Space opera. Don’t we all love it? (Hey, not all at once.) We look up to and admire the American space program, but that program might not always be for the common good. Even these people need someone to police them, and make them see the error of their ways. And who might that be? (I’ll just smile and say…sorry…)
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“Any signs of physical security systems?” asked Wilkes.
“Negative, Ma’am. This is an older model. They never expected us to be up here.”
“I know that, Lambert. But I didn’t get to be a Space Force Commander by making assumptions. Scan it again.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” The hapless junior officer started running careful scans.
After a few minutes, he reported: “No physical security features. Internal and external electronics appear to be functioning as intended. She’s in a stable orbit, and appears to have enough on-board fuel and thrusters to prevent orbital decay for a long time.”
“A classic Chinese spy satellite. Small, effective, and hard to detect. Well, we’ve got it now.” The commander flipped a com switch. “Specialist leToya! Deploy the Space Arm.”
“Aye, aye, Ma’am,” came the tinny reply.
All eyes on board went to the monitors. Every member of the Space Force on board knew that this was the crucial moment. As soon as the panels slid back to release the Space Arm, the USSF Cruiser Justice would lose the protection of Stealth Mode, and would be open to detection until the panels closed again. If they were caught doing this, there would be international repercussions. It could even lead to war. Everyone knew the stakes.
It was a delicate maneuver: to attach a United States monitoring device onto the Chinese spy satellite. America would be able to peer at whatever China thought it was learning. This was such an important mission that the CIA was bankrolling it from some off-the-books budget.
“This has gotta be the most expensive phone tap in the galaxy,” quipped the pilot, through clenched teeth. Her job was to hold the ship in perfect alignment with the satellite while the operation lasted. One small nudge at the wrong time would change the satellite’s position enough that the Chinese might detect what they were doing.
“Stow that sort of talk, Mizuki,” snarled Commander Wilkes. “This mission is critical to American security interests in space and on earth. I won’t tolerate any cynicism about our mission.”
“Yes, Ma’am, I mean, no, Ma’am,” replied Mizuki. She said nothing further, concentrating on her job. She knew there’d be a disciplinary Tweet on her record shortly.
The procedure was going perfectly. The Space Arm held the American monitoring device delicately against the side of the satellite. It was textbook.
“Activate magnet,” ordered the Commander.
“Activated,” came the reply. Even though space does not transmit sound, the Space Arm does, and the crew heard a satisfying “thunk” as a powerful magnet attached the device to the satellite.
“Release the . . .” the Commander’s order was interrupted as a red and white blur spun across the monitors and wrapped itself around the middle joint of the Space Arm. “What the devil was that?” she finished.
Chatter erupted from all the ship’s stations: “re-aligning cameras . . .” “scanning for other ships . . .”
Then, one voice cut through them all. It was Specialist leToya. “Commander! I’ve lost control of the Space Arm! It’s not responding!” There was a terrified pause. “I can’t release the Monitoring Unit. We’re stuck to the satellite!”
The Commander’s rapid instructions showed her experience. “Mizuki, hold us steady. You can’t let that satellite wobble an inch. America’s future is depending on you.
“LeToya, check your equipment. See if there’s any chance the problem’s at our end.
“Glaston,” this was to the sergeant of the Space Marine squad on the ship, “take your team and suit up. You may have to go out there and remove that thing by force.”
“Yes, Ma’am!” Glaston’s salute was perfect: his body ramrod straight, his heels clicking audibly. It was a difficult maneuver to achieve in zero gravity, and he’d practiced it for hours.
“And can anybody tell me where that thing came from? Is there another ship out there, or was it launched from a defense satellite we haven’t found?”
“I found a ship, Ma’am,” came the over-confident voice of Ensign Smie. “I’ve got a camera locked onto its flag, but I don’t recognize it.”
Commander Wilkes glared at the monitor. “That’s the flag of the Faroe Islands, Ensign. Didn’t they teach you about other space-faring nations at the Academy?”
“But the Faroe Islands are tiny!” replied Smie. “How can they afford a space navy? How can they afford even one space ship?”
