Space Case

by Stuart Gibbs

  “Why not?”

  “Because it could make people question the entire manned space program,” Dad explained. “What if Dr. Holtz’s illness was caused—or hastened—by his living here? What does that say for the future of human habitation on the moon? Or any long-term space travel?”

  “So NASA isn’t going to look into any of that?” I asked, concerned. “It seems kind of important, seeing as we’re living on the moon.”

  Mom gave Dad a pointed stare, not pleased with him for bringing this issue up. Then she spoke in her most comforting voice. “Your father was only posing a question for the sake of argument. If Dr. Holtz had mental problems, they weren’t caused by living up here. These types of health issues are usually genetic—or related to aging. And Dr. Holtz was a lot older than everyone else here.”

  “Even older than Mr. Grisan?” Violet asked from her sleep pod.

  We all turned to her, surprised she was awake again. She seemed to be still partly asleep, cocooned in her blankets, her eyelids drooping.

  “How long have you been listening?” Dad asked.

  “I don’t know.” Violet yawned. “Mr. Grisan seems way older than Dr. Holtz. Like a hundred years older.”

  Mom knelt by Violet’s pod and stroked her hair to soothe her back to sleep. “He’s not.”

  “He’s still not that young,” I said thoughtfully. “Is anyone worried about his mental health? He acts a lot stranger than Dr. Holtz ever did. He barely ever talks to anyone.”

  “Mr. Grisan’s just quiet,” Mom told me. “And perhaps a bit self-conscious. He’s the only blue-collar worker in a base filled with scientists. That can’t be easy.”

  “I want to be a ballerina,” Violet sighed, and then her eyes slid shut. Mom tickled her nose and got no response.

  “She’s asleep again,” Mom said, keeping her voice lower now.

  I asked, “If Dr. Holtz might have gone through the air lock because he was crazy, is NASA going to investigate that?”

  “Oh, there’s definitely going to be a major inquiry into this,” Dad replied. “There’s been a death, after all.”

  “So is NASA going to send investigators up here?”

  “No,” Dad said. “We’re in a very unusual position. If this were a military base on earth, the government would probably send a whole team of people in to find out exactly what happened. But that’s just not feasible here. There’s no seat available for even one investigator on any of the rockets—and even if there was, they wouldn’t be able to get here for weeks. So there’s not much NASA can do except rely on Nina for the answers. I know she’s been ordered to compile a report on Dr. Holtz’s death—and that Dr. Marquez has been asked to help.”

  I asked, “So if Dr. Marquez said Dr. Holtz went out the air lock because he was going crazy, NASA would buy it?”

  “So would I,” Mom said pointedly. “It was his job to analyze Dr. Holtz.”

  I nodded understanding. My parents’ stories about Dr. Holtz had shaken me. They seemed to truly believe he might have been going crazy—and that his great discovery might have been a delusion. I now wondered that myself. Could his euphoria that night in the bathroom have been the result of mental illness? Could his signing that he was being murdered have merely been paranoia? Come to think of it, he’d signed that the earth had killed him, which certainly sounded crazy.

  Or were my parents wrong? Neither one of them was a licensed psychiatrist. Maybe they had misdiagnosed Dr. Holtz’s behavior. Maybe Dr. Holtz had seemed paranoid because he had good reason to be: someone was trying to kill him.

  Besides, I had one more piece of evidence there might be a killer loose on the base. “Someone texted me a threat tonight.”

  My parents both reacted with surprise and concern. “When?” they asked at once.

  “About an hour ago.” I brought the message up on my watch and showed it to them:

  Dash—Be careful—or you’ll end up like Dr. Holtz.

  I figured my parents would grow even more worried. Instead they both got angry.

  “Who sent this to you?” Dad demanded.

  “Well, according to my watch, it was Kira. But I was with her at the time, so I’m guessing whoever sent it hacked her account.”

  “I’ll bet it’s that jerk Patton Sjoberg,” Mom said.

  “Patton?” I asked. “You don’t think it’s from the murderer?”

