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CC-BY-SA-4.0

Planning the Future

Dawn light smiled on sleeping forms. Bob yawned, stretched, arched his back luxuriously, and expertly flipped himself out of his hammock. Ta-da, he provided his own fanfare as the sheet and blanket wrapping him cascaded from his bare shoulders onto the floor. Hiroshi cranked one eye open to view the performance. His kids didn't act like that. His kids, clad in matching pajamas and bathrobes, would tiptoe demurely into their parents bedroom — separate bedroom — and say Good morning, Father. Good morning, Mother. Then they would quietly get out. Bob noisily slopped half a bucket of water down the sewer pipe to which the toilet would someday attach. Imagine raising kids here. On shore, the health department would shut this place down in a flash. Hiroshi heard Bob scrape open a drawer, and got a whiff of fetid alcohol: that damned frog. None of that at his house, for sure. What would his kids be doing now? They would go to bed and get up at regular hours — no wild parties and falling asleep, even if not drunk, among the beer kegs. They would do something normal while waiting for their parents to arise, like watching cartoons on TV. Meiko chirped out a cheery Good morning, everybody! What was good about it? Hiroshi figured he couldn't delay much longer and would have to face the morning and its inhabitants, both the intact and the dissected.

He unrolled from his blanket and began to saunter nonchalantly to the toilet flange, but Bob jumped up from his chair — still bare-assed; didn't that kid have any sense of modesty, or of temperature? — and called out, Mr. Mori, Mr. Mori, I figured it out last night! Come see what I found!

Oh, Lord, it says here that thou art merciful, so please cut it out, quam olim promisisti, amen. Bob, this early in the morning I can't take either your bare ass or your damn frog.

Like water off a duck's back. What's the matter? Did you have too much alcohol last night?

Hiroshi emitted a growl of ambiguous denotation but obvious connotation. Meiko gave him a funny look, and went over to her son. Together, her arm over his bare back, they looked deep within the sacrificial victim. See, I cut open the heart. The blood from the lungs and the body mixes! Not like with us …

Hiroshi scuttled away. Promisisti, Domine. Veni, ut salvos!

Eating breakfast, the family sat adjacent to Hiroshi. He glowered at his French toast, thinking his own thoughts. Bob asked his father, Dad, if we sail away, what do we need to bring for the house? And if we need something — oh, yes, and when we have aluminum to sell — how do we get it from the middle of the ocean to the land? We could get an airplane! But … a small seaplane couldn't carry much, and we couldn't afford a big one.

I expect to spend a lot of today making lists of supplies, and I wish you and your friends would do so too. We can't anticipate everything, though, so we'll have a purchasing agent on shore to order things and send them to us probably by boat. It's not like we were sailing to the moon.

Meiko suggested, Before parasails, the racing yachts used to displace tons and to sail at twenty knots or more. We should easily be able to move a barge at ten knots and carry ten or even twenty tons of stuff each way. There are ports of call out there — Tahiti, Guam, Hawaii — and we could have things sent air freight, then pick them up within perhaps a week.

I like that, Mom. But we would have to send one boat a day to carry the aluminum. That's a lot of people, and a lot of boring days.

Wooden ships and iron, um, persons, said George. For heavy items we can have a freighter come out to the project. Or maybe we could automate the boats.

I don't think that would work, replied Meiko. What about storms? Also, is an automated vessel flotsam?

Or maybe jetsam? OK, scratch that one. But Meiko Chou, your family had a boat. Would you find out about this parasail freighter idea, and work out how we could ship supplies, and especially aluminum?

Sure, I'd love to handle the boat, but I don't know a thing about shipping. Maybe one of the staff people could do better.

You're right. Ron Atkins should know better, or at least he would know who to call up. Now, what else today? Hiroshi, what do you want to do today? And why are you so glum?

I've inspected everything I want to, and I've discussed what I found with you and your people. I ought to get out of here — to go back to what? Supervising as the U. S. nuclear industry is dismantled. Here you are planning your future, while mine is down the tubes, as soon as that bill passes. That burns the hell out of me.

I thought it was my frog, said Bob. You seem to avoid it. I won't show it to you any more, I promise.

I'm sorry I jumped on you, but the thoughts all came together and I couldn't stand it.

George said, If you don't like the NRC's future — and I wouldn't, in your place — why don't you come with us? You've seen more screwups than all of us put together, and I'm not ashamed to say that that kind of experience could help us a great deal in keeping out of trouble.

