by Homer Hickam
::: FOURTEEN
Except for having to endure her exile from Britain’s throne, Q-Bess was content. Her contentment was derived from her certainty that her son Petro, the Prince of Wales, was alive. The source of her certainty rested with an empty paper envelope, the kind used in olden times to hold letters. This particular antique had been carried by a heel-3 convoy trucker across a thousand miles of dusty wayback and handed to Q-Bess with the explanation that a stranger had paid him a hundred johncredits to deliver it.
Q-Bess had carefully studied the envelope on the outside and found no markings of any kind. But when she tore it open and turned it inside out, she found a small dot of ink in a corner. Under a microscope, she’d discovered the coat of arms of the royal family. So Petro was out there somewhere, doing who knew what. It almost didn’t matter. The prince was a man of destiny. In fact, both her sons, Petro by blood and Crater by adoption, were men with glorious futures. She was certain of it.
Q-Bess prayed a silent prayer for Petro, then worked her way toward further contentment by savoring the fact Crater was also still alive, the survivor of many battles. Of course, his heart had been broken by the Colonel’s granddaughter but no matter. He was young and there were lots of moon dust girls in the craters. He had also recently taken a job he loved as the Colonel’s jumpcar pilot. It was amazing to see how Crater had thrown off the darkness that seemed to cover him after three years of combat. He was a new person, cheerful and optimistic.
Q-Bess was also pleased with the little crowhopper Crescent, whom she now considered her daughter. Every day Crescent was proving herself with her diligence and her willingness to learn. Q-Bess was beginning to think being raised as a genetic mutant super-warrior wasn’t such a bad thing for a child if the militant spirit bred into her was channeled into productivity. Nobody could tuck a hospital corner on a sheet tighter than Crescent, and she scrubbed the lunasteel pots and pans with coarse moonsoap until they glittered like polished silver.
Thinking of Crescent’s torture of the pans reminded Q-Bess she needed to get her staff to make more moonsoap. Two workers could turn out a thousand bars in a day but orders were still piling up. The soap was much coveted on Earth since nothing had the scouring power like moon dust mixed with glycerin, water, lye, and faux coconut oil. It was called Colonel Medaris’s Mighty Moonsoap, and even with the occasional blockade mounted by the UCW, Q-Bess sold tens of thousands of bars every year at twenty johncredits apiece, often carried through by blockade runners.
Savoring her contentment, Q-Bess sat at the table reserved for her in the Dust Palace cafeteria and watched the day shift devouring her food. But then her contentment evaporated when she noticed at a table in the back one of the sheriff’s deputies, a new man down from Earth. Tattoos of a military nature crawled up his thick arms and he sported a walrus-moustache that did little to hide the scars on his face. Q-Bess noticed the deputy’s small, black eyes never left Crescent as she worked at the food line. When she left the line, Q-Bess saw the deputy rise, casually stroll through the cafeteria, then climb through the kitchen hatch.
Q-Bess threaded her way through the tables and went into the kitchen where her staff was busily preparing meals for the next shift. Kurto, the chief cook, was looking anxious. “What’s wrong with you?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said, then added, “That deputy, what name does he use?”
“Jones,” she said and looked around. “Where’s Crescent?”
Grace, the sous-chef, glanced up from her chopping board. “Sent her to the biovats to pick up some protein.”
“Which one?”
“Chicken’s what I need so I’m guessing she went to biovat 12. It’s been the most productive lately.”
Q-Bess searched the kitchen and the pantries. When she didn’t find Deputy Jones, she headed to the biovats. Biovat 12 was in a deep tube, one of the first installed in Moontown. It required going through several hatches and down four flights of mooncrete steps. That far down was warm, moist, and stank of generations of protein soups. The overhead lamps only partially lifted the gloom of the tubeways between the biovat tubes as Q-Bess made her way from chamber to chamber.
Turning a corner in the tubeway, she nearly bumped into the deputy who was standing there, his hands on his hips. He turned and tipped his cap. “Hello, lady.”
“What are you doing down here?”