  My parents glanced toward each other, then looked back at me. “This text just looks like stupid, senseless bullying,” Mom said. “And Patton Sjoberg is a stupid, senseless bully who you greatly embarrassed today.”

  “If he’s so stupid, how’d he know how to send a text from Kira?” I asked.

  “It’s not so hard to hack someone’s account,” Dad explained. “Lily Sjoberg’s supposed to have all the brains in that family. Maybe she helped him do it.”

  “Or maybe Lily sent it,” Mom suggested. “Or either of the parents could have too. Anyone in that family is capable of doing something this insensitive.”

  “Why would they send it from Kira?” I asked. “Why not just send it directly?”

  “Because sending a threat like that is actually a crime,” Dad told me. “And besides, doing it anonymously like this is probably more frightening.”

  I was frustrated with my parents for being so quick to discount my murder theory, but then I reconsidered the text. I had assumed it had come from the murderer, but now that I thought about it, it easily could have been a mindless threat from someone who was angry at me. “You don’t think there’s any chance it’s the killer telling me to back off?” I asked.

  Dad shook his head. “Dash, there’s an extremely good chance that Dr. Holtz died by accident, rather than murder. And there’s an even better chance that this text was sent by a dumb lout like Patton Sjoberg.” He turned to Mom. “We ought to show this to Nina first thing in the morning. Whoever sent it ought to be punished, no matter how rich they are.”

  Mom nodded agreement. “Absolutely.”

  I suddenly found myself wondering if my parents were being completely honest with me. If they did think the text was from someone dangerous, it made sense that they’d try to calm me with a lie rather than get me even more worried about it.

  My parents seemed to sense my unease. They shared a look, and although they didn’t say anything, it seemed like they had. Mom nodded, then turned to me. “You know what?” she asked. “This has been a tough day for all of us. I can finish this speech in the morning. For now let’s have some fun. I think we have a game of Risk stored on the computer.”

  “In fact,” Dad said to me, “I think you were kicking our butts.”

  I laughed. “Yeah. I was.”

  “Not for long,” Mom warned me. “Computer, bring up that Risk game.”

  “It vould be my pleasure!” the computer squealed.

  Mom’s eulogy vanished and a hologram of the Risk map appeared before us. Our armies—hundreds of little holographic men, horses, and cannons—were frozen in the midst of battle.

  According to my parents, games like Risk used to be played on boards with tiny plastic pieces, and all the battles had to be imagined. I might not be a big fan of virtual reality, but a game of Risk in which you can’t watch your armies go to war doesn’t seem like nearly as much fun to me.

  “All right,” Mom told me. “I’m cashing in my cards for thirty armies. Central America, prepare to be overthrown.”

  Her forces amassed in Venezuela instantly attacked mine. Salvos of cannon fire blasted my men to virtual bits.

  Back on earth I might have balked at the idea of playing games with my parents night after night. I certainly have a lot of friends who would consider it lame. But on the moon I don’t have many other options. And to be honest, the forced time with my family is one of the best things about living here.

  For the next few hours we launched attacks against one another, conquering countries and continents and then losing them again, until finally I wiped both my parents off t
he globe. I actually forgot about Dr. Holtz, his suspicious death, and the threat that had been made against me.

  For a little while, at least.

  Excerpt from The Official Residents’ Guide to Moon Base Alpha, © 2040 by National Aeronautics and Space Administration:

  EXERCISE

  Physical activity is an important part of a healthy lifestyle on earth—and on the moon it’s even more important. Due to the significantly lower gravity on the moon (only one-sixth that of earth!) your muscles won’t have to work nearly as hard at MBA. But while this sounds relaxing, it can have serious consequences. Muscles that would normally be worked by moderate exercise—such as walking, lifting objects, or even simply sitting upright—may begin to atrophy on the lunar surface from disuse. If this is allowed to continue unchecked, you might return to earth to find your muscles have weakened to the point where you can’t even stand up! In addition, without the usual force of gravity placed on them, your bones can begin to lose density on the moon.

