Terry Knox's Interview

SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA

 [Clearwater Memorial is the newest hospital to be constructed in
Australia and the largest one built since the end of the war. Terry
Knox’s room is on the seventeenth floor, the “Presidential Suite.” His
luxurious surroundings and expensive, almost unobtainable medication are
 the least his government can do for the first and, to date, only
Australian commander of the International Space Station. In his words,
“Not bad for the son of an Andamooka opal miner.”

 His withered body seems to liven during our conversation. His face regains some of its color.]

 I wish some of the stories they tell about us were true. Makes us sound
 all the more heroic. [Smiles.] Truth is, we weren’t “stranded,” not in
terms of being suddenly or unexpectedly trapped up there. Nobody had a
better view of what was happening than us. No one was surprised when the
 replacement crew from Baikonur failed to launch, or when Houston
ordered us to pile into the X-38 1 for evacuation. I wish I could say
that we violated orders or physically fought with one another over who
should stay. What really happened was much more mundane and reasonable. I
 ordered the scientific team, and any other nonessential personnel, back
 to Earth, then gave the rest of the crew the choice to remain behind.
With the X-38 reentry “lifeboat” gone, we would be technically stranded,
 but when you think of what was at stake then, I can’t imagine any of us
 wanting to leave.

 The ISS is one of the greatest marvels of human engineering. We’re
talking about an orbital platform so large it could be seen from Earth
with the na\*\*d eye. It’d taken sixteen countries over ten years, a
couple hundred space walks, and more money than anyone without job
security would admit to finally complete her. What would it take to
build another one, if another one could ever be built?

 Even more important than the station was the incalculable, and equally
irreplaceable, value of our planet’s satellite network. Back then there
were over three thousand in orbit, and humanity depended on them for
everything from communications to navigation, from surveillance to
something even as mundane yet vital as regular and reliable weather
prediction. This network was as important to the modern world as roads
had been in ancient times, or rail lines during the industrial age. What
 would happen to humanity if these all-important links just started
dropping out of the sky?

 Our plan was never to save them all. That was unrealistic and
unnecessary. All we had to do was concentrate on the systems most vital
to the war effort, just a few dozen birds that had to remain aloft. That
 alone was worth the risk of staying.

 Were you ever promised a rescue?

 No, and we didn’t expect it. The issue wasn’t how we were going to get
back to Earth, it was how we could manage to stay alive up there. Even
with all our tanked O2 and emergency perchlorate candles, 2 even with
our water recycling system 3 operating at peak capacity, we only had
enough food for roughly twenty-seven months, and that was including the
test animals in the lab modules. None of them were being used to test
any kind of vaccines so their flesh was still edible. I can still hear
their little shrieks, still see the spots of blood floating in micro
gravity. Even up there, you couldn’t escape the blood. I tried to be
scientific about it, calculating the nutritional value of every floating
 red globule I sucked out of the air. I kept insisting that it was all
for the good of the mission and not my own ravenous hunger.

 Tell me more about the mission. If you were trapped on the station, how did you manage to keep the satellites in orbit?

 We used the “Jules Verne Three” ATV, 4 the last supply pod launched
before French Guyana was overrun. It was originally designed as a
one-way vehicle, to be filled with trash after depositing its cargo,
then sent back to Earth to burn up in the atmosphere. 5 We modified it
with manual flight controls and a pilot’s couch. I wish we could have
fixed it with a proper viewport. Navigating by video wasn’t fun; neither
 was having to do my Extra Vehicular Activities, my space walks, in a
reentry suit because there wasn’t room for a proper EVA kit.

