American Skyway

The 1st place story in our Building and Burning Bridges contest shows that normal statecraft can only achieve so much when its central arteries become calcified.

“Will the delegate from New Texas stand and be recognized.”

The speaker with the dull voice paused and looked up across the semicircular chamber. The furtive tapping of bored fingers on datapads echoed flatly off the synthetic wood-paneled walls. Clusters of bureaucrats dutifully feigned attention while quietly locked in desperate combat with the looming spectre of accidental slumber during this third hour of the 17th session on the ninth day of the quarterly two-day Reratification Accords for the treaty governing the Joint Defense of the Lebanon Space Elevator and Remembrance Zone, which memorialized the grand experiment formerly known as the United States of America.

A hacking sound, something between a simple cough and a swamp crocodile clearing its throat, stumbled out of the speaker’s mouth.

“Will the delegate from New Texas stand and be recognized!”

Mark McCarthy blinked, eyes refocusing on the massive industrial structure extending up impossibly high into the pale blue sky in the distance. He had been absentmindedly staring out the window at the faintly visible motion of the lift transferring vast amounts of economic tonnage from Earth to orbit. In the foreground, his attention lingered on a long line of military trucks, presumably the next Rotational Defense Force, idling patiently while the perimeter guards processed their entry to the Outer Defense Ring Complex. He looked around curiously at the sense of awkward pause in the proceedings and realized with a start that he was the delegate from New Texas.

Mark shot up out of his seat and banged the shit out of his knee.

“Oof. Oh – Mr. Speaker, Mr. – ah – Master Secretary, Mr. Sir – Speaker – Mr. Secretary, we’re here! I’m here.”

As the delegate from New Texas collected himself and buttoned and smoothed his seersucker suit jacket, the secretary’s eyes narrowed. He had just noticed that the quarter of the room allocated to the New Texas delegation was considerably sparser than it had been the day before. Mark stood all alone among the padded rolling chairs and empty coffee substitute ration packs. With a disapproving sigh, the secretary glanced down at the digital nameplate in front of Mark McCarthy.

“Mr. McCarthy. What does the delegation from New Texas think of the latest revisions to the proposed amendments?”

Mark glanced down at the datapad in front of him and immediately felt too warm under the energy efficient light strips. He had only started reviewing the new revisions 30 minutes ago.

The changes were extensive.

Earlier that day, at around 0745 Kansas local time, Ambassador Jeb ‘Crawdad’ Hutchinson (Mark’s boss’s boss and the lead diplomat for the New Texas delegation) startled Mark as he ate his breakfast of reconstituted egg material alone in the Diplomatic Food Structure and Rec Room, by appearing suddenly in the seat next to him. The Ambassador was surprisingly stealthy for how large of a frame he wielded. The small, utilitarian room, somewhat full of various low level trade representatives from the neighboring states, fell silent while Mark choked on his mouthful as the Ambassador clapped him heartily on the back and let loose his signature guffaw.

“Son, I’ve got an incredible gift for you, I tell you hwat! There comes a time in every man’s life when he is presented with a chance to do his duty and he must rise, with repose, to the circumstances in which he finds himself. Today is that day for you and I couldn’t be prouder. Do you understand what I am telling you, nah?”

The ambassador beamed, all teeth, under his oversized, silverbelly stetson.

Mark, stunned into silence at this unexpected spectacle, could only nod, confused and with his throat still full of egg material.

“That’s a good man right chyea. My aide Eddie will get you everything you need. You’ll debrief me back in Austin next week. Godspeed, son. You’re doing the Republic a grand service.”

And with a wink and squeeze of Mark’s shoulder, Ambassador Hutchinson sauntered out of the mess.

The ordinary din resumed as the boisterous source of tension left the room, albeit with a few nosy glances sent his way. Mark sat quietly for a few minutes, bewildered by what had just transpired, when his datapad buzzed. Eyes wide, he tapped through some unread messages (new quarterly hemispheric export estimates, an alert about quasi-religious terrorism out in California, a packing list for the delegation, and so on), until he reached a brief email from Eddie the Aide explaining that Mark was to represent the Republic of New Texas for the remaining diplomatic sessions… while the rest of the delegation returned promptly to Austin to attend the annual Republic of New Texas Declaration of Rebellion Celebratory Barbecue and Rodeo.