  Don’t fear, however! There is a simple solution that will prevent both muscle and bone loss and provide plenty of enjoyment: exercise! MBA has a full-service gym equipped with state-of-the-art equipment. To counteract the effects of low gravity, at least two hours of exercise are suggested every day—although even more can’t hurt! Exercise should be divided between endurance (treadmills, StairMasters, stationary bikes) and muscle-building (resistance bands) with perhaps a bit more emphasis on resistance to fight that pesky muscular deterioration.

  All lunarnauts should keep a detailed record of their exercise so that their health, muscle strength, and bone density can be accurately tracked and measured—but that doesn’t mean working out has to be a chore! Watch a movie or read a book while you’re on the machines, or better yet, exercise with a friend. At MBA, staying in shape can be just as much fun as it is back on earth—if not more!

  PREHISTORIC MOTIVATION

  Lunar day 189

  Smack in the middle of the night

  I couldn’t sleep again.

  Only this time it wasn’t due to the litany of things that normally prevented me from sleeping: claustrophobia, the rancid air mattress, space food making me sick. Instead I was wound up thinking about Dr. Holtz’s death—and all the other mysterious things going on at Moon Base Alpha. Was Dr. Holtz losing his mind, or had he really made a great discovery? Why had Nina lied to me about the cameras in the bathrooms? Was she trying to cover up Dr. Holtz’s craziness—or something else? Was Chang still mad enough at Dr. Holtz to kill him? Why was Lars Sjoberg suddenly so desperate to get off the moon? The Sjobergs had hated MBA since they’d arrived, so why hadn’t they ever tried to go home before Dr. Holtz’s death? Had Patton Sjoberg—or someone else in his family—really sent me that threat? And what was Daphne doing on the computer when she was supposed to be operating the robot arm?

  Finally, at two in the morning, I couldn’t take it anymore. In my cramped sleep pod I was starting to feel like I’d been buried alive. I slipped out, taking care not to wake my family, and headed for the gym.

  With everything that had happened the day before, I hadn’t done my mandated two hours of exercise to keep my bones and muscles from turning to mush. In truth, missing a day probably doesn’t make a difference, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. Once you start slacking off, it’s hard to get back in the routine. I didn’t want to end up like Roddy, who hadn’t done a lick of exercise in weeks. He now had the muscle tone of a bowl of pudding. Dad said there was a decent chance that when Roddy eventually got back to earth, the increased gravity would snap his legs like toothpicks.

  I’d expected to have the gym to myself, but Chang Hi-Tech was there.

  He was working out with the resistance bands. These are the MBA equivalent of weightlifting. It was too expensive to fly several tons of weights to space—and given the low gravity, we would have needed weights six times heavier than those at an earthbound gym—so the bands had been developed instead. They’re like giant rubber bands that you can electronically adjust the elasticity of. You attach them to the floor or wall, then push against them with your legs or arms. It feels the exact same as lifting free weights, only without the fear that you might accidentally drop them and crush your rib cage.

  I paused in the doorway. Chang had always been friendly to me and my family, but now, with murder on my mind, I found myself slightly frightened of him. The idea of being alone with anyone suddenly seemed like a bad idea. I wavered for a moment, thinking I should hurry back to my room.

  But Chang saw me before I could. “Hey!” he called out. “A fellow insomniac! What’s keeping you up, Dash?”

  “Guess I’m still freaked out about Dr. Holtz.”

  “I hear you, pal.” Chang was only wearing a tank top, revealing all the tattoos on his arms. Every time he flexed against the resistance bands, Albert Einstein and the rest of the great scientists swelled in size. “This thing’s been a punch in the gut to all of us. I mean, I knew Holtz was getting on in years, but he always seemed so young; it kind of felt like he was gonna live forever. Want to do a race on the Head-to-Head?”

  The Head-to-Head is one of the few fun things to do at MBA. It’s a virtual-reality system that hooks to any of the workout machines and simulates a race between them. It isn’t quite the same thing as a real foot- or bicycle race, but since there’s no other outlet for physical competition on the moon, it’s quite popular. As much as I enjoy it, though, I looked for an excuse to leave. “No, thanks. You’ll crush me.”

