Tears of Selene

by Bill Patterson

  “It's a good place to start. Do you realize there hasn't even been a brush war in the time since you grabbed the Commander's Chair? The Subby/Garth thing disappeared like a soap bubble—nobody's asking questions about those two anymore. You're saving lives that were never in danger from a falling rock, and you're charging through each day, oblivious to the good that you're doing.”

  Lisa stared into her coffee. “Maybe so, but it's a lonely spot to be in. I can't let go for a second.”

  “Yes you could. You just don't. Lord knows how you've managed not to explode before now.” Shep snagged her hand and massaged each individual finger. “I can see how it eats at you. There have been enough casualties. You don't need to make it one more. Maybe you should think about retirement.”

  Lisa was stunned. She thought in terms of moving on to some other job in UNESCO, not giving up entirely. But, like Harel up in the Perseus, once the topic was broached, it took on a life of its own.

  ***

  Maricella Bombara sat back and wiped her eyes. Hunched over a microscope was such a trite trope that she grew tired of explaining that light microscopy was actually a large part of what she did as a selenologist.

  She looked around the lab space she had inside one of the tents on the surface of the Perseus. What a lab! And what a great place to perform more selenology! During the carbonaceous chondrite excavation trips, while Lima and Alex were digging out the precious tarry meteors from beneath the lunar surface, she was bunny-hopping around the landing site, taking samples and chipping bits of rock out of the local masses.

  Some of the methane samples revealed smaller than desired meteors; others were buried too far down to be worth recovering with their pitiful hand-tools. All sites, though, received the Bombara touch—bags of carefully labeled samples and loads of photographs. That was the easy part.

  “The hard part is now,” she said to herself as she contemplated all the data generation remaining. “But there has to be a way to find the KREEP-y mother lode.

  It would be a find that would shake the world they circled.

  The Oceanus Procellarum was the largest mare, or plain, on the Moon. By itself, it was only of passing interest. Where scientists went nuts was over the KREEP Terrane found only in the Procellarum.

  KREEP was an acronym for Potassium minerals (K), Rare Earth Elements (REE) and phosphorus (P). The phosphorus in KREEP enabled them to light off the rockets on the Lunar Disco, the rare earths were indispensable parts of the meter-long crystal rods for the lasers that blasted the debris, and potassium fertilized the soil inside the Perseus.

  Several missions had crossed over the Terrane, looking for concentrations of mass, commonly called mascons. A KREEP mascon, if one were to be found in the Procellarum, would be worth anything a grateful Earth could provide. So far, not a single one had turned up. The Lunar Disco crews had to be content with scraping up regolith for their KREEP hauls.

  Maricella had the wild idea that any mascons were too far down to make a difference, and that the Terrane's shattered regolith formed from two billion years of bombardment from space. First, though, came the difficult process of naming the minerals in the sample of soil and rock that she returned from the surface, then mapping her findings in a database.

  If she could find a huge mascon, then she was one step closer to commercializing the find. That, she knew, would be enough to help the impoverished people in the region of her birth. This was why she stayed behind on the Perseus.

  She would find her mascon.

  ***

  The number of people with research papers, the biggest reason to remain in space, dwindled slowly. Of the original population of fifty, forty had turned in papers by the second year. The tardy ones eventually submitted papers over time until there were five left, then three. Two, and those people were sweating to get just the right amount of data so that their papers would be unimpeachable. One of those was Maricella Bombara. She had been at it for four years now.

  Maricella finally finished mapping out all of her samples, and had them bagged and tagged in a secure carrier. The collection would prove invaluable on Earth. Her map clearly showed that the mascon was about where she thought it would be, near the great accumulation of KREEP material. However, when she used computer modelling to predict how far down from the surface it was, she was dismayed to find that it was something on the order of thirty kilometers beneath the surface. Even plugging the most optimistic factors into the model resulted in a depth never less than five kilometers. Clearly, it was too far down for economic mining.