Mark had been to the three previous Reratification Accords and did generally understand the process of the whole dog and pony show, but really only as a passive observer. Hell, he’d spent the entirety of yesterday’s diplomatic session on ‘special assignment’ from the Logistics Policy Officer combing the Outer Defense Ring Diplomatic Complex to find a specific brand of creamer the Ambassador wanted served with his coffee substitute.

Now he was to answer any and all questions related to the Republic of New Texas and her stance on the current Reratification?

Was he supposed to ask questions on behalf of New Texas too?

He started to inventory what he had remembered from his studies in preparation for his first Accords last year. Mark hadn’t actually cracked his binder since he accepted the fact that all he was going to get to do was bullshit tasks for the delegation at large, but he had a good head for history.

Mark knew that the Lebanon Space Elevator and Remembrance Zone, nicknamed the “American Skyway”, was a transportation megastructure and neutral territory unhappily shared between each of the four post-American Successor States. Built well before the Big Split (and over a century before Mark was born), the Skyway served a far more important purpose than these typically sleepy diplomatic proceedings might suggest.

New Texan policy reports estimated the Skyway, which was the primary mass-lift for all spacebound products in the western hemisphere, currently handled at least 25% of each Successor State’s total exports. Mark had run the numbers before for New Texas, whose economy was driven by weapon exports and passthrough tariffs on South American cargo headed to space, and estimated that the Skyway directly supported about 60% of their GDP. He’d also heard whispers that for the United States (which, after D.C.’s glassing, was now essentially just New England and some parts of former Canada) and its luxury handicrafts, total exports through the Skyway accounted for almost 90% of their admittedly small GDP.

Mark closed his eyes to better remember the facts from an antique video essay he’d found in the stacks at his old law library. During the early 21st century global manufacturing boom, the American technocapitalists belatedly realized they’d fallen catastrophically behind every other superpower in high-tech production capacity. After almost a century of letting their domestic factories wither in favor of an import-driven economy, a landmark technical report projected it would take at least another half-century of concentrated investment just to reach parity with their adversaries, who were growing more proficient by the day.

The technocrats did the math: an emerging class of new space and energy technologies was accelerating projects in extra-atmospheric commerce, every major nation was releasing plans to establish a strategic space colony, and the main obstacle to offworld growth was clearly the supply chain.

So American capital allocators made the only move they still knew how to make. They raced to own the distribution layer. Advances in materials science finally made a full-scale space elevator mathematically possible, though almost certainly a financial disaster. As public-private partnerships formed, deteriorating interstate domestic politics meant the only way to push the project through Congress was to plant the thing dead-center of the country.

And, of course, anchoring it in Kansas meant the additional engineering insanity of bolting a perpetually firing nuclear-thruster counterweight to the top end of the tether just to fight a planet’s worth of shearing forces forever trying to yank it back down toward the equator.

Naturally, the US government, with classic American hubris, took the bet that they could brute-force the physics and subsidized the entire thing.

A student of international history, Mark knew that two other elevators eventually followed; one in China and one in western Russia. The Russian space elevator effectively bankrupted the country, forcing it to merge with what remained of the European Union. China’s transition to a regional garrison state left huge gaps in the public historical record with regard to how they fared. He did know, however, that the Chinese space fleet still maintained a healthy standoff zone around its land, airspace, and geosynchronous orbits, which include the Philippine ground tether.

Mark was pretty sure, however, that none of that happened before five uninterrupted decades of American space export dominance.

As it turns out, the various governments of the world, along with their corresponding space colonies, were extremely lucrative customers. Pretty soon, space commerce became the only commerce that really mattered. It’s no exaggeration to say that every major starship construction, space colony expedition, and interstellar mining operation that happened before Big Split moved the bulk of its supplies through the Lebanon Space Elevator.

Even today, everybody knew that the Skyway operated at maximum utilization. That’s why the Joint Defense Treaty existed in the first place. As a kid, Mark had heard the story about when the Skyway had paused operations for almost a month just after the Big Split. Apparently, the rebel leaders of every Successor State had each realized independently that, without the Skyway, their grand vision of tomorrow would be sunk before it could even start. And since it was so important, there were always conflicts over how to share it.

Conflicts that Mark was now supposed to handle.