From below came Crescent carrying a capped bucket of chicken protein. She looked up, then lowered her eyes and scurried past Q-Bess and the deputy, her steps echoing as she climbed. The deputy’s eyes followed her. “Deputy,” Q-Bess said, “I asked you why you’re down here.”
The deputy smiled, though there was no warmth to it. “Sheriff say keep eye on that creature.”
“Crescent is not a creature, Deputy. She’s a member of the Dust Palace’s staff. Please leave and tell the sheriff if I need somebody to watch over me and my people, I’ll be certain to let him know. You would, of course, be my last choice.”
The deputy seemed to go through a calculation, then said, “I will tell Sheriff what you say.” He put his hand on Q-Bess’s waist and she sucked in a breath. “You nice lady for old lady.”
“If you enjoy having that hand, Deputy, you will take it off my person immediately.”
The deputy withdrew his hand and placed it on the butt of his holstered pistol. “Too bad. Maybe I be your last chance for kissy-kissy.”
“Get out!”
The deputy grinned, then shrugged and climbed up the steps. Q-Bess waited until his footsteps receded, then leaned against the wall and put her hand over her heart, which was pounding in her ears. After she’d regained control, she made her way to the kitchen where she found Crescent at the sink, washing carrots. “Crescent,” she said, “did that deputy say or do anything to you?”
Crescent began washing the carrots with furious intensity. Q-Bess reached out and touched Crescent’s arm. Crescent pulled her arm away, grabbed a knife from the sideboard, threw Q-Bess to the floor, and put the knife to her throat. The kitchen, normally all rattling pots and pans, went deathly silent.
“Crescent,” Q-Bess said. “Put the knife down.”
Crescent, as if coming out of a trance, dropped the knife and turned away, then fell to her knees and scrabbled to a corner where she huddled, her hands to her face. Kurto helped Q-Bess up. “I’m all right,” she said and walked to Crescent and knelt beside her.
“I am a monster,” Crescent said. “Everyone says so. They think I don’t hear but I do. My ears are very sensitive.”
“What does Deputy Jones say?”
“He says evil things.”
“What kind of evil things?”
“He says I’m pretty but I am not pretty. My kind are not bred to be handsome in any way. We are bred to kill. That is why I almost killed you just now. I wanted to. I’m not sure why I didn’t. I have had many strange feelings since I’ve been with humans.”
“That’s because you’re human too. Your Trainers, they taught you things that weren’t true about who you really are. You’re starting to figure that out.”
“Deputy Jones said he wanted to make me happy. He said he wanted to touch me.”
“Did you let him?”
“No. I heard you coming so I ran.”
Q-Bess exhaled and realized she’d been holding her breath. “I’ll have a chat with the sheriff. Deputy Jones won’t bother you again.”
Q-Bess rose and walked over to the cutlery table, selected a knife, its edge gleaming in the harsh kitchen lights, and handed it to Crescent. “You can go back to work now, Crescent.”
The little crowhopper looked at the knife, then took it, got up and went back to the sink to cut up the carrots. All the cooks and kitchen staff seemed frozen in various positions of food preparation. Q-Bess waved a regal hand. “Get to work, people!”
The volume of kitchen noise jumped exponentially and Q-Bess headed for the sheriff’s office. She didn’t make it there, mainly because she foun
d him in the cafeteria. He was at the coffee station, drawing a cup of Q-Bess’s special blend which she called Moon Dust Special #17. One cup of MS17 and a heel-3 miner was set for the day and probably the night too. “Sheriff, I was just coming to see you.”
“Thought I’d save you the trouble, not to mention getting a cup of this grand coffee. When I send a deputy to his duty, ma’am, to his duty he must go. Only the Colonel can countermand my orders.”
Q-Bess raised a regal eyebrow. “Deputy Jones is entirely too interested in Crescent.”
“That ugly creature? You are imagining things.”
Q-Bess crossed her arms and tapped her toe on the mooncrete floor. “What sent you to prison on Earth, Sheriff? I’ve always wondered.”