Wilkes snarled. “They obviously don’t teach you history or poli-sci, either. Five years ago, the Faroe Islands went bankrupt when they ran out of whales. Richard Branson bought them up, and now he’s got his own flag to fly whatever ship he wants, wherever he wants to. He rents them out to anyone who can afford it.”
“You mean, Lord Richard Branson?” Everyone else on the bridge slowly leaned away from Ensign Smie. He was clearly heading for more disciplinary Tweets than anyone wanted to be associated with.
“America’s a Republic, Smie, and don’t you forget it. We don’t hold with those poncy royalist titles. Understand?”
“Yes, Commander.” Smie, at long last, decided to be silent.
“Can we get a look at that thing?” demanded Commander Wilkes.
“I’m having trouble getting a good camera angle. The ones on the arm are frozen in place.”
“Options! I want options!” bellowed Wilkes.
“Release the magnet. Then we’d be free of the satellite,” came one. “The magnet controls are separate from the Space Arm’s.”
“Negative. That would defeat the purpose of our mission.”
“Open fire on that ship,” came another voice.
“I can’t hold us this steady if we start firing,” said the pilot, through gritted teeth. “We’d tip off the Chinese about what we’re doing.”
There was a frustrated silence. Then the Commander spoke. “I will negotiate with the other ship.”
The shock on the bridge could almost be tasted. “Negotiate?” squeaked one Ensign. “With terrorists?”
“And while I’m negotiating, our Space Marines will be going out to remove that device by any means necessary.”
The entire bridge crew cheered.
There was a bleep from the communications console. “They’re hailing us, Commander,” said the ComTech.
“Open the channel, Commie,” replied Wilkes in a calm, pleasant voice. It was a voice that was clearly used to opening smooth negotiations, with an option to get rough as needed.
“Faroe ship: this is Commander Wilkes of the American Space Force. Who are you, and what is that thing you’ve attached to our Space Arm?”
“Ah, yes, I imagine you can’t see it properly, can you?” The voice was polite, with no hint of a Scandinavian accent. “Allow me.”
The monitor lit up with a picture of the Space Arm from the perspective of the other ship. Wrapped around the joint of the arm was a strong, metal disk, painted scarlet, with a white stripe down the middle, and a red maple leaf boldly displayed in the center.
“It’s a Denver Boot. From Canada.” Lt. Lambert sounded awed. “We’ve been clamped!”
“Quite right,” remarked the polite voice. “This is Lt. Singh from the Canadian Space Force.” He pronounced it “leff-tenant,” to the annoyance of all the Americans who heard him.
“Canada doesn’t have a Space Force!” protested one officer.
“Ah, but we do. We just don’t have any ships. Fortunately, Lord Richard is a personal friend of our Prime Minister, and they came to an amicable arrangement.”
“Lt. Singh,” said the Commander, pronouncing it properly, “You have no right to interfere with a legitimate operation of the United States Space Force. Why are you doing this? We’re allies, after all.”
“Do allies steal intellectual property?” asked Singh. “Do allies pirate advanced technology and claim it as their own?”
“What’s he talking about, Ma’am?” whispered Smie.
“I am talking about the Canadarm. You have stolen it, brutally ripped off the prominent Canadian flag, and cynically called it the Space Arm.”
“That flag was a shameful display of foreign opportunism!” shouted the Commander, dropping all pretense of calm. “The proper name was, and still is, a ‘Remote Operating System.’ If NASA had any patriotism or guts, they’d have ripped that flag off back in the 1980s.”
“We have won our case in the International Court of Justice,” remarked Singh.
“America doesn’t recognize that court,” countered the Captain.
“I know. Nevertheless, I am here to enforce the ruling. As soon as I have an agreement from you to restore all the Canadarms in your fleet to their proper form, and pay the royalties owing, I will remove the clamp.”
“Commander,” whispered one officer. “We’re still out of stealth mode. It won’t be long before the Chinese see what we’re up to.”
“That would be a shame, wouldn’t it?” said Lt. Singh, smugly. “And it’s more than a clamp, by the way. Have a look.”
On the monitors, everyone could see small bots that had emerged from the clamp. They were busy painting a Canadian maple leaf flag over the beloved Stars and Stripes on the Space Arm.