  She sighed, wrote up her findings, and walked slowly across the inner surface of the fore chamber to the shack near the support for the central axis. Inside the shack, she tapped the radio operator on the shoulder, waking him up.

  “Sorry, I was just resting my eyes. Oh, Maricella,” he said. “You gave me a scare there.”

  “What are they going to do, fire you?”

  “Space me. Never forget, there's always that possibility.”

  She handed him the slim memory wafer. “Eliminate it. Here, transmit this. I know I'm the last one. I'll go tell Harel.”

  She left the shack, but somehow, the word had spread. Men and a couple of women appeared at the flaps of their tents. One started clapping slowly. She nodded and smiled sadly. The applause sped up as she walked down the 'street' between the tents. People started whooping as she approached Harel's tent, where Commander Smithson once ruled the colony. When she got there, he was standing still at the tent's entrance, no expression on his face.

  She stopped, and nodded as the ceremonial aspect of the situation penetrated. She drew herself up, approximating the soldier's position of attention, and saluted Harel. He returned the salute, and the applause behind her stopped as if someone had thrown a switch.

  Harel waited as the entire population, with the exception of those not on watch somewhere, ran over to join the meeting. The first ones arranged themselves in a semicircle, with Harel and Maricella at the focus. It was a remarkably precise semicircle, and the late arrivers fell in behind them.

  Harel and Maricella waited until the sounds behind her stopped.

  “Yes, Ms. Bombara?”

  “Commander, I am happy to report that my paper is complete and has been transmitted to UNSOC-DRC on Earth. I have completed all tasks that require me to remain in space.”

  “Thank you for your service, Ms. Bombara. Is there any reason to return to the Moon for more data for your paper?”

  “No, Commander,” she said emphatically. “The mass concentration is no closer to the surface than five kilometers. It cannot be recovered economically with the resources currently in space, and the Earth cannot add enough resources to space to change the calculations.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Bombara.” Harel waited for her to step back into the semicircle of spacemen and women. He looked around the formation and addressed them.

  “Crew! I must consult with each one of you. Remain near, so that I might discuss your situation, one by one. We can start with Mr. Aachen, and will go alphabetically. Ms. Bombara, I will still need to talk with you, so remain near. Dismissed!”

  ***

  Even those on watch knew about the good news within three minutes. Immediately, a feeling of euphoria and a little sadness gripped the crew. When they left, there would be no human in space for the first time since the first crew occupied the International Space Station back in November of 2000.

  They had no idea how long man would be locked out of space, either.

  A constant stream of crew continuously occupied Harel's tent for five hours. They came in, carefully and soberly discussed their situations, and left. At around the halfway mark, the remaining crew, M through Z, formed a ragged line that kept back twenty meters or so. Those crew who had finished their interviews trickled back towards the end, where five crew were standing self-consciously.

  “Never knew that I'd be so important,” said Gus Zumwalt. “I wonder what you all would do if I recomme
nd that we stay up here another six months. Say! I just figured out a new paper that I'd like to work on.”

  About a dozen people muttered darkly around him.

  “Hey, remember what Harel said! No bullying!”

  “The hell with you, Zummie. We know you're just as anxious to get home as the rest of us.”

  Finally, he was the last one standing, and he began edging over towards the tent just as Kevin Yankowski left.

  “He's all yours,” he said, holding the flap for Gus.

  Harel remained seated, and Gus, somewhat surprised, tried to remember how to salute.

  “Sit,” Harel said.

  Gus sat, somewhat mystified.

  “Report,” said Harel.

  Gus tried to remember how Maricella reported, fumbling the lines.

  “Sir, I, ah, turned in my report about four weeks ago to Nature. They have farmed it out for jurying, and it looks like it's going to hold up. I don't think I'll have to remain up here for anything else. I, ah, damn, what else did she say?”

  “Do you wish to return to Earth or remain up here? Imagine that it's just you and me here, and forget the rest of the crew.”