He flicked his eyes back up at Mr. Secretary and fought the overwhelming urge to gag.

The revisions at the heart of the extended sessions had been updated and sent out the night before for review by the various delegations.

Except Mark McCarthy, Trade Attaché Junior Grade, was not quite distinguished enough to find himself on the secure diplomatic cable distro list that shared messages such as these.

Nor was Mark even made aware of their existence until the secretary formally entered today’s session Items into the record a few hours ago. Ambassador Hutchinson had forgotten to mention it at breakfast, perhaps too enthralled by the promise of ribs and celebratory gunfire waiting for him back in the Hill Country. In fact, Eddie had only sent Mark the file about 30 minutes ago (presumably when he noticed 21 unread messages from Mark McCarthy) which is, of course, when Mark started to review it.

Under the spotlight in the Session Chamber, it dawned on Mark that this morning was the first time Ambassador Hutchinson had ever spoken directly to him.

“I, uh… we… ah.”

Mark kicked himself internally and continued.

“The New Texas delegation has no comments at this time.”

Mark could feel himself hunching his bony shoulders. He hated this nervous tic. It was the result of a long and frustrating youth housed in a long and frustrating skeleton. Mark dropped his gangly body back into the chair.

He knew nobody in the room noticed his fumbling nor did they really care about the deliberations, but he was angry at himself all the same.

The four Successor States had ratified and reratified basically the same goddamn treaty in the same goddamn way in the same goddamn room every quarter for 53 years. His fellow New Texans would bluster about defense spending, the Rationalist Californianicans would quibble about legal minutiae, the American delegation from Boston would try not to be noticed so they could keep their slightly unfair utilization schedule, and the local reps from Federated States of the American Empire would posture so they could keep on raising their fees.

Despite the so-called Union’s vicious balkanization, Mark knew every Successor State more or less still needed the Skyway to keep their economies afloat so nothing ever really changed.

It was just another sunny Reratification Day in Lebanon, Kansas.

But Mark hated feeling incompetent all the same. He hadn’t spent five years in the New Texas Rangers after college just to look like an idiot in front of these careerists. Sure, it was mostly legal-adjutant tours, but that was beside the point.

Satisfied with Mark’s response, the secretary looked back down at his datapad.

“Will the delegate from Rationalist California stand and be recognized?”

Mark glanced over at their section of the semicircle.

A tan, handsome man with longish dirty blonde hair stood and offered a brief nod to the secretary. Mark did not recognize the delegate, which was odd. Mark furrowed his brow slightly.

“Mr. Secretary, we would like to once again submit into the record that our official nomenclature has changed to ‘Rationalist Californianica’ as per the result of last year’s Periodic Semantic Conclave.”

The man stared directly at the secretary, his face friendly and firm, yet he stood very still.

Quiet chuckles tumbled onto the floor from the other state sections, but the secretary wilted under the speaker’s gaze and replied

“Ah yes. My apologies again. Will the delegate from Rationalist Californianica stand and be recognized?”

The secretary pronounced every additional syllable.

“Of course! Thank you, Mr. Secretary. We support the revisions as written. No further comments at this time.”

“Wonderful.” The secretary, reflating after the intensity of the previous interaction, quickly angled toward the next group of delegates. “Will the representative from the United States stand and be recognized?”

An unobtrusive figure, his jacket inexplicably wet , stood and curtly shared “No comments.”

Finally, the secretary turned and made eye contact with the delegation from the Federated States of the American Empire. He was interrupted before he could get out his formal recognition.

“YUP! Subsection 7-B is in clear violation of...”

Unlike the rest of the room, the FSAE did have comments. Quite a few apparently. Mark only half paid attention as the clearly cornfed man tore into the offending verbiage.

Mark was too busy glancing back and forth between the revisions on his datapad and the Californianican delegate to notice the room politely tolerating the FSAE show of force. He had prepped the lookbooks for his own delegation ahead of the accords. He should recognize this man. He frowned squintily.

Mark’s ears perked up at the mention of Californianica.

“… it’s unclear to the Federated States why we should bear the costs of a Californianican disruption to the defense handover schedule. We have already mobilized and funded this quarter’s security force and are more than prepared to do our duty to preserve the economic peace!”