“Murder,” the sheriff answered with no sign of discomfort or embarrassment.
“Who did you murder?”
“A wife who deserved it. It was her or me, whoever could get to the gun the quickest. Now that I’ve answered your question, ma’am, let me ask you one. You really the Queen of England? Or is that your scam?”
“Both,” Q-Bess answered, also with no sign of discomfort or embarrassment. “I am indeed the wife of the last and late king. My fellow countrymen sent me and the Prince of Wales here to await a summons back to the throne.”
“Ah, yes—Petro. The princely prince, not to mention the best cheat at cards I’ve ever observed. I’ve missed him around here. He always had a joke to tell or some scam I needed to break up. Have you heard from him lately?”
The way the sheriff asked so casually about Petro told Q-Bess he already knew the answer. “How did you intercept that envelope?” she asked.
The sheriff winked and lowered his voice. “I didn’t. The Colonel told me about it. He sent that envelope. It was an act of kindness. He knew you were worried about the boy.”
“Petro’s working for the Colonel? What’s he doing? Is he in danger?”
“A special assignment. As for danger, we who work for the Colonel are always in danger. You know that.”
Q-Bess pondered the sheriff. “If the Colonel went to the trouble of sending me that envelope in such a secretive manner, why are you telling me this now?”
The sheriff finished his coffee and set the cup down. “Never get in the way of my deputies again, ma’am.”
“Then tell Jones to leave Crescent alone.”
“The Colonel is concerned about that creature,” the sheriff said. “It bothers him that she’s here. He told me he loses sleep, worrying she might hurt one of his employees. I suppose that means you.”
“Tell the Colonel he needn’t be concerned. Crescent is a good girl.”
“Was she being good when she tossed Amos against the wall? Was she being good when she had that knife to your throat?” The sheriff tipped his hat and strolled toward the exit hatch where he stopped and looked over his shoulder. “You’d best figure out whose side you’re on, your royalness. The Colonel will make his decision on that creature. When he does, your job will be to get out of the way. Remember, he holds in his hands the life of someone close to you.”
Q-Bess’s hand went over her heart. “You threaten me with the life of my son?”
“Not me, ma’am. I’m just a lowly sheriff doing my job.”
::: FIFTEEN
Crater truly loved being the Colonel’s jumpcar pilot. He flew the Colonel and company officials across the moon and also saw to the maintenance, repair, refurbishment, and general health of the suborbital vehicle. Based on an original design by Tim Pickens, the famous rocket builder of the early twenty-first century, jumpcars were rocket ships with old-fashioned chemical engines that burned hydrogen and oxygen, byproducts of Helium-3 production. They came in various sizes for both private and commercial use, and were designed to carry passengers and small cargos. Although some were manufactured on Earth and exported to the moon, most jumpcars were built in Armstrong City, fabricated by the Medaris Jumpcar Company. They were sleek and had fins, although there was no requirement for aerodynamics in the near-vacuum of the moon. The design was for looks, to entice the interested buyer into purchasing something that looked fast and fun. Their exterior was whatever color the buyer wanted, the most popular being silver, gold, black, and copper. They were simply fabulous vehicles, and Crater was never happier than when he was in the pilot’s seat, blowing the scrag out of the jumpcar’s pipes.
The laboratory in the jumpcar hangar was also a source of enormous satisfaction. Crater mostly worked on his moon dust water extraction system, which didn’t always work, and he wasn’t certain why. Until he understood why, he wasn’t going to let anyone go off into the dust and die because of an imperfect machine. The invention used a neutron emitter to find patches of water, then a microwave transmitter to excite the dispersed water molecules and turn them into clusters. The resulting vapor pressure caused them to rise and collect into pools below the regolith. After that, a pipe could be inserted into the pools and the water extracted without exposing it to the big suck. Crater was aware of the enormous implications of such a device. For one thing, the moon could hold a much larger population. He built a lunasteel safe with a special lock to keep his plans and equipment from prying eyes. Occasionally he’d put his equipment in his fastbug, one that he’d rebuilt for speed, and roar out to a desolate area to try his latest design. But no matter how he tweaked it, the extraction system sometimes worked and sometimes failed.