  Gus stammered. “I do like it up here, and I've seen the news—who hasn't—of the effects of impacts on the Earth. Going along, minding your business, and bam! You're missing an arm, or the front of your car's been jammed in, or your sweetie been turned into mush. We don't have to worry about that inside Perseus. But we're not doing anything up here that a bunch of automation can't do. So I'm all for leaving.”

  “Once we leave, there's no humans left in space, you know that.”

  “Yes, sir, I do. Frankly, we're not doing any good up here. Oh, I know about the lasers and the nukes and all that. The watch standers and the remote control from UNSOC are mostly running that. Even the Helix isn't fun anymore. When's the last time you took a trip on it?”

  “I can't recall.”

  “Bet you didn't notice there's no pads on the ground next to the elevators—they're all up at the axis.”

  Harel scratched his head. “Tell me what that means to you.”

  “It means, sir, that nobody's riding it. If they did, there'd be more pads down here.”

  “I understand. In fact, I've been noting the pads for the past six weeks. Someone else noticed their absence, too.” Harel sighed. “Anything else?”

  “Can't think of a thing, sir. Oh, maybe this—what's our luggage allowance? There are some things I'd like to bring down, if it's all right.”

  “That will be announced when we have final plans, Mr. Zumwalt. Thank you for your report. You are dismissed. I have a call to make.”

  ***

  After Zumwalt left, Harel looked at the tally he had been making on his commpad. Unanimous. Every single crewman wanted to return to Earth. Even after he discussed the impact dangers of the surface, and the relative comforts and safety of Perseus, the crew persisted in wanting to return home. Not even the dreamiest of researchers, head lost in theory, wanted to stay.

  Time to go home. Time to tell the authorities.

  “Sparks,” said Harel into the commpad. “I want an encrypted channel to UNSOC-DRC, Commander Daniels. Signal me at this 'pad when you've got her.”

  “Roger. Working, out.” The pad went dark.

  Harel sighed and got up. The half-gravity of the inner surface felt completely normal. He knew that everyone was going to have to hit the streamside track just to get back in shape for Earth. He shuddered when he thought of weighing twice what he did at this very moment.

  He moved over to his small desk, sat down, and propped up his commpad so the camera captured just his face. He knew he would have to convince Commander Daniels of how much the crew wanted to get back to Earth, and needed to see her reaction. He was reaching for the tab to ask Sparks what was taking so long when the speaker gave a small burp of static.

  “Commander Mazzo, I have Commander Daniels on the line.”

  “Put her through.” He waited for the encryption sequence to switch from Spark's stream to his. Since the commpad itself did the encrypt/decrypt functions, he knew there would be no listening in by whoever was at the radio.

  “Commander Daniels, my pardon for bothering you.”

  “Harel, call me Lisa. I was taking the night shift, so don't feel bad about calling so late.”

  Harel, mortified, looked at the time display for Germany on his commpad. 2013 hours—almost quarter after eight in the evening! He spluttered, “I apologize, Commander, I had no idea!”

  “Harel, I said relax. I was here anyway. My question to you is—when did you want to come back down?”

  Lisa smiled at the shocked look on Harel's face. She had been keeping track of the number of papers transmitted downward, and she knew when the flow slowed to a trickle that the end was near. For Harel Mazzo to call so late in the evening meant that the paper transmitted earlier that afternoon must have been the last one.

  “Ma'am, the last paper has been finished.”

  “Lisa,” she insisted.

  Harel sighed. “It's hard, Ma—Lisa. I'm not a Commander, just the senior guy up here. You, though...”

  “I put my pants on one leg at a time,” she said mildly. “Now, let's go over how to get you down safely, and what Perseus is going to do until mankind can get back upstairs.”

  ***

  A tall, ramrod-straight figure walked along the main sidewalk of the kaserne. The day was crisp, the sun was bright, and he was smiling faintly. People who passed him subconsciously straightened up, and dared not look him in the eyes.

