The Next Continent (14 page)

Shinji was a graduate student incubating revolutionary ideas in aerospace materials science. But in Japan's hierarchical academic environment, he couldn't get the funding or support to verify his concepts. One evening he was impatiently expounding his theories to several slower-witted friends in a local pub. Ryuichi was at the next table. He bought Shinji a beer, and in ten minutes the two men were off in a corner, deep in a discussion of Shinji's ideas.

Ryuichi was electrified. If Shinji were right, the course of history would be altered. But the young man had nothing he needed to pursue his ideas: no experience, no money, no staff, no time. At this rate, by the time he made real progress, some foreign competitor would be far ahead. Ryuichi vowed to help.

He moved quickly. After convincing Shinji to join him, he approached people Shinji recommended as capable and persuaded them to work with him. He liquidated several business ventures to generate working capital. When the grapevine brought news that Mitsubishi Heavy Industries was looking to sell their Space Development Group, he called in every favor in his Rolodex and actually succeeded in bagging it.

This was the beginning of Tenryu Galaxy Transport. Ryuichi's success in negotiating the deal with a colossus of Japanese industry—without powerful backers—and in navigating MEXT's bureaucracy to obtain approval for the deal sent ripples of astonishment through Japan's business circles.

After that, it was all downhill. Ryuichi intended to use TGT to implement the sort of drastic restructuring that old-line companies like Mitsubishi found impossible. Then he would put the business on a paying basis, gain experience, and wait for an opportunity to commercialize Shinji's theories. But it was far harder than he thought.

Simply put, there was no demand. Ryuichi planned to staunch the red ink of Mitsubishi's cast-off division by reorganizing it. But once it was under his control, he discovered that a bloated organization was the least of his problems.
There was no demand.
Under the wing of government, almost all of Mitsubishi's space-related revenues had arrived courtesy of the taxpayer. Ryuichi was forced to admit that getting out of the business was probably a smart move for the government.

Without official patronage, he had no choice but to go to the private sector for launch business. But this proved equally tough. The global market for satellite launches was around twenty trillion yen, which seemed a large enough number. But the telecommunications market—the source for most launches—was twenty times larger. Absolute demand for launches was limited. And unlike the telecommunications industry, where new ventures were continually sprouting up and disappearing, success in the launch business was critically dependent on having an established track record and the trust of your customers. There was little opportunity for a newcomer like TGT to grab a piece of the business.

Ironically, one of TGT's few selling points was the fact that it was ignored by its own government. The major players—including the national space agencies of America, Russia, and the EU—were strongly influenced by national defense and economic policies. This sometimes made them reluctant to service certain customers. By promoting TGT as a neutral party with no political or military entanglements, Ryuichi managed to keep just enough business coming through the door to keep from folding.

A typical “orphan” project was this September's launch of an H-3C rocket carrying an experimental satellite for a Swiss multinational pharmaceuticals conglomerate. Norvalt Pharmaceuticals was making major investments in the development of artificial organs for regenerative medicine, and the satellite was designed for microgravity cultivation of tissue for organ synthesis. Organs are three-dimensional organizations of cells, but in a lab culture dish on Earth the cells would only grow horizontally. Cultivating a three-axis structure called for tissue engineering; the cells had to be grown in an environment that allowed them to adhere to a framework of biodegradable polymer. The tissue could then be cultivated in a liquid matrix. But failure to create tissue with the required blood vessel density, along with structural distortions caused by convection in the liquid, was holding up future research.

In a microgravity environment, three-dimensional structures could be cultivated free of distortion. But Norvalt's attempts to do this had run into another roadblock. The cell line they were using was immortal, with enhanced glycolysis capability and viability in a low-oxygen environment—not unlike cancer cells. Most space agencies were extremely nervous about putting payload like that into orbit over their territory. NASA would not approve a launch without reams of documentation guaranteeing public safety in the event of an accident.

Norvalt's experiment, however, was meant to generate profit. Their competitors would be climbing over each other to get copies of the disclosure documents. This knocked the leading space agencies out of contention. At the same time, the few nations with a fledgling launch capability could not deliver the kind of lowvibration lifting necessary to ensure the functioning of Norvalt's delicate satellite.