The folksy delegate from the Federated States was doing his absolute best to sound righteously affronted. It was a good performance even though everyone in the room could spot the oncoming ask for financial remuneration from miles away.

Another tan, handsome delegate arose, this time a woman, and rolled her shoulders back slightly. Mark did not recognize her either. She waited for a nod from the secretary and then began.

“Naturally, we appreciate that the great Federated States can handle the current schedule of responsibility and has done so capably for many years. We also understand the great cost involved in organizing such an effective force. We just, regretfully, are midstream with some administrative consolidation within our regional governance reorganization and a schedule shift will alleviate key, arrhythmic fiscal burdens. This will streamline our upcoming budget planning cycle in a way I know you understand. We, of course, are happy to reimburse the FSAE for the effort at cost plus inconvenience fees.”

She sounded apologetic but firm, smiling directly at the delegation from the Federated States.

Now that he was looking intently, Mark realized he didn’t see any of the Californianican VIPs he’d spent hours organizing background information on for his team. Thinking back, the New Texas diplomats had sent Mark running all over the Outer Defense Ring on minor errands all last week so he hadn’t even noticed the discrepancy. Very odd.

Mark also realized with some consternation that this meant nobody from New Texas had bothered to glance at his lookbooks before they absconded.

Rationalist Californianica had somehow sent a completely different crew of diplomats from those notated in the pre-reratification census collected just four weeks ago. Mark racked his brain for anything he knew about RC electoral procedure which might explain this, but wasn’t as familiar with their processes as he would have liked to be in this moment.

Something about Special Diplomatic Quorums, maybe? Mark thought.

He knew it was a stupid name, but wasn’t sure about the specifics. He turned his attention back to the ongoing debate and the revisions on the datapad in front of him.

The two delegations went back and forth and back and forth for about another hour as the FSAE continued to haggle over each one of the multitudinous revisions submitted by Rationalist Californianica. Every single modification to baseline troop deployment, material makeups, armament minimums, force sequencing, handover procedure, and more, predictably turned into another chance to extract a quartering fee or an environmental revitalization tax or similar. Despite this badgering, Rationalist Californianica was suitably gracious in its commitment to financing the “common good”.

Mark didn’t glean anything else useful by observing the unknown diplomats for the remainder of the session. He did, however, finally notice Junior Trade Liaison Officer Andrew Melkson staring blankly into space from the back row of the Rationalist Californianican delegation. Mark hadn’t seen him this quarter, but they spent most of last quarter’s Accords commiserating over the criminal waste of their time and talents in the diplomatic breakout rooms in between menial taskings while adjutanting for their respective delegations. Melkson had a very specific, quiet dejection on his face. Mark knew that look well as he had worn it many times himself.

That was the look of an aide who thought his boss had once again said something stupid.

Smirking in solidarity, Mark resolved to grab Melkson after the session and get to the bottom of whatever was happening over on the West Coast. He settled into a comfortable faux attentiveness while the debate dragged onwards. He hoped against hope that things would wrap up soon, but the extraction ritual extended far enough into the evening that the secretary was forced to recess the proceedings until the next morning. Mark was pissed.

With the bang of a gavel, the procedural spell was broken and the room full of diplomats got up to leave. The Californianicans stood up in what appeared to be a practiced not-quite-unison and stepped with a quickness out of the chamber. Melkson looked after them, clearly annoyed, and started to clean up their quarter of the room.

There wasn’t much to clean so Mark hurried over to meet him while he was isolated. Fortunately, Melkson wasn’t in a hurry to catch up with his group. Mark caught him right as he exited the room and initiated the conversation.

“Melkson! Good to see you again.”

“Hi, Mark. Did your delegation leave you high and dry?” Up close, Andrew looked tired.

“Yea… there’s a barbeque back in New Texas.” Mark exaggerated his eye roll for Andrew’s benefit. Andrew happily latched on to the opportunity to drag on someone’s boss.

“What a bunch of assholes. I assume they didn’t leave you any notes for continuity either?”

“Nope. Hence my bumblefucking around in front of the chamber today.” Mark forced a laugh.

Andrew sighed. “It wasn’t that bad. You didn’t embarrass yourself nearly as much as my new cadre of overlords did.”

Mark began to form a predatory smile, but caught himself. “Ahhh. I was wondering what was happening out in Cali with all this new blood.”