I thought of that. But what about my family? My wife wouldn't come here even if California were sinking into the ocean. And no way would I try to raise any kids here. Sorry about that, but that's how I feel.

Why?, said Meiko. I think this is a good place.

Bob added, I feel sorry for your kids, having to live on shore.

Item, Hiroshi counted them off. It's next to a fission reactor. Item: no schools. Item: no toilets or showers. Item: no cultural support. Item: isolated and due to get more so — no friends except here. And most important item: this project is heading into a potential war zone. It's no place for families.

George, Meiko and Bob rotated answering Hiroshi's points. New York City is next to several fission reactors. What do you mean, no schools? What do you think I do all day? I bet I know more than your kids. Have you had any problem with personal hygiene? I suppose you mean my parents can't drag me to the opera. La te da te da, Figaro, Figaro, Figaro. My dad listens to that stuff all the time on tapes. Yuck. Do you make your kids go to operas? It's not as if we were in jail. Think of it as a transfer to Hawaii. Even with terrorist attacks, this place is safer than East L.A. My people tell me some hair-raising stories.

Don't be so glib about terrorists.

Mr. Mori, said Bob, we practice over and over how to fight terrorists. Nobody could get by us.

You people do very well, within your limitations. But I'll give you an example. Yesterday I watched an assault from the boat dock, seven defenders and fifteen attackers, all of whom died, and two defenders got dented helmets. Great body count. But if I had been leading the attack, with competent weapons, I could have gotten up with one or two dead, and wiped all the defenders with one grenade. You aren't practicing with realistic weapons, and you're treating it as a game. Your adversaries are playing for keeps. I'm scared to be on this station, much less to put my family on it.

George responded, Hiroshi, I'm not an expert in war. Would you talk to Mr. Tri about this? You could help us a lot, and maybe he could allay your misgivings. Please make with him a list of improvements in training that we need; remember that we expected to have Coast Guard and Navy backup, until yesterday. Also, what weapons should we get? And sensing instruments? We have a radar and a sonar, but maybe we should get better ones.

Thanks for letting me help.

Bob piped up, May I come too? And after we finish with Mr. Tri, I want you to meet Mrs. Olson — the teacher you asked about, remember?

Meiko squelched him. Young man, you have food to catch, samples to collect, an excellent dissection to finish and write up, and a chapter of Caesar to finish. You may show Mr. Mori where people are, then split. Don't waste your time … I know you have helped us a lot and want to continue, but Mr. Mori can handle this himself. If he wants your help he will ask.

Bob looked angry. Then his expression changed to embarrassment, then to shame. He said, Mr. Mori, I'm sorry I tried to help you without your permission. I did it because I am too proud of myself. He turned around and bent over. Whack my butt.

Hiroshi looked at George and Meiko. She nodded and told him, Hard. He did; Bob staggered and said, Thank you. His eyes were full of tears, about to overflow.

I've never seen anything like that before, said Hiroshi. Come on, kid, don't cry. It's not that big of a deal to me. Dry your eyes and tell me what's going on.

I do my best, but I make so many mistakes. It's hard to be proud of myself, and even when I do well I get too proud and puff myself up. Please don't kick me away when I do wrong; please stay with me and help me do better.

Sure, kid, I may snap at you sometimes but I won't leave you. I thought you do pretty well. What would be good enough?

Perfection. That's what you demand of the people you inspect, right? And with good reason.

Hiroshi didn't like to hear a kid using that standard, but he couldn't very well disagree with what Bob had said. Bob was an extremely stable kid, and quick on his feet. An indiscretion, quick criticism and punishment, intense but brief shame, then Bob resigned himself to human frailty and was back in action in less than a minute. Hiroshi wished his own kids would be that stable Maybe the secret was not in the kid, but how the parent handled the kid…

I have fish to catch, Latin to read, samples to collect, and a frog heart. Let's get the lead out. Mr. Tri usually practices on the cement plant after breakfast; let's look there first.

We didn't brush our teeth yet, said Hiroshi.

Oh, thanks for reminding me.

Tri and Hiroshi ended up turning the morning martial arts classes into open discussions of weapons and tactics. The ten o'clock class was particularly helpful because several war veterans had relevant experiences to share.