TGT stepped up to fill the gap, and the launch went flawlessly. Like its H-series predecessors, the H-3C, first launched in 2019, was the cutting edge of the art and science of rocketry. Norvalt's twenty-two-ton satellite was the fifteenth successful launch for the H-3C, which carried it into orbit with an astonishing vibration ceiling of 100 dB. The final four-hundred-kilometer orbit had a variance of only forty meters. China's National Space Administration probably could have beaten TGT's seven-billion-yen launch fee by 20 percent. But thanks to meticulous vehicle and facilities maintenance, the Japanese company boasted a higher successful launch rate. Without a doubt, TGT delivered satisfactory service.

Yet Norvalt had just turned down a deal for additional launches. If the concerns they'd stated were real, they would probably take their next launch to a relatively experienced space agency—probably India or China. Chinese and Indian launch vehicles were crude compared to the H-3C, but with some investment in vibration damping, they could probably be made serviceable. Had Norvalt decided that the extra cost would offset the advantages of using TGT? If so, Ryuichi and Shinji had good reason to be depressed.

“Well, we're in a pickle now. There's nothing on the schedule.” Shinji was stuffing himself with the sweet potato pastries, an island delicacy, that he'd brought in with the coffee. He knew TGT was in dire straits, but he was optimistic by nature and had boundless confidence in this man who had plucked him from academic obscurity. “What should we do?” he added. “Borrow money for another demo launch?”

Launching for the sake of launching was part of rocket development. Technology required honing, and TGT's hundreds of technicians and launch specialists needed to keep their skills sharp. Better to isolate and deal with problems on test launches than with a customer's payload. It allowed TGT engineers to tweak their designs and maintain their edge and motivation.

Of course, test launches didn't pay. Ryuichi was going to almost pathetic lengths to squeeze costs in an effort to ensure continued funding for employee motivation, which mostly meant drinking sessions. He'd recently switched his company car from an expensive foreign model to a used domestic clunker.

Ryuichi's usual comeback to Shinji's laid-back observations was humorous dismissal, but now he plunged a hand into his lion's mane and scratched thoughtfully. “There's one more angle. We've got some more visitors today.”

“Oh? From where?”

“Japan. Gotoba Engineering, and Eden something. Some kind of park operator. Heard of them?”

“Sure, I've heard of Eden. Tokai Eden is right next to our Tobishima plant in Nagoya. What are they coming here for?” said Shinji. He shook his head. “An amusement park operator and an engineering company. What would they need a rocket for? Maybe it's some kind of ride.”

“They sounded serious on the phone about putting something into orbit,” said Ryuichi. “But they obviously know zip about rockets. I need you in the meeting. You're good at explaining this sort of thing to the uninitiated.”

“Is that why you called me down from Tobishima? I thought I was just here to serve coffee.”

“Why the hell would I need a scruffy mutt like you to serve coffee? My assistant's off today.” Ryuichi stared at him and chuckled. Shinji's rumpled white lab coat was as much a part of his image as the president's tailored suits. It only made him look busier when it got dirty, and it saved him from explaining where he fit in at the company. He wore it everywhere. “Great hair, 'cept for the dandruff” was the saying around the office. Clean but rarely combed, it looked like a sparrow's nest. Behind gold-rimmed wire frames, his eyes seemed perpetually narrowed in amusement. Tall and stooped, he shuffled rather than walked. One could not exactly say he was handsome.

Ryuichi glanced at his gold wearcom—he used to have a Rolex, but the device on his wrist was now a lowly Seiko—and said, “They should be here about now. Is there a taxi outside?”

“What taxi? The taxi company went bust, remember? Didn't you send someone to meet them?”

“Damn! I totally forgot. I was too busy thinking about those Norvalt guys.” Ryuichi snapped his fingers in frustration. Shinji was dialing the airport on his wearcom when the room was filled with the whirling boom of engines. The two men stuck their heads outside and looked up into a vast cerulean sky, far bluer than over the main islands.