But Mark didn’t need to be careful. Andrew was clearly waiting for the chance to vent.

“Dude, these guys are the worst. Some admin redistricting triggered a Special Electoral Agora last month and this new party absolutely swept the polls. Real calm, freakazoid types. They shook up all of our diplomatic missions at the last second. Fired everybody. Except me I guess. Probably realized they had no idea what they were doing after it was too late. This whole budget angle doesn’t even make sense, man. We’ve got months before we need to worry about next fiscal year. They have no idea how to staff this defense mission either. We’re way over-quota on manpower. I guess the bombings in LA last quarter spooked them and they don’t want to take any chances, but it’s a huge waste of state resources, to be honest. We’ve got enough munitions for the next ten defense missions. I guess we’ll just ship it all back home when we’re done? I don’t know, dude.”

Andrew finally took a breath.

Mark offered a sympathetic head shake. “Jeez. I hope they’re treating you alright at least?”

“Yea, sure. They’re really… polite. Formal? Do you know what I mean?” Andrew sighed.

“I think I caught that from their talking points today,” Mark agreed.

Andrew checked his watch and breathed in sharply. “Shit, I gotta go. They want me to catalogue every point agreed to today. Good to see you and I hope your trip back is uneventful, man. Catch you later.”

Andrew speed-walked down the corridor and out into the Midwestern twilight, leaving Mark alone once again.

Back in the Diplomatic Food Structure and Rec Room, Mark ate what the menu optimistically described as a ‘BBQ Sandwich,’ remaining suitably unconvinced. After finishing, he noticed some pitying glances in his direction from the other junior diplomats who had seen his performance that day. Before the warmth could creep back into his cheeks, he quietly stomped out the door.

As he let his feet carry him forward, the fresh evening air helped cool his skin and his newly resurfaced frustration.

OK, he thought. How do I kill the rest of the night?

Mark knew from his last few Accords that recreational chemicals of any kind were banned for fifty miles around the Skyway Exclusion Zone, so that wasn’t an option. Nor could he stand the idea of going back to the pity stares of the Rec Room. Plus, all the true R&R buildings were at the Inner Defense Ring Complex where the quarterly rotational staff bunked.

Mark started to head back to the empty delegation quarters when he remembered his creamer adventure from earlier. He’d found the special coffee substitute ration station in a tucked away break space near the roof access of an ancillary building.

Quiet with a view. That would do.

Up on the rooftop, Mark took in the landscape around the Outer Defense Ring Complex and sipped the cup of brown liquid in his hand.

Damn. Mark thought. Crawdad was right. That creamer makes this crud somewhat drinkable.

He watched the impossible elevator flicker in the dark. At the very edge of his vision he could see the cold glow of the nuclear counterweight thrusters that made a space elevator in Lebanon, Kansas even possible. On this tranquil rooftop, he became aware once again of the omnipresent hum that almost vibrated the air he was breathing. It had faded into his background after a week of being here. The mag-rail acceleration shot non-human cargo up into the sky with terrifying speed. Lights flashed in predictable sequence.

Up. Down. Up. Down. The gears of commerce grind ever forward.

He might’ve imagined it, but he thought he saw the vibrations in the surface tension of this inarguably decent ration of coffee substitute.

Looking back at the complex below, Mark watched the Californianican military detachment hang around their vehicles in the casually violent way that soldiers seem to project. Melkson was right. There were a lot of trucks. Mark did not envy the poor budget analysts who had to tally up this Quarter’s Joint Defense Spending. The fuel costs alone would be a nightmare to tabulate.

Mark sighed as he stared out over the scene for a good while longer before heading back to his quarters.

On a whim, Mark wandered by the trucks he’d seen from his rooftop perch. The smell of diesel brought him right back to the Rangers’ Motor Pool. He smiled and wondered what his old driver was up to these days. He was probably a Staff Sergeant by now.

Mark almost walked up to a group of soldiers to shoot the shit, but decided not to. He did, however, let his eyes wander nostalgically over the war equipment for a moment. He turned to go on his merry way when a gently flapping tarp caught his eye. A soldier quickly pulled the tarp taut again, but Mark clocked that the box was clearly labelled with the international sign for ‘High Explosive’. Curious, Mark did a casual lap around the detachment and spotted more than a few additional boxes with the same label in the back of different trucks.