 Most of my excursions were to the ASTRO, 6 which was basically just a
petrol station in space. Satellites, the military, surveillance type,
sometimes have to change orbit in order to acquire new targets. They do
that by firing their maneuvering thrusters and using up their small
amount of hydrazine fuel. Before the war, the American military realized
 it was more cost-effective to have a refueling station already in orbit
 rather than sending up a lot of manned missions. That’s where ASTRO
came in. We modified it to refuel some of the other satellites as well,
the civilian models that need just the occasional top-off to boost back
up from a decaying orbit. It was a marvelous machine: a real time-saver.
 We had a lot of technology like that. There was the “Canadarm,” the
fifty-foot robotic inchworm that performed necessary maintenance tasks
along the station’s outer skin. There was “Boba,” the VR-operated
robonaut we fitted with a thruster pack so he could work both around the
 station and away from it on a satellite. We also had a little squadron
of PSAs, 7 these free-floating robots, about the shape and size of a
grapefruit. All of this wondrous technology was designed to make our
jobs easier. I wish they hadn’t worked so well.

 We had maybe an hour a day, maybe even two, where there was nothing to
do. You could sleep, you could exercise, you could reread the same
books, you could listen to Radio Free Earth or to the music we’d brought
 with us (over and over and over again). I don’t know how many times I
listened to that Redgum song: “God help me, I was only nineteen.” It was
 my father’s favorite, reminded him of his time in Vietnam. I prayed
that all that army training was helping to keep him and my mum alive
now. I hadn’t heard anything from him, or anyone else in Oz since the
government had relocated to Tasmania. I wanted to believe they were all
right, but watching what was happening on Earth, as most of us did
during our off-duty hours, made it almost impossible to have hope.

 They say that during the cold war, American spy birds could read the
copy of Pravda in a Soviet citizen’s hands. I’m not sure if that’s
entirely true. I don’t know the tech specs of that generation of
hardware. But I can tell you that these modern ones whose signals we
pirated from their relay birds—these could show muscles tear and bones
snap. You could read the lips of victims crying out for mercy, or the
color of their eyes when they bulged with their last breath. You could
see at what point red blood began to turn brown, and how it looked on
gray London cement as opposed to white, Cape Cod sand.

 We had no control over what the spy birds chose to observe. Their
targets were determined by the U.S. military. We saw a lot of
battles—Chongqing, Yonkers; we watched a company of Indian troops try to
 rescue civilians trapped in Ambedkar Stadium in Delhi, then become
trapped themselves and retreat to Gandhi Park. I watched their commander
 form his men into a square, the kind the Limeys used in colonial days.
It worked, at least for a little while. That was the only frustrating
part about satellite surveillance; you could only watch, not listen. We
didn’t know that the Indians were running out of ammunition, only that
the Zed Heads were starting to close in. We saw a helo hover overhead
and watched as the commander argued with his subordinates. We didn’t
know it was General Raj-Singh, we didn’t even know who he was. Don’t
listen to what the critics say about that man, about how he buggered off
 when things got too hot. We saw it all. He did try to put up a fight,
and one of his blokes did smash him in the face with a rifle butt. He
was out cold when they hauled him into that waiting chopper. It was a
horrible feeling, seeing it all so close and yet unable to do anything.

 We had our own observation gear, both the civilian research birds and
the equipment right there on the station. The images they gave us
weren’t half as powerful as the military versions, but they were still
frighteningly clear. They gave us our first look at the mega swarms over
 central Asia and the American Great Plains. Those were truly massive,
miles across, like the American buffalo must have once been.

 We watched the evacuation of Japan and couldn’t help but marvel at the
scale. Hundreds of ships, thousands of small boats. We lost count of how
 many helicopters buzzed back and forth from the rooftops to the armada,
 or how many jetliners made their final run north to Kamchatka.

 We were the first ones to discover zombie holes, the pits that the
undead dig when they’re going after burrowing animals. At first we
thought they were just isolated incidents until we noticed that they
were spreading all over the world; sometimes more than one would appear
in close proximity to the next. There was a field in southern England—I
guess there must have been a high concentration of rabbits—that was just
 riddled with holes, all different depths and sizes. Many of them had
large, dark stains around them. Although we couldn’t zoom in close
enough, we were pretty sure it was blood. For me that was the most
terrifying example of our enemy’s drive. They displayed no conscious
thought, just sheer biological instinct. I once watched a Zed Head go
after something, probably a golden mole, in the Namib Desert. The mole
had burrowed deep in the slope of a dune. As the ghoul tried to go after
 it, the sand kept pouring down and filling the hole. The ghoul didn’t
stop, didn’t react in any way, it just kept going. I watched it for five
 days, the fuzzy image of this G digging, and digging, and digging, then
 suddenly one morning just stopping, getting up, and shuffling away as
if nothing had happened. It must have lost the scent. Good on the mole.