  He walked quickly and surely to the central building, without stopping, as if he had lived on the kaserne for years. In reality, this was his first visit, but nobody knew that. As he drew closer to the large building, sides faced with native stone, he withdrew a small laminated card from his thin but well-worn wallet.

  The guard at the door proffered a reader, and the man extended a tanned hand holding the card. Age spots were beginning to sprout on the back of his hand, but there was no trembling in his fingers. The light on the box flashed green, and the guard held the door for him, something he never did for others. He wondered at why he did so.

  A guard waited at a desk surrounded by clear hard plastic some ten centimeters thick. The man walked up to the desk, ignoring a door that slid shut behind him. He looked incuriously at the second door off to his right, and placed his left palm on the dark circle of glass that was obviously a print reader.

  A few seconds passed and the guard blinked rapidly at the information that filled his screen. He moved to get up, but the figure in front of him waved him down, speaking for the first time since he had gotten out of his car a half-hour and kilometer previously.

  “Sit down. I'm a civilian.”

  The door to his right opened, and he turned, almost as precisely as a captain on a parade ground, to stalk down the corridor to the Control Room of the UNSOC Debris Response Center. He looked through the small glass inset in the door, and silently opened it, slipping inside and standing still in the darkened vastness, waiting for his eyes to adjust.

  A murmur started up a minute later, when the first controller looked up, nudged the controller next to her, and said in a low voice, “Check out what the cat dragged in,” pointing her chin towards the door.

  Spotting the CAPCOM's perch in the rear center of the Control Room, the figure walked quietly to the central cross-aisle that split the control consoles into two groups, upper and lower. As he passed, the people at the consoles tried to stand up, only to be waved back to their chairs, accompanied by a strong look of disapproval.

  A senior controller who worked at the base of the CAPCOM perch moved to intercept him, blinked vigorously, and said “Well! I guess you have authorization. Good to have you here, sir.”

  “Williams. Nice to see you. Later, maybe.” He strode slowly, almost painfully, up the five steps to the perch, and waited for the figure there to finish an intricate analysis, the large wrap-around
screen filled with windows showing figures, text, and images, both ground- and space-based.

  Finally, Commander Daniels noticed him out of the corner of her eyes. “Yes?” she asked, without taking her eyes from the screen.

  “Mr. Montgomery Scott McCrary, reporting for duty.”

  ***

  “How did you know?” asked Harel. Commander Daniels and McCrary were seated in her office, the door securely closed and the radio link to the Perseus encrypted. “I didn't know for certain until the last paper was submitted.”

  McCrary deferred to Lisa.

  “I've been keeping a watch on the number of papers everyone's been submitting,” she said. “The flow slowed to a trickle, then stopped for a few weeks. When one last paper arrived, then you called on an encrypted line, I knew that you were ready to come on down.”

  Two seconds later, as the signal crawled at the speed of light up to the Perseus and back down, the voice of Harel sounded aggrieved. “Commander Daniels, I kinda figured you'd keep an eye on me. What I want to know is…how did McCrary know it was time to go to Germany? I didn't think wild dogs could drag him back to UNSOC.”

  McCrary looked at the speaker grille, a slight frown on his face. “Commander Mazzo...”

  “Harel, please, sir.”

  “All right, Harel. You know I would never leave a job unfinished. I'm responsible for that fourth ERV up there. You do still have it up there, don't you?”

  “Of course we do!” said Harel. “We also have your suggestions for how to leave the Perseus in good order. What I fail to see is why we should do so. Oh, shutting down the reactor and all makes a great deal of sense, but why should we spend a lot of time farming the soil? It's going to be decades before anyone ever gets back up here.”

  “They were suggestions, Harel, not requirements. Not all of the suggestions have the same force. The reactor is the most critical thing, but other suggestions are just that—suggestions. I have no idea exactly what to do with the soil. Anyone who comes up will have to grow food eventually, as well as have oxygen immediately, and certainly water. One of those suggestions is to pump all the oxygen into tanks, preferably under high pressure or liquefied. What will happen to the fields when there's no air?”