“Glaston, now!” shouted Wilkes.
The Space Marines jetted from a hatch on Justice towards the clamp. As the crew watched in horror, the small bots launched themselves from the Space Arm. In moments, it was over. The marines were covered in red and white paint, specially formulated to work in space. Their visors were obscured, and their cameras were blinded. They were helpless.
“You may safely rescue your crew members,” came Singh’s voice. “I’m not a monster. And I suggest you do it quickly, before they drift too far away.”
As he said this, one marine fired his thrusters and started spinning wildly, narrowly missing the Chinese satellite. In moments, the sound of retching came clearly over the comm systems.
Having a prepped back-up crew for each EVA was SOP, so it didn’t take too long to get most of the Marines back. The one who had panicked took longer, and would no doubt get one of the nastiest Tweets of the whole crew, not to mention an unpleasant clean-up duty.
While the rescue was going on, Commander Wilkes took charge of the situation. “Commie, cut the link.”
In the restored privacy of the bridge, the Commander confided in her crew. “I’m going to give this Canadian scum what he’s asking for. Let’s set up communications for an e-signature.”
“But Commander!” protested the pilot. “We can’t just give in like that! Let’s release the satellite and blow them out of the Solar System. They have to learn that they can’t mess with the most powerful nation in space!”
“There’s a time for force, and a time for subtlety, Lieutenant. But don’t worry. Anything I sign under duress isn’t legal. I’ll be giving him a worthless document. Then he can go and cry to his illegal International Court.”
Her officers all gazed at her in admiration, except for Ensign Smie. “But isn’t that lying, Ma’am? I was taught never to lie.”
“You have a lot to learn about the real world, Ensign. Lying is fine, if it gets you what America needs. Even lying to your allies.” The Commander looked grim. “Commie, open up that channel again.”
“Ah, Commander. Do we have a deal?” Singh sounded calm, almost relaxed. “I do hope we don’t need to dwell in this unfortunate situation much longer.”
“We have a deal. I don’t have any choice, do I?” Commander Wilkes gave a convincing performance of a noble leader being forced to concede. “Send over your agreement. I’ll sign it.”
“Lovely. As soon as you’ve done that, I will release the clamp.”
“You’d better.” The document arrived, and Wilkes signed it without reading it.
“I always keep my word, Commander. As I trust you will too.”
“Are you questioning the honor of the USSF?”
“Not at all, Commander.” Singh looked over the document. “This seems to be in order.” He turned, and nodded to someone off screen.
“Commander, I have control of the Space Arm again!” The relief in leToya’s voice was palpable.
“Farewell, Commander Wilkes. A pleasure doing business with you.”
The Commander ignored Singh’s words. “Commie, close that channel. LeToya, release the device, and stow that arm immediately. All hands, stand by to bring Justice back into stealth mode.”
As the arm retracted, the ComTech spoke up. “Commander, the Faroe ship is leaving. But they’re sending us a text message.”
“What is it, Commie?” The Commander was clearly tired of the Canadian’s annoying games.
“It’s a link to a web site, Ma’am. And the words ‘happy viewing.’”
“Well, scan it, and if it’s safe, open it. He probably wants to brag about Canada’s tiny little Space Force or something.”
The crew worked wordlessly as they expertly extracted themselves from their embarrassing situation, and slipped away in stealth mode.
When they were well on their way, the Commander said: “Commie, open a secure channel to Space Force Control. Inform them that the mission was successful. I’ll give them a detailed report when we return.”
When there was no response, Commander Wilkes turned to the ComTech. The officer was staring at the monitor, face pale.
“Commie? Do you have a problem? Commie?”
“Ma’am? I think we all have a problem.”
On the screen streamed a repeating recording of everything that had happened, broadcast for the world to see. Details of the satellite were obscured, to make identification difficult, but everything else was clear as day. At the end of each run, the details of the agreement were included, followed by the words: Justice Is Served.
“It’s going viral, Ma’am. They’re at five million hits already.”
The Commander inhaled deeply, and breathed out slowly. “Commie, belay that last order. I need to think of a new message.”
Justice flew on in silence for a very long time.
The End
