Hanover’s voice wasn’t coming through perfectly, although as the technicians aligned the system it improved. Dashwood allowed himself a smile; after this, the PM would be a big space booster. It would need a full global network – the satellite would move out of position for the relay in half an hour – but now they knew how to do it… space was the limit.
“A splendid success,” Hanover said, after Dashwood had finished the report. “How long will it be until you can complete the network?”
“It depends upon production of new rockets,” Dashwood said, honestly. “For the moment, we’re building them on contract, using American factories to do everything that their science can handle, and supplying the guidance and control systems ourselves. Unfortunately, safety standards are not what they could be in this era… they’re not such wimps.”
Hanover could be heard to chuckle. The Americans had damaged their own progress with organisations like OSHA and EPA. Of course, with 2015 technology, almost all of the environmental pollution could be avoided – without the need for the green fascists. Dashwood smiled; he’d never liked them.
“And we’ll lose some of the satellites?” Hanover enquired. “How much delay would that cause?”
“We won’t be launching anything irreplaceable,” Dashwood assured him. “We could use the remaining stock of Tridents, but I understand that to be politically impossible.”
“I’m afraid so,” Hanover said. “The German nuclear program remains a dangerous unknown, and both the Soviets and the Japanese seem to have used biological weapons in Central Asia and China. People want to be certain that we can punish them several-fold over.”
“I understand,” Dashwood said. “Give us three to four months and we should be able to deploy a basic communications and reconnaissance network. Fortunately, we have BAE’s contribution to the American ABM system still; the ‘Brilliant Eyes’ can be duplicated fairly easily. And, of course, there is the other use for them…”
“Keep that to yourself,” Hanover advised. “Still, make all haste John; all of the reports suggest that all hell is going to break loose here, sooner or later.”
“Yes, Prime Minister,” Dashwood said.
“I also want you to look to your security,” Hanover continued. “I may have to send you reinforcements; your base is perhaps the most critical outside of Britain itself.”
“Yes, Prime Minister,” Dashwood said. “You do realise that Brazil will have seen the launch?”
“And they’re not too happy with us, are they?” Hanover said absently. The government of Brazil had had designs – and a full set of blueprints – on the formerly French territory. The arrival of the Royal Marines hadn’t pleased them, particularly when French Guiana was given the beginnings of democratic government. Still, the political situation in Latin and South America was confusing enough to cause them to hesitate, and Hanover had offered them trade links.
“No, Prime Minister,” Dashwood said. “They might decide to assist the Germans on the sly.”
“Perhaps,” Hanover said. “Still, I cannot tell you enough; don’t let anything from the base fall into anyone’s hands, including everyone.”
Dashwood nodded to himself. “Yes, Prime Minister,” he said, understanding the hidden message. “Sir, Doctor Goddard has plans to scale up the boosters to place the components of a space station in orbit.”
“High-orbit kill-devices would be rather useful, would they not,” Hanover mused. “Something else to keep out of everyone else’s hands.”
“Yes, Prime Minister,” Dashwood said. “Still, I’m not certain that we can get a safe personnel launcher out of the boosters.”
“This is wartime,” Hanover said dismissingly. “Still, aren’t there designs for a Bernard-class or a Graham-class SSTO around in the BSC?”
“Yes, sir,” Dashwood said. “We have been besieged by people suggesting their designs, dozens of them.”
“Have some of them offered the contract to build their particular designs,” Hanover said. “I don’t think that we could copy one of the Russian spaceplanes; we want something simpler, less spectacular. We’ll let them absorb the starting costs; we want commercial British activity in space if we can get it.”
“Yes, Prime Minister,” Dashwood said. A thought struck him. “What about their materials?”
“I’ll talk to the Ministry of Production and Supply,” Hanover said, referring to yet another newcomer from the Transition’s ever-expanding circle of effects. “Bureaucrats do hate being leaned on; they grow awfully tight-fisted. Still, I dare say that I can convince them to make some materials available.”
He chuckled. “At this rate, we’re on our way to developing a Ministry of Space,” he said. “I don’t suppose that you have a Dan Dare in your team?”
“I’m afraid not,” Dashwood said. “We might be able to convince someone to change their name by deed poll.”
Hanover laughed. “I think that would be beyond the call of duty,” he said. “I think we’ll see how things develop; once everyone realises that the test was a success the military will be leaning on me to get more satellites in orbit. Everyone is going to want one; we’ve got teams in places that radios don’t find it easy to reach.”
Dashwood nodded. He knew where Hanover meant. “We’ll push it forward as fast as possible,” he assured Hanover. “However, unless further Tridents are released, we’ll be very lucky to have a second launch before July.”
“Understood,” Hanover said. Dashwood sighed in relief; unlike some Prime Ministers, Hanover didn’t demand the impossible. “Still, push it as hard as you can.”
“Yes, Prime Minister,” Dashwood said. The signal started to fade. “Sir, we’re losing connection.”
“We’ll chat later,” Hanover said. “Good evening.”
“Good evening sir,” Dashwood said, before the connection broke for the final time. It could have been re-routed, but neither man wanted to talk on. Chuckling, Dashwood picked up his PDA to write his report… and decided to join the party instead. The report could be written tomorrow.
Chapter Eight: Reds (And Blacks) Under The Bed
Bracken Industries
Nr New York, USA
3rd April 1941
Cora Burnside, the secretary of Bracken Industries main headquarters in the United States, was a cyberpunk. The term, from 2015, had caught on in the United States as computers and laptops, designed for the Third World, had been mass-produced and sold remarkably cheaply. Developing an online culture hadn’t taken long – they’d been connected to the British Internet, after all – and thousands used the Internet to chat. Politicians, mainly older men, had been slow to recognise the implications, and then quick to demand that they be banned, but the new Internet was simply designed to be unstoppable.
She tapped her dark fingers across the keyboard of the new system. She didn’t understand what MICROSOFT had been, or why there was so much debate over opening its systems to examination, but she was reasonably grateful that the 2010 Microsoft Office had been taken as the default standard. While it was prone to irritating glitches, it had the benefit of being simple and easy to use. Computers, her boss, Jim Oliver, had assured her, were the wavefront of the future. His equal opportunities policy, one that was years ahead of its time, meant that both black and white men and women received training; and many were putting it to use.
Safely behind the anonymity of cyberspace, many posters were confronting the inequalities of the system. Cora could only applaud; the Ku Klux Klan, a name that sent shudders of fear down her spine, was being lambasted. A black poster – at least he claimed that he was black – from the United Kingdom was posting the names of known members to the Internet, inviting people to punish them. Several had been killed, although just who had killed them wasn’t made clear. Still, there were other posts, including posts by a man in the future called Martin Luther King…