One former fighter pilot made the point, Expensive, expendable weapons systems are out. Pilots won't risk wasting them. In Yemen we had Phoenix missiles at a million apiece, and we got maybe ten enemy with them. I fired them only once, when I got separated from my buddies and I had shot off all my Vipers. I got the bastards, both of them. It was beautiful how the missiles just went around in a little circle and plastered them from behind before their ECM could find my radar and jam it. But later we thought, was the Phoenix really worth it? We had the techs do a shop overhaul on the missiles, radars and computers from a few planes. You know, take it all out of the planes and work on it in the shop. The planes had such a maneuverability improvement from the decreased weight that they could blast the ass off the MiG-29's with Vipers, at two thousand dollars and forty kilos each. Needless to say, all the Phoenix missiles had to be overhauled, and parts were sooo hard to get. The class laughed; they had heard that the Phoenix had proven unreliable, but few except pilots knew what had really gone wrong with it.

The simple weapon will be used freely, and is harder to defend against. They tried everything to throw off the Vipers — maneuvers, dropping flares, intentional flameouts — and nothing helped them much. Of course we had the same trouble with their heat-seekers, but with our maneuverability we could lock on and they couldn't, usually.

An old infantryman asked, You mentioned grenades. Shouldn't we have some? And what about tear gas?

My experience, said Tri, is that you're vulnerable to both grenades and gas when defending a fixed position. Attackers are spread out and mobile; they throw the stuff. But we should have some just in case attackers hole up in somebody's room, for example. Don't expect to get much use out of it, though.

A teenage girl had a good point. The attackers will come on boats. What kind of missiles work on boats?

I think the choice is between a wire-guided anti-tank missile and an artillery piece, answered the infantryman. Maybe a recoilless rifle. Ballistic missiles like a bazooka are too slow and too inaccurate if the boat is maneuvering. A computerized gunner with infrared TV and laser rangefinder, like in a tank, would be ideal, but maybe too expensive.

Tri continued, I like the idea of the recoilless rifle, because the complexity is in the launcher, not the shell.

A young man was looking quite unhappy. Whatever happened to the spirit of harmony that we were learning?

Harmonize a few shells with their boats, the fighter pilot answered glibly, and the bad guys will behave in concord with the ki.

Tri gently remonstrated, Often the obvious solution to an interpersonal problem is a fist in the face. But if the target is one of us, you know how futile that is.

An older lady added, When I use the gun, I feel an internal collision. I don't fire often, and when I do I often miss. I think guns are inherently collisional.

The pilot agreed, Wham, bam, very collisional.

That's superficial, said the girl who had asked about missiles. Maybe if we understood them better, Mary, we could use guns in harmony. Or maybe we have to learn to live with collision. What do you think, Mr. Tri?

I think there is no harmony in guns. This has bothered me as a teacher, and it bothers many students. My training is to avoid collision, and you know how effective that is. I have no idea how to collide effectively; you notice that our tactical skill is not bad, but our aikido is a lot better. In my combat experience and in my reading, the best leaders combine position and maneuver to win, like we do in aikido. The turkeys rely on firepower. But it doesn't work when you try to copy the famous generals, just like mechanically copying aikido is useless. The force is involved. People have to use it as a team. I have thought for a long time how to do that and how to teach it, but I couldn't get anything I thought would work. Look, on Monday we will try the methods that I thought of, even if they aren't very good. If we can learn to use the force as a team, even a little, it will be more combat-effective than any missile. May the force be with you.

The eleven o'clock class was already milling around the fringes as the previous people broke up chattering about weapons and the force. Tri called, Alvin, would you lead the class for a few minutes; I have to take a break. Do the stretching exercises and basic defense movements. Hiroshi spotted Bob and waved.

When Mr. Tri came back he introduced Hiroshi and summarized the discussion in the previous class. But this class was less warlike and had little interest in new weapons. Bob did say something, though, echoed by others his age, which the adults found disturbing. I don't know what that lady was talking about. On the target range I have no internal collision when firing the gun. No target has ever escaped my eagle eye. (An exaggeration.) I don't collide in tactics either. I can blast my friends with the gun and still be friends, just like I can flip them or twist their arms. All in harmony. It's only an exercise.

But Bob, asked Tri, suppose it were real?

We practice so we'll do the same thing in combat.

A horrified elder asked, How can you say killing is in harmony? Don't you have any feeling for the sanctity of life?

No. Mori winced and a murmur went through the class. You don't like that? You think I'm a monster, don't you? But remember who took all the flak last month for holding up the class to save one lousy spider? I said, 'Do you think a few seconds of your time is worth more than the life of this spider?' Does that sound like a wanton killer? But I kill flies, with the force, and I don't seem to have burnt up my brain by doing it. The spider is my brother and I take care of it. The fly's nature is to hurt me, so I kill it. It's the same with people; some are my brothers and some are like flies and cockroaches.