 For all our enhanced optics, nothing had quite the same impact as the
naked eye. To just look through the view port down on our fragile little
 biosphere. To see the massive ecological devastation makes one
understand how the modern environmental movement began with the American
 space program. There were so many fires, and I don’t just mean the
buildings, or the forests, or even the oil rigs blazing out of
control—bleeding Saudis actually went ahead and did it 8 —I mean the
campfires as well, what had to be at least a billion of them, tiny
orange specks covering the Earth where electric lights had once been.
Every day, every night, it seemed like the whole planet was burning. We
couldn’t even begin to calculate the ash count but we guesstimated it
was equivalent to a low-grade nuclear exchange between the United States
 and former Soviet Union, and that’s not including the actual nuclear
exchange between Iran and Pakistan. We watched and recorded those as
well, the flashes and fires that gave me eye spots for days. Nuclear
autumn was already beginning to set in, the gray-brown shroud thickening
 each day.

 It was like looking down on an alien planet, or on Earth during the
last great mass extinction. Eventually conventional optics became
useless in the shroud, leaving us with only thermal or radar sensors.
Earth’s natural face vanished behind a caricature of primary colors. It
was through one of these systems, the Aster sensor aboard the Terra
Satellite, that we saw the Three Gorges Dam collapse.

 Roughly ten trillion gallons of water, carrying debris, silt, rocks,
trees, cars, houses, and house-sized pieces of the dam itself! It was
alive, a brown and white dragon racing to the East China Sea. When I
think of the people in its path…trapped in barricaded buildings, unable
to escape the tidal wave because of the Zed Heads right outside their
doors. No one knows how many people died that night. Even today, they’re
 still finding bodies.

 [One of his skeletal hands balls into a fist, the other presses the “self-medicate” button.]

 When I think about how the Chinese leadership tried to explain it all
away…Have you ever read a transcript of the Chinese president’s speech?
We actually watched the broadcast from a pirated signal off their
Sinosat II. He called it an “unforeseen tragedy.” Really? Unforeseen?
Was it unforeseen that the dam had been built on an active fault line?
Was it unforeseen that the increased weight of a giant reservoir had
induced earthquakes in the past 9 and that cracks had already been
detected in the foundation months before the dam was completed?

 He called it an “unavoidable accident.” Bastard. They had enough troops
 to wage open warfare in almost every major city, but they couldn’t
spare a couple of traffic cops to protect against a catastrophe waiting
to happen? No one could imagine the repercussions of abandoning both the
 seismic warning stations and the emergency spillway controls? And then
to try to change their story halfway through, to say that they’d
actually done everything they could to protect the dam, that, at the
time of the disaster, valiant troops of the PLA had given their lives to
 defend it. Well, I’d been personally observing Three Gorges for over a
year leading up to the disaster and the only PLA soldiers I ever saw had
 given their lives a long, long time ago. Did they really expect their
own people to buy such a blatant lie? Did they really expect anything
less than all-out rebellion?

 Two weeks after the start of the revolution, we received our first and
only signal from the Chinese space station, Yang Liwei. It was the only
other manned facility in orbit, but couldn’t compare to such an
exquisite masterpiece as ours. It was more of a slapdash job, Shenzhou
modules and Long March fuel tanks cobbled together like a giant version
of the old American Skylab.

 We’d been trying to contact them for months. We weren’t even sure if
there was a crew. All we got was a recorded message in perfect Hong Kong
 English to keep our distance lest we invite a response of “deadly
force.” What an insane waste! We could have worked together, traded
supplies, technical expertise. Who knows what we could have accomplished
 if we had only chucked the politics and come together as human bloody
beings.