One of the three jumpcar techies who reported to Crater came over, wiping her hands on a rag, and said, “Good morning, sir. We’ve greased the gimbals and adjusted the servos. What do you want us to do next?”
It bothered Crater that the techie, who called herself Retro Roxy, had to ask him what to do. He always figured people at work should figure things out for themselves. Crater asked, “Have you checked the panels in the cockpit?”
“They’re not due a maintenance check for another one hundred hours,” Roxy replied.
“Maintenance intervals are suggestions, not absolutes.”
“You think I should check them out?”
“If you have nothing better to do.”
After Roxy went off to do the obvious, Crater looked out at the scrapes. The great shadow of two weeks duration had descended on Moontown and down the valley he could see the flashing helmet beams of the miners as they went about their business. A constellation of lights pinpointed the construction of a new solar tower. A flare off the cluster of sun towers to the north of town temporarily boiled away the darkness, then vanished. Twin headlights moved through the gloom, fastbugs laden with full heel-3 canisters departing from the furnaces, their destination the depot where the big convoy trucks waited.
Out of the corner of Crater’s eye he saw Riley Bishop walking his way. She was a techie who never needed to be told what to do. “Pilot Trueblood, sir,” she said in her distinct Irish brogue, “I’ve done the maintenance required and every block on the sheet has been checked. If ye have nothing else planned, I’ll touch up the dings on the landing fins.”
“A good idea, Techman Bishop,” Crater said.
She blinked her big blues and said, “Forgive me, sir, but I heard ye once sung at the Earthrise and ye had a big hit called ‘Moon Dust Girls.’ I’ll be there tonight, meaning the Earthrise. Would ye come, then, and sing your song?”
Crater had nearly forgotten his band. Two of the musicians had been killed in the war and his brother, Petro . . . well, who knew where he was? “I don’t think so,” he said. “That was another time.”
“Oh, please, sir. It would mean so much to hear ye. I’m the lead singer of the Moontown Mollys and we’re playing tonight. We could back ye up.”
“Well . . .”
“Great! Around nine, then? Thank ye, sir. It’ll be a great honor. I’ll just take meself back to work now if that meets your approval.”
“Yes, of course. Go ahead.”
Riley walked toward the jumpcar while Crater pretended not to watch. She was a pretty girl, a hard worker, and
very smart, which, of course, meant she was troublesome in Crater’s mind.
That night Crater went to the Earthrise as promised and sang his old hit with the Moontown Mollys backing him up.
All I want is a moon dust girl,
Down in a crater waitin’ for love.
All I want is a moon dust girl,
Kissin’ me ’neath the world above.
All I need is a moon dust girl,
Makes workin’ in the dust almost fun.
All I need is a moon dust girl,
Scrapes Heel-3 up by the megaton.
Now I have a moon dust girl,
Puts her helmet next to mine.
Now I have a moon dust girl,
She’s one-sixth gravity fine.
The room went insane with applause and then Riley told him to sit down because she had a surprise. The Moontown Mollys proceeded to sing their new song, “Moon Dust Boy.”
All I want is a moon dust boy,
Arms so strong, holds me so tight.
All I want is a moon dust boy,
His lips on mine, ever’thing’s right.
All I need is a moon dust boy,
Plays shovelball like a champ,
All I need is a moon dust boy,
He’s my hero, I’m his scamp.
Now I have a moon dust boy,
Our helmets side by each.
All I need is a moon dust boy,
Crater’s got lessons he can teach!
On the last line, all the girls pointed at Crater and the audience of heel-3 miners erupted with cries for Crater to get back up there and kiss those pretty girls. Crater, blushing furiously, climbed up on stage. He kissed them one by one on the cheek, but when he started to peck Riley there, she turned her head and presented her lips. Crater didn’t hesitate, Riley smiled coyly, and then the Moontown Mollys sang again. Crater sat down, dizzy with Riley’s perfume and the memory of her soft lips on his.