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They’re Range Rover, so they’re expensive to maintain. But at least they’re slow.
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Reminds me of this cool little short story…
Departing from Antarctica
We land at Williams International, to transfer to the train that will take us south to Orion First Starport. Just another generic big airport, everywhere pandemic posters and ads for McMurdo Ski Lodge, very few windows.
At the train station, we see groundskeepers spraying to kill the wild grasses and flowers that have sprouted in the bare patches exposed by global warming. They’re invasive species, you see, and some kill penguins. A few fat, molting rockhoppers, sullen like gang members, block access to the wastebins and charge anyone carrying Moon Fries, hissing. Someone sprayed “FUCK penguins” on a junction box in hi-vis orange, and a group of tourists loudly agree.
The Starport Express arrives, and we embark. Across the land we go, a perfectly straight path, periodic lights stretching forward into the long night. It’s a full moon tonight, but cloudy, as it often is down here. The land goes dark, then dim again, then dark, then momentarily bright, then dark again. A long cargo train rumbles past on the return line.
We must have missed seeing the fortified gate to the branch line, but during one bright period, we catch on the horizon the lurking silhouette of the Fuel Depot. Somewhere in there are the peaceful nuclear bombs. I keep watch for the steward while you use your binoculars app – it’s against the rules! Later, I help you identify the dug-in tanks and artillery that surround the armored bunker, the spiderweb of covered trenches that presumably hold shivering infantry. Here and there, twin flags flutter over a strongpoint – the blue of the UN, and whichever army happens to be in that sector. It seems Italy had the honor this week to be closest to us.
Then it’s down the tunnel to the Starport Concourse. Another airport, except the parts we get to see are entirely underground, save for the observation deck, topside, which is overpriced. Down one tunnel is the commercial quarter we’ve seen in photos, the fields and hangars of standard orbital cargo containers. Down another tunnel is Quarantine. And, it is rumored, yet another tunnel has more military.
But we don’t board our launch here. No, after final luggage and health checks, we turn off and stow our devices, don the required bunny suits and face masks, wrap our carry-ons in disposable baggies, then board the bus. It’s lead-lined, too heavy for its engine, and lurches slowly into motion, belching the smell of Moon Fries, penetrating even through the masks.
Across the field we roll, the headlights of maintenance vehicles weaving around us. Another horizon away are the lights of our waiting ship. Kids bounce around the cabin. People keep getting up to use the toilet in the back of the bus; last call before launch.
We arrive at the gantry, and they hustle us aboard so we don’t slow up the loading of the next cargo container. They spray us down, and we drop the suits, masks, and baggies in the designated receptacle at the passenger lock, keeping the tags as a souvenir. Then we fumble into our cabin, and I doze through the steward’s safety video while you take nervous mental notes. But I’m always awake in time for launch.
Your choice of video channels for the festivities: cameras all along the ship, the camera at the distant Control Bunker, or peaceful nature scenes. You tell me it seemed to take forever for the trucks and forklifts to clear the field, scurrying to their safety pits or rattling back over the horizon, and I nod. The steward checks that we’re strapped in, scolds us for failing to properly stow and latch one bag and a pair of headphones, sets the air to standard, leaves us again. You switch the AC back on.
Countdown, and the first bomb kicks us in the back. After that, it’s easy.
To keep our minds off things, we get into an argument over how much each Orion launch raises global cancer rates and kills penguins, and lament that we’re not allowed wifi during takeoff to look up our numbers.
Ageless minutes later, we’re orbital. I took my SAS pills because I know free fall makes me hurl. You didn’t, because you didn’t, and so you do, but it’s not too bad, and you even start to feel hungry once we’re under acceleration again.
As always, the first dance on the first night out is to the Blue Danube Waltz, as the Moon spins past the ballroom wallscreens, and only a few nerds like us know why.
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Um… what the fuck?
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An aerial photographer took an incredible photo of a B-2 stealth bomber flying over the Rose Bowl
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More nuclear bomb worshippers:
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Its impressive how he or bis pilot was able to time the aircraft to be above the stadium at the same time as the B2. No drones here.
It is left as a problem for the student to calculate how far above the aircraft the photographer was flying.
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And now say “cheese”!
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