Mark frowned. He was no logistician, but he understood that the random sample of explosives he had observed implied a large pile of boom. If placed strategically, there were probably enough explosives in there to blast a Chesapeake Class Orbital Frigate in half. These Californianicans really weren’t messing around.

But how would they even incorporate these into the Joint Defense Plan?

Still chewing on this nugget, Mark took another long look at the soldiers, who were now actively pretending not to notice him, and finally ambled back to his room to review the rest of the revisions before the morning session. After a few hours of reading, he decided that the Californianican amendments were technically airtight, but he didn’t love how much additional latitude they gave the Commander of the Rotational Defense Force in regards to unilateral decision-making on force deployment and munitions storage. When viewed altogether, he thought passing these revisions was against the best interests of the Republic of New Texas. Too much could go wrong if there was ever a thoughtless Commander at the helm, even for just one quarter.

Against his better judgment, he emailed the Ambassador his analysis and went to shut off his datapad.

But it buzzed before he could do so.

Confused, he checked his unread messages. One unread from the Ambassador. Mark hesitantly tapped open the reply.

“Yippee Ki Yay, we sure are shootin’ guns out here today!”

“My Fellow New Texans, my office is closed for the duration of our great Republic’s Declaration of Rebellion Celebratory Barbecue and Rodeo. I’ll be out and about in Austin sampling all the finest delectables our shining city has to offer until next week. See if you can spot me in the parade on Saturday!”

“For any urgent business, reach out to Max McCarthy. He’ll get you settled.”

The autoreply had Mark’s department contact information in the signature block.

I guess that settles that then.

Mark shook his head in disbelief, chuckled to himself, and turned out the light.

The next morning, the session kicked off with a quiet intensity. The delegation from the Federated States had plenty more exceptions to raise, but the Californianicans were seemingly ready to agree on just about every extra fee and tax hike the FSAE wanted. Without any pushback, there appeared no end to the increasingly minute complaints that could ostensibly trigger a charge.

During a lull in the nickel and diming, Mark raised a point of order about the expansion of Command Authority proposed in the amendment revisions. As expected, that got the Californianicans’ undivided attention. Mark had never been on the receiving end of such a poisonous glare. Undeterred, Mark managed to respectably convey the potential unintended effects of such an increase in scope of security element powers.

It may have been the proudest moment of his short diplomatic career.

The point was debated briefly and dismissed almost immediately. The Californianicans invoked the growing threat of stochastic terrorism back in their home region, revealed they had intelligence reports suggesting the existence of sleeper terror cells across the other Successor States, and offered to pay an additional hefty vehicle fee to boot. Practically salivating as they mentally counted the fleet of trucks outside, the FSAE yielded the rest of their time before Californianica could change their mind about the vehicle fee. The secretary sped through the remaining items, much to the relief of the room, and the amendments all passed largely unchanged.

The Californianicans smiled and left the chamber with a sense of purpose.

Mark walked out behind them and stretched his stiff back. Blinking against the late, hot morning, he watched the Californianican diplomats gather near the military detachment that was getting ready to roll to the Inner Defense Ring. Dozens of engines roared to life simultaneously at a signal from the tan delegates. Mark soon heard the familiar cadence of mission prep checklists being followed. Spotting his fellow junior diplomat standing idly a few feet away from his bosses, Mark shot Melkson a sympathetic look and then spent the rest of the day completing a list of administrative chores from Eddie the Aide.

Much later, under the sticky glow of the setting sun, Mark turned over the engine of his own diplomatic truck and eased it out onto the highway back south toward the Republic of New Texas. Another Reratification Accords in the books. Getting the vehicle up to speed, he glanced in his rearview mirror.

The American Skyway shone bright in the distance, still reaching impossibly upward.

Then a flash of light blinded him for a few seconds. He pulled the truck over as best he could to wait until his vision cleared. When he could see again, Mark got out, stood on the side of the road, and craned his neck.

His stomach fell as he processed the small, sickly blue blossom slowly spreading across the upper atmosphere where the megastructure faded into space.

Mark sighed and turned to drop the tailgate of his truck.

He climbed up to lay down in the bed, using his luggage as a pillow, and settled in to watch the show.