by Homer Hickam
But Pegasus didn’t get up.
That was when Crater sensed something behind him.
When he turned, there stood a spiderwalker, and perched on it was the giant crowhopper he’d encountered so long ago at the Dustway Inn. “Would you like to know my name, child?” it asked.
Crater faced the doom riding on eight legs. “Why would I care to know the name of trash?” he demanded.
“It is always good to know the name of that which is going to kill you,” it replied. “My given name is Volsokoff. I was once a Russian, or I should say my parents were, before the procedures were performed that produced me.”
“You are a biological nightmare,” Crater said while his eyes roved, looking for the protection of at least a small crater.
There was nothing but a featureless plain.
“My creators made me far more powerful and intelligent than mere humans birthed the old way. I also lack fear.
It makes me and others like me the most fierce creatures on Earth and its moon.”
“But are you happy?” Crater asked, stalling for time. “Do you know joy? Do you know the sweetness of love?”
“I have no need of such emotions, but when I crush my enemies and see their blood flow, I feel something akin to happiness. Soon, I will know that feeling again.”
“But I am not your enemy,” Crater said.
Volsokoff pointed at Pegasus. “Strapped to your dead horse is what I seek. That you would deny it from me makes you my enemy.”
Crater’s shoulders drooped. “Take those old bones, then.
They are nothing but death.”
“I will take them,” the crowhopper answered. “After I tear your arms off, then your legs, then crush your face into the rubble of this terrible little planet.”
Crater started to run. It was all he could do. Over his shoulder, he saw the spiderwalker coming, its terrible legs striding across the dust. Crater ran to the edge of the collapsed lava tube and looked over its edge. Its walls were vertical, and there was nothing but vacuum for hundreds of feet. Just for a moment, he noticed something sparkling far below, and he realized the tube had collapsed to a depth where it revealed a layer of water, apparently collecting naturally. This was interesting but, since the spiderwalker was almost upon him, he had to dodge away. He kept running along the edge, hoping Volsokoff would make a mistake. But the crowhopper was in perfect control of the machine and kept its feet just far enough away from the edge to keep it safe.
Just as one of its feet nearly stomped on him, Crater abruptly turned and ran beneath the spiderwalker, swung up on its thorax, and pounced on Volsokoff’s back. The crowhopper reached back with a giant hand, contemptuously plucked Crater off, and threw him into the dust.
But Crater’s surprise move had been enough to cause a distraction. One of the spiderwalker’s feet came stomping down and found nothing but vacuum. The eight-legged machine tipped over, its legs waving ineffectively. Then, as it arched its back, the ugly thing fell off into the nothingness of the lava tube.
Volsokoff did not go with it. Crater crawled to his knees and saw the crowhopper advancing toward him, an elk sticker in its hand. “I do not need a machine to get at you,” it said. “I can run faster, jump farther, and endure much more than you.
Give in now and make it an easier death.”
Crater withdrew the elk sticker from the sheath on his waist. He recalled the advice of Doom and Headsplitter. What your enemy least expects, that you must do.
Crater threw the knife. He had practiced throwing it countless times at the Dust Palace with the two Indian assassins showing him how. His aim was true. It struck point-first into a gap in Volsokoff’s armor at its right armpit, embedding to the hilt. The crowhopper stopped and roared out its pain and frustration. Crater waited and watched, hoping Volsokoff’s suit would begin to unravel. Blood spurted and flowed, but the crowhopper reached over with its left hand and pulled out the elk sticker and threw it down. Wordlessly, it advanced.
Crater leapt, fell, and ran and leapt some more, but still the giant crowhopper relentlessly came after him. Crater staggered and fell, then rolled on his back.
The crowhopper screamed out its triumph and reached down for Crater, but then something huge suddenly appeared, and the monster was lifted off its feet and sent flying.
“Pegasus!” Crater cried with joy.
