
What the hell are you talking about, Smits?
In addition to printed words, the nobleman’s cackle hit one of the vibration modes in Hacker’s implant, making his jaw throb.
I targeted you, dead center. If this were real, you’d be kippers on my plate.
Hacker realized-
It’s that “space war” game some of the neos were atwutter about during training, instead of listening to us old hands. They want competitive excitement, beyond a ballistic ride. Swoop and play shoot-’em-up during apogee.
Idiotic. For a dozen reasons.
He made the nerves and muscles in his throat form sharp words, which were transmitted across the forty or so kilometers between them.
You fool, Smits! I’m not playing your damned game. Reentry starts soon. There are checklists to-
The blond visage smirked.