“Whoa!” shouted Shinji. “Pretty swank, coming in a helicopter. See? There's the Eden logo.”

“That's no helicopter. It's a Boeing tilt-rotor. They must've flown nonstop from Nagoya. That's why they didn't call from the airport. Shinji, you better clear the parking lot.”

“Is it okay for them to land? This isn't a heliport. Won't air traffic control come down on us?”

“Rockets are a lot more dangerous. The control tower won't mind. Helicopters don't have a habit of exploding,” Ryuichi deadpanned.

Shinji left the room. Soon TGT staff began streaming out of the building. As the tilt-rotor hovered motionless, employees ran through the propwash to their cars and began moving them to the periphery. A few moments later the small aircraft, each wing tipped with a single proprotor engine, floated down onto the parking lot.

First off the plane was a red-haired woman in a business suit, followed by a man who appeared younger than Shinji. The woman shielded her head with a briefcase but was buffeted by the wind and fell to the pavement before she was clear of the propwash. The man with her moved to help her up, but instead of accepting his outstretched hand she yelled at him. Apparently these two were not exactly on the same team.

Watching from the third floor, Ryuichi chuckled to himself. “Well, well. This should be interesting.”

A few minutes later Shinji was back with the visitors. The woman had done her best to rearrange her hair. She assumed a winning smile and thrust a hand toward Ryuichi. The man did the same.

“Reika Hozumi, Eden Leisure Entertainment. This is Sohya Aomine from Gotoba Engineering.”

“Sohya Aomine, Gotoba Engineering. This is Reika Hozumi from ELE.”

The two spoke simultaneously, eyed each other suspiciously, and kept their hands extended. If Ryuichi was amused, he was also discouraged. This pair didn't look much like the saviors TGT desperately needed now.

“Ryuichi Yaenami. President of Tenryu Galaxy Transport.” Ryuichi grabbed both outstretched hands and pumped them simultaneously. Realizing how ridiculous they looked, his visitors blushed.

“Very efficient. Egalitarian, even.” Shinji was dead earnest.

[2]

HANDSHAKES OUT OF
the way, they moved on to the formality of exchanging business e-cards via wearcom. Reika's Frenchmade designer unit relied on a tiny touch panel and voice recognition rather than the usual panel/keyboard combo. Ryuichi briefly praised its refined design, but the tension in the air didn't ease. Both visitors seemed to have their guards well up.

As soon as everyone was seated, Ryuichi cut to the chase. “You said over the phone you wanted to send a heavy payload into space. How much mass are we talking?”

Reika answered without hesitation. She had already reviewed Gotoba's estimate and operational analysis in detail. Sohya was still not totally familiar with the plan and kept glancing at his wearcom.

“For Phase One, we'll need to launch a probe. That's two tons. Over the next ten years, we want to send around two hundred tons of equipment and materials.”

“Two hundred tons? That's quite a lot.” Ryuichi sat back and nodded. He tried not to look surprised. If the deal went through, this one client would be enough to feed TGT for the whole ten years. Then again, it wasn't at all unusual for clients to throw out a number like this early in the discussion. Then sticker shock set in as they discovered how much it would cost to launch their payload.

“In that case, you'd need at least nine launches, assuming efficient payload distribution. Our H-3Cs can put 23.5 tons into low earth orbit, so long as you allocate your payload according to that capacity…”

“And how much would the fee for nine launches be?”

“Well, launch vehicles are pretty much made to order,” said Ryuichi. “They take a lot of craftsmanship. Building one can take several years. Foreign exchange fluctuations and new technology can affect the bottom line, so it's hard to quote an exact figure. But based on experience to date? Seven billion yen per launch. Nine launches…say fifty-five billion, give or take three billion or so. We save a bit on scale economies.”

Sohya looked up from his wearcom and nudged Reika. “Too low.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “Maybe the metrics we used for our projections are out of date. Mr. Yaenami, how much could those costs vary in practice? Could they end up being, say, ten times higher?”