  “I’ll set it on a harder level for me.” Chang gave one last flex against the resistance bands, then let them snap back to the wall. His muscles were so pumped with blood that Einstein’s and Niels Bohr’s heads looked ready to explode.

  “I probably shouldn’t . . . ,” I said.

  “C’mon! It’ll be fun!” Chang waved for me to join him.

  By now, making more excuses would only seem suspicious. “Okay.”

  “Excellent! Treadmills?”

  “Sure.” While Chang set the Head-to-Head up, I subtly checked out the settings on his resistance bands. He’d had them set to three thousand pounds—equal to five hundred back on earth. I gave one a test flex. It didn’t give an inch. I might as well have been trying to stretch concrete.

  “All right!” Chang called. “We are ready to rumble!” He waved gallantly to one of two treadmills.

  I climbed aboard. There was a belt attached to the treadmill to hold me down on it, simulating earth gravity so I could actually run. I locked it around my waist, slipped on a pair of hologoggles, and instantly found myself in Yosemite Valley, back on earth. It was a beautiful day with a bright blue, cloudless sky. In the distance Vernal Falls plunged down a sheer rock face into a cloud of mist.

  I couldn’t see my avatar in this game; the entire race was from my point of view.

  Chang materialized next to me a moment later. Unlike Roddy, he hadn’t enhanced his avatar at all. It looked exactly like the real Chang. But then real-life Chang is so freakishly athletic he kind of looks like a video-game warrior anyhow.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “On your marks, then.”

  I tensed reflexively.

  A numeric countdown flashed over Half Dome: 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .

  A buzzer sounded.

  I sprang into action, but Chang was faster, pulling out in front right away. I didn’t try to catch him, not wanting to tire myself out right off the bat. Instead I let him set the pace, following him along the wooded trail. It felt good to run in earth gravity again—or at least a simulation of it—rather than bound into the air with every step.

  Chang had enabled the sound options on the Head-to-Head as well, so I could hear birds chirping in the trees, water burbling in a nearby stream, and the occasional chitter of a chipmunk. The two of us could also talk to each other as we ran. Now that Chang had roped me into the race, I figured I should take advantage of the opportunity and question
him. I probably wouldn’t get another chance alone with him for a while. “So you’re upset about Dr. Holtz too?”

  “Of course,” Chang said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I heard he stole some ideas from you.”

  Chang’s avatar looked back at me, which meant that the real Chang had just glanced my way as well. Then, to my surprise, he laughed. “Yeah, he did. But that doesn’t mean I’m happy that the guy’s dead.”

  A new sound arose from the woods to the side: an eerie guttural croak that made me shiver. “What was that?” I asked.

  “A velociraptor, I think,” Chang said.

  “What? There aren’t any dinosaurs in Yosemite!”

  “There are now. It’s a new module I designed for the Head-to-Head. It provides motivation to run faster.”

  Another guttural croak came from the forest, closer this time. Even though the dinosaurs were imaginary, they provoked a very real fear in me. I felt my adrenaline spike and reflexively picked up the pace.

  Ahead of me Chang did too. He said, “I’ll admit, I was angry at Dr. Holtz when I first learned he’d stolen my idea. I mean, big ideas don’t just come to you every day. Holtz and I were both working at NASA, doing research. I’d thought of a way to increase our metabolism of oxygen in outer space and shared it with him—and a couple months later the guy’s taking credit for it. Frankly, I wanted his head on a stick. But that was years ago. There’s no point in holding on to that kind of emotion. It’ll eat you up inside. So I dealt with it. Talked to my shrink, did some yoga. Eventually I realized that Dr. Holtz wasn’t even aware of what he’d done. He hadn’t stolen my idea maliciously. In fact I think he’d forgotten all about our conversation and thought he came up with the idea himself. Which happens more than you’d think in science. People are always forgetting where ideas come from. Whoa!”

  Chang leaped aside as a six-foot-tall velociraptor lunged out of the trees at him. It shot across the trail in front of me, so close that I had to duck under its tail.