 We’d convinced ourselves that the station had never been inhabited at
all, that their deadly force warning was just a ruse. We couldn’t have
been more surprised when the signal came over our ham radio. 10 It was a
 live human voice, tired, frightened, and cutting out after only a few
seconds. It was all I needed to board the Verne and head over to the
Yang.

 As soon as it came over the horizon I could tell that its orbit had
shifted radically. As I closed the distance, I could see why. Their
escape pod had blown its hatch, and because it was still docked to the
primary airlock, the entire station had depressurized in seconds. As a
precaution, I requested docking clearance. I got nothing. As I came
aboard, I could see that even though the station was clearly large
enough for a crew of seven or eight, it only had the bunk space and
personal kits for two. I found the Yang packed with emergency supplies,
enough food, water, and O2 candles for at least five years. What I
couldn’t figure out at first was why. There was no scientific equipment
aboard, no intelligence-gathering assets. It was almost like the Chinese
 government had sent these two men into space for no other purpose than
to exist. Fifteen minutes into my floatabout, I found the first of
several scuttling charges. This space station was little more than a
giant Orbital Denial Vehicle. If those charges were to detonate, the
debris from a four-hundred-metric-ton space station would not only be
enough to damage or destroy any other orbiting platform, but any future
space launch would be grounded for years. It was a “Scorched Space”
policy, “if we can’t have it, neither can anyone else.”

 All the station’s systems were still operational. There had been no
fire, no structural damage, no reason I could see to cause the accident
of the escape pod’s hatch. I found the body of a lone taikonaut with his
 hand still clinging to the hatch release. He was wearing one of their
pressurized escape suits, but the faceplate had been shattered by a
bullet. I’m guessing the shooter was blown out into space. I’d like to
believe that the Chinese revolution wasn’t just restricted to Earth,
that the man who’d blown the hatch was also the one who had attempted to
 signal us. His mate must have stuck by the old guard. Maybe Mister
Loyalist had been ordered to set off the scuttling charges. Zhai—that
was the name on his personal effects—Zhai had tried to blast his mate
into space and had caught a round in the process. Makes for a good tale,
 I think. That’s how I’m going to remember it.

 Is that how you were able to extend your endurance? By using the supplies aboard the Yang?

 [He gives me a thumbs-up.] We cannibalized every inch of it for spares
and materials. We would have liked to have merged the two platforms
together but we didn’t have the tools or manpower for such an
undertaking. We might been able to use the escape pod to return to
Earth. It had a heat shield and room for three. It was very tempting.
But the station’s orbit was decaying rapidly, and we had to make a
choice then and there, escape to Earth or resupply the ISS. You know
which choice we made.

 Before we finally abandoned her, we laid our friend Zhai to rest. We
strapped his body into its bunk, brought his personal kit back to the
ISS, and said a few words in his honor as the Yang burned up in the
Earth’s atmosphere. For all we knew he might have been the loyalist, not
 the rebel, but either way, his actions allowed us to stay alive. Three
more years we remained in orbit, three more years that wouldn’t have
been possible without the Chinese consumables.

 I still think it’s one of the war’s great ironies that our replacement
crew ended up arriving in a privately owned civilian vehicle. Spacecraft
 Three, the ship originally designed for prewar orbital tourism. The
pilot, with his cowboy hat and big, confident Yankee grin. [He tries his
 best Texas accent.] “Anyone order takeout?” [He laughs, then winces and
 self-medicates again.]

 Sometimes I’m asked if we regretted our decision to stay aboard. I
can’t speak for my mates. On their deathbeds they both said they’d do it
 all over again. How can I disagree? I don’t regret the physical therapy
 that followed, getting to know my bones again and remembering why the
good Lord gave us legs in the first place. I don’t regret being exposed
to so much cosmic radiation, all those unprotected EVAs, all that time
with inadequate shielding in the ISS. I don’t regret this. [He motions
to the hospital room and machinery attached to his body.] We made our
choice, and, I’d like to think, we made a difference in the end. Not bad
 for the son of an Andamooka opal miner.

 [Terry Knox died three days after this interview.]