Stephen Baxter - Ark

“Six,” Patrick murmured to Holle in his soft Scottish brogue.

For a panicky instant Holle was convinced the President was going to cancel the Ark altogether.

But Vasquez said, “Things are going to change. As of now the civilian administration of Ark One is over. By presidential order I’m hereby requisitioning the project, its personnel and all its resources. From now on Ark One will be run under the auspices of the air force. Consultants from NASA and other agencies will be attached to the project as appropriate, but again under overall air force command. If you’ve been following the news you may observe that this isn’t out of character for my administration. I took similar drastic action last year when I sent the army and the National Guard into those Friedmanburgs up in the Great Plain states. There will be a trade-off. I will lock in place the resources for you to complete the work, even if some other asshole is standing here addressing you a year from now, after the election. Let me begin that process by putting a personal stamp on the thing. ‘Ark One’ is kind of a dry name, isn’t it? Numbers never got my heart beating too fast. From now on you’re ‘Project Nimrod.’ You’ll find out why.”

Vasquez took a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her forehead; for a moment she looked like a weary old woman. Nobody spoke; there wasn’t a sound, save for a breeze that sang softly in the cords of the twin flags.

“You may wonder why I don’t just shut you down. Some lobby for more resources to be devoted to potential recovery projects, rather than last-resort options like this. Even among the pessimists there are those who argue I should turn over what’s left of our infrastructure to more practical activities, like building rafts. I still believe we are capable of more than that.” She paused, and looked around at her audience. Holle felt a peculiar thrill when it seemed the President looked directly at her. Vasquez said, “I’m no John Kennedy. If you want to hear the speech he gave on 25th May 1961, go find it. But the mandate I’m giving you now is similar. You have a challenge to fulfill that is immeasurably harder than flying to the moon, yet immeasurably more important. Your starship must be ready to fly by 2040, or all our futures may be lost. I guess that’s all. Do good work.” And she stepped back from the podium.

The crowd broke up into humming discussions.

Holle saw LaRei big beasts stalking Jerzy Glemp. “Jerzy, you bastard, you sold us out. All the fucking money I pumped into this-it’s my ship, damn it…” Jerzy backed off, his hands spread defensively.

Patrick murmured, “So Jerzy engineered this takeover. Can’t say I’m surprised. We needed the resources, the leadership. But I wonder what kind of deal he struck for himself. He’ll have made enemies today.”

Holle didn’t care about the politicking. She tugged Patrick’s sleeve. “Gee, Dad. That was historic, wasn’t it? Wow. The President! But what do we do now?”

“I guess we’re going to find out.” He didn’t seem excited or enthused.

He just looked more tired than ever.

Both their phones sounded.

Holle’s call was a summons back to the Academy. By the time she got there, the students were lining up in the big North Atrium on the museum’s ground floor, an open space of three stories of brickwork and a glass roof, where the museum’s cafe had once been housed.

And here was the big, upright sixty-year-old military man who had stood by the President at her podium, his uniform air force blue. With a handful of aides at his side, he climbed on a step, facing the students. A couple of youngsters in uniforms, unknown to Holle, stood beside him, standing military fashion, legs apart, hands behind their backs. The Academy staff lined up nervously by one wall, before a whiteboard.

The officer began to speak while the latecomers were still filing into the room.

“My name is Gordon James Alonzo. My friends call me Gordo. To you I’m the Colonel. If you want to know who I am and what I’ve done, Google me. Do you little assholes still say ‘Google’? Whatever. You’ll learn I was air force trained, and flew shuttles with NASA. And now, at the President’s request, here I am back in air force blue, and taking on this fucking shambles of a space project. That includes turning this kindergarten into something that resembles a crew training academy.” He glared at the Candidates, some of whom were as young as eleven. “I’m not going to spare you, by the way. I’m sure your language is a lot filthier than mine.

And anyhow, if your performance records are anything to go by, most of you aren’t going to be around here long enough for my foul mouth to make a difference one way or another.

“I looked over the records of the classes that were going on here just this morning. Sociology! Ethics! Jesus Christ. And I’ll tell you one thing.” He looked at the staff. “There’ll be no more treasonous abider bullshit here. Is that clear? From now on things are going to change. Your training, those of you who survive the cull, will be wholly based on aspects of the actual project you’re working on. Ship’s systems-propulsion, comms, environment control, life support, G amp;N, that’s guidance and navigation, pressure suits, cockpit integration. Oh, and general relativity and all that horseshit. Also wider aspects of the project, planet-finding, recovery systems, mission planning, training programs. If you’re smart you’ll pick a specialism and dive into it. Make yourself indispensable to the program-indispensable to me. Don’t try to hide. If you do, you’ll be out.

“Everything will be purposeful. Even your recreation time will be focused on the physical aspects of the mission. No more fucking soft-ball. Ben, make a note,” he said, turning to an aide. “We ought to get a centrifuge up here. And we need to get some flight training, or anyhow flight experience. How about a Vomit Comet? At least we could rig up a zero-G table. And so on and so forth.” He glared at the Candidates. “Any questions?”

There was a long, stunned silence. Then, to her own surprise, Holle found herself raising a hand. “Colonel-why ‘Project Nimrod’?”

His eyes narrowed. “Fair question. I guess you don’t major on Bible studies here. Genesis 10, verses 8 to 10: ‘And Cush begat Nimrod: he began to be a mighty one in the earth… And the beginning of his kingdom was Babel, and Erech, and Accad…’ This is only generations after the Flood of Noah, and there is Nimrod, already King of Babel. I guess you know what happened in Babel, right? Chapter 11, verse 4. ‘And they said, Go to, let us build us a city and a tower, whose top may reach unto heaven.’ ”

Wilson Argent put his hand up. “But, Colonel-are you comparing Ark One to Babel? God punished them when they built the tower.”

“So He did. But why? Genesis 11:6. ‘Now nothing will be restrained from them, which they have imagined to do.’ God feared us. And that’s why we’re calling ourselves after Nimrod.”

“Wow,” Wilson said. “You’re challenging God? Sir.”

“Why the hell not? It was the President’s idea.” He glanced over at the staff members lined up before a whiteboard. He pointed at Harry Smith, who flinched. “You! Write it up on that board. Yes, now. ‘Nothing will be restrained from them, which they have imagined to do.’ ”

Harry found a stylus and wrote up the words, which were translated into a bold font by the board’s character-recognition software.

Alonzo put his hands on his hips. “And as for you pampered little assholes, I want to make it clear to you right from the git-go that things are going to be different around here. Daddy’s money got you in here. It won’t keep you here-not unless you prove you’re more valuable than the competition. And here’s the start of that competition.” He looked over his shoulder. “Come forward, you two.”