The warhorse flew after the giant crowhopper. It only managed three steps before Pegasus was upon it, the horse’s great hooves pounding, striking, pummeling the black-suited warrior into the dust. Pegasus’s last kick caught its helmet and tore it away. The mutant’s face swelled and turned a bright red before blood flowed from its ears, nose, and mouth. It rolled facedown into the dust, the length of its body quivering as if rejecting its situation, then went still forever.
:::
THIRTY-FIVE
They were found by a Russian patrol. Crater was leading Pegasus, but they were both staggering, exhausted and injured. When Crater saw the Russians, he first assumed they were crowhoppers and knew it was all over for him and the Peg. But they were gathered up and given water and food. Crater was invited to sit in a fastbug and, somehow, they made room for the warhorse on a truck.
Crater went in and out of consciousness. When he woke, he found himself sleeping on silken sheets. When he switched on a light, he saw it was the most ornate tube he’d ever seen. The baroque, filigreed furniture seemed to belong in a nineteenthcentury historical romance. He lapsed back into a deep sleep until finally he woke once more, found a tunic, leggings, and boots laid out for him on a settee, dressed, and pushed open the tube hatch. There he discovered a guard dressed in the fanciest uniform Crater had ever seen, all scarlet and black with gold braid, buttons, and epaulets. The guard ordered him back inside. “Food and drink will come,” he said in Russian.
“What about Pegasus?” Crater asked. “What about my horse?”
“Your horse is quite healthy,” the guard answered.
Relieved, Crater went back inside the tube. A few minutes later, a woman, dressed in a green tunic with a high collar, appeared carrying a tray of food. It was a thick strip of beef with a side of fluffy potatoes and a bowl of green beans. There was also a bottle of vodka, a bottle of mineral water, and two glasses. Crater skipped the vodka but dug into the excellent food and drank the entire bottle of water. He felt immediately better and began itching to explore. Before he could figure out how to escape his ornate prison, the woman in the green tunic returned. “The Czarina will see you now,” she said.
Crater followed the woman through the corridors of New St. Petersburg, which were sumptuously decorated with statues of Russian heroes and paintings of the mother country.
The people in the corridor looked well-fed and content. The shopping area was filled with many stores, selling fine consumer goods. They reached a hatch that had the seal of the old Russian czars, a double-headed eagle. The woman in the green tunic said, “This is the Czarina’s palace.”
Crater followed the woman through more ornate tubes until they reached one that had a throne of gold-painted mooncrete with cushions of red and black velvet. A big guard walked up and shoved Crater to his knees on the scarlet carpet that led to the throne. From behind thick curtains, Czarina Zorna— dressed in regal robes of red, white, and black—emerged and sat on the throne. “State your business,” she said.
Daring to lift his head, Crater said, “I have brought you something that belongs to you and your people. It was in the bag tied to my horse.”
Czarina Zorna nodded to a guard who pitched the bag to the floor in front of Crater. “Do you mean this one?”
“Yes, ma’am. Have you looked inside?”
“Do you think we are thieves? No, we have not gone through your personal things. So, tell me, what in this bag is so precious that you would dare cross the Sea of Serenity to bring it to me and my people?”
“Bones.”
Crater’s answer startled the Czarina. She drew in a q
uick breath, and a guard was moved to draw his elk sticker from its sheath. The Czarina raised her hand to the guard, who reluctantly lowered the knife. “And whose bones might they be?” she asked.
Crater opened the bag, then unfolded a purple cloth within to reveal the yellow bones and the skull. Reverently, he placed the skull on the carpet. “These are the remains of Yuri Gagarin, ma’am,” Crater said. “The first man in space.”
The Czarina’s eyes widened. She stood and, with a hesitating step, walked down onto the carpet, then knelt before the skull and the bag of bones. “The bravest Russian,” she whispered.
“Yes,” a deep voice boomed, “and he is my gift to you, my dear.”
Crater looked toward the voