Steve nodded. It would bring more industry to the moon, which was always important, but it would also allow them to continue researching alien technology. One secret, at least, had already been cracked. It was incredibly difficult to produce a perfect room-temperature superconductor on Earth, but it was quite possible in zero-gravity. It was also possible to produce perfect diamonds, which were likely to cause their own problems. The diamond cartels would probably start hiring assassins when they realised that they were about to be fatally undercut.
Not that we would waste our time on it, he thought. We need the diamonds for industrial processes.
He smiled at the tycoon, then moved on to the next couple of viewers. One of them was an extraordinarily successful romance writer, who was a millionaire despite her books being — in Mariko’s opinion — little more than glorified pornography. Steve had taken a look, purely out of scientific enquiry, and decided the woman was a hack. But she got paid for it, so she must have hundreds upon thousands of fans. Maybe, the cynic in him added, the outfit she wore helped. It was supposed to be a spacesuit, he guessed, but it was so tight that he could see her nipples quite clearly.
“This is quite inspiring,” she gushed, as she took his hand and shook it, firmly. Steve was hard-pressed to place her accent. “I really feel someone could write an extraordinary story on Mars.”
“I’m sure someone could,” Steve agreed, deciding not to mention just how many writers had set books on Mars without actually setting foot on the planet. “Do you plan to move here?”
“I think I will stay on the moon, for now,” the writer said. “It has great atmosphere — and besides” — her face suddenly hardened — “the tax is minimal. And far less confusing.”
Steve couldn’t disagree. Tax forms were one of his pet hates.
“But this is really romantic, in a way,” the writer continued. “Do you think your partner would be interested in an interview?”
“I’m sure she would,” Steve lied. He had barely seen anything of Mariko over the past week, despite the teleporter. She was busy with the medical clinic in New York. “Now, if you will excuse me…”
“But there’s so much room for a story,” the writer said. “Just imagine it; two people find love and romance among the asteroids. Perhaps two people who hate each other have to mine an asteroid together. Or perhaps they’re trying to be together, despite their parents…”
“I’m sure I saw a movie like that once,” Steve said. “But if you put two people who hate each other into the same tight space, they’ll probably wind up killing each other instead of falling in love.”
“But if they were smart enough to realise that they would only get arrested,” the writer said, “wouldn’t there be a chance then? There could be all forms of sex in it as they slowly grow accustomed to each other…”
Steve felt his temper snap. “You can write whatever stories you like, provided they are about fictional people,” he said. “But I don’t think it would be very realistic.”
The writer looked offended. “I’m just trying to get ahead of the curve here,” she said. “I thought there were already applications for sex in zero-gravity. Or isn’t it as good as it sounds?”
Steve glowered at her, then stomped off. He’d tried sex in zero-gravity with Mariko, but it hadn’t been quite as interesting or exciting as space opera pornography had suggested. It was more of an exercise in orbital docking than anything else. But if someone wanted to try it… the writer was right, he had to admit. There were no shortage of requests for private compartments in the planned space hotel.
He shook his head, tiredly, as he approached the porthole and peered down at Mars. The red planet looked tired and worn, not unlike how Steve himself felt. There were just too many things that needed his attention, even though he’d started to build up a staff and hand as many responsibilities to his subordinates as possible. Recruiting newcomers, placing orders for technology and supplies on Earth, keeping an eye open for possible trouble from the planet… and ducking requests, pleas and demands that he share his technology with everyone. He couldn’t help wondering if this explained why so many bad ideas had been allowed to enter the American system. The idiots who wanted them had just kept whining until the sensible people had given in. And then the ideas had been very — very — difficult to remove.
It had been much easier managing a ranch, he told himself, sourly. Or even commanding Marines in combat. Instead, he found himself signing papers, making deals with governments and corporations and trying desperately to find some time for himself. No matter how capable his staff was becoming, he was still overwhelmed.
Maybe this is why CEOs keep fucking their secretaries, he thought, dryly. They’re so stressed by their work that they really need the sex.
He let out another sigh, wishing that Kevin was back in the Sol System. But it would be another two weeks, at the very least, before he could return. Steve had no way of knowing what was happening outside the Sol System, or just what the Horde was doing. Were they considering another attack on Earth? Or were they still unaware that they’d lost three ships, instead of just one? There was no way to know.
Shaking his head, he strode back towards the bridge, avoiding the remainder of the guests before they could speak to him. Let them wait, if it was urgent; he didn’t need more prattling congratulations. Did the President ever feel this way, he asked himself; did he ever feel like just walking away from the job? It would have seemed absurd, years ago, that he would have anything in common with the President. But he understood, now, the sheer weight of power that the President had assumed. It would be easy, far too easy, to make mistakes… and then refuse to accept failure. When someone was so powerful, every little failure would feel like a complete disaster.
On the bridge, the sensor crews were monitoring Mars. Everything was proceeding according to plan, he noted. There might be a need for more asteroids in the future, but not for several months at least. They’d also have to unlock the water in the ice caps…
His interface buzzed, reporting an urgent message from Earth.
“Steve,” Mongo’s voice said, “you have to get back here urgently. The shit has hit the fan.”
Steve blanched. It took seventeen minutes for a message to travel from Earth to Mars. Not long, by Galactic standards, but far too long by humanity’s standards.
“Take us back to Earth,” he ordered. The Mars Society was already onboard their space station, monitoring the planet below. “Best possible speed.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
New York, USA
Mariko had always wanted to be a doctor. It had been an obsession of hers ever since her father had introduced her to Doctor Who, even though she hadn’t been entirely clear on what a doctor did at the time. As she grew older, her enthusiasm had refused to fade, even after she discovered that actually working as a doctor brought unpleasant risks in ligation-prone America. Sometimes, someone died, no matter what the doctor did to prevent it. And then the doctor would be sued by the grieving relatives. It had been a relief to leave the big cities for the countryside, where people were generally more sensible, and fall in love with a man who didn’t mind her working as a vet rather than a doctor.
But she’d never lost her desire to help people. The alien technology worried her — an autodoc could become the most effective torture machine in history — but it also galvanised her to use it to save lives. She’d had to watch too many people die through untreatable injuries or incurable diseases, both of which could now be handled by alien technology. It did irritate her that she didn’t have a clear idea how most of the technology worked, but in the long run she had faith in Steve and his friends to solve the mysteries. For the moment, all that mattered was that it did work.