Tri asked, Everyone who tries to hurt you is like a fly, to be swatted?

Of course not. My friends often hurt me, and I hurt them, and we're still friends. Like someone getting mad and kicking me when I wasn't looking, or throwing me over the rail when he didn't have to — hitting the water sideways really hurts!

You poured water on me!

So? You still didn't have to throw me in. But if someone tries to raid this project, I'll swat him if I can.

Who are you, little boy, challenged one adult, to judge who lives and who dies?

I think it will be clear when the time comes. What do you suggest I do, play possum?

The consensus of the class was, kill. But they hadn't considered all the angles. What about me, muchacho? Am I your friend?

Sure, Gato. His legal name was Edelmiro Rodriguez, but only his parole officer called him that.

I was a fly once, and I didn't play around either. If you had met me in the old days you would have tried to kill me, right? And we wouldn't be friends now. One of us would be dead, probably you. Don't be too quick to kill, because people change. I learned that in prison. I'll tell you about it sometime.

In combat with guns, what can you do?

Tri cut in. The best generals win battles without firing a shot,

Bob responded, So let's start learning how. I have an idea for an exercise. Pairs of defenders back to back; random attacks; if you trip over your partner you aren't in harmony and have to do better. How's that?

That's not one I had thought of, but we'll try it. Groups of four, please, but not random attacks yet; do munetsuke kaiten nage. Vary it later.

The attackers punched for the stomach and rarely made contact, but also rarely got flipped because the defenders were too busy untangling their feet. It was pretty bad.

Change places, called Tri. Defenders became attackers Is this going to work? wondered Hiroshi. Tri saw the doubtful look. He straightened out a man who looked tense from the difficult, unfamiliar exercise, and who had barely escaped a popped solar plexus. Then he told Hiroshi, Some people are improving; that's a good sign. We're not going to learn this in one day.

At each break the more successful people had suggestions to share, and by the end of the class Hiroshi could see the improvement. A few people even avoided tripping over their partners more than half the time. Maybe the force could be used by people as a team.

When the class was finally over, Bob was exhausted and didn't want to run, so he went directly to the bath canal while Hiroshi ran with George and Meiko. Baths over, they got the lunch of the day, burritos, which Bob claimed were a plot to increase the station's methane supply. George was pleased that Hiroshi and Tri had made progress on station defense, and he was proud of Bob's part in suggesting an effective team exercise. Picking a wayward chili bean out of his lap, Bob commented, I only wish I could have done better in my own exercise. Look at these bruises! There was an ugly one on his left shin, and several others besides. With the force I'm adequate, but that's all.

That's not true, declared Hiroshi.

You can't say I'm OB1 Kenobi. Not even Luke Skywalker.

I can't put words to it, but … Combat isn't everything. You're better with the force than you think you are.

Adequate means good enough. I'm not crying over it.

After lunch, George asked Hiroshi, What are you going to do now?

It looks like I've done everything I can do. I guess I go home.

Do you like fishing? You could fish this afternoon, then go ashore with the workers and take an evening flight.

That's a great idea; I hadn't thought of fishing here. May I borrow a pole?

Bob invited himself too. I'll read my Latin while I fish.

So they passed a lazy afternoon. Bob amused Hiroshi by reading his Latin aloud and translating it. Hiroshi regaled Bob with the tale of the SL-1 reactor, complete with a missing corpse, which was found only when the health physicist saw something red dripping on the faceplate of his helmet — the guy was pinned to the ceiling by an ejected control rod which he had manually lifted further than was wise. They talked some more about parenting styles, and agreed that though they liked each other as friends, Bob didn't want Hiroshi as a father and Hiroshi couldn't stand Bob as a son. They even caught some fish: Hiroshi got a two-kilo rock cod and Bob got two mackerel. So Hiroshi could take the cod home, they packed freeze bags around it, wrapped it in newspaper, and sealed it in a big plastic bag that they hoped would keep the stink out of Hiroshi's suitcase.

At 1600, George and Meiko met Hiroshi at the boat dock. I'm sorry to see you go, said Meiko.

Think about joining us, added George. There's always a place for you and your family.

At every other place I ever inspected, they couldn't wait to get rid of me. It feels like I've been here a month. I'll call you when I hear more from the NRC. Thank you so much for … It was really a unique experience.

Goodbye, Mr. Mori.

Goodbye, Bob. May you walk in the way of the force. Hiroshi joined the workers and went down to the waiting boat.

That evening the Chous heard the news: the Tomlin bill had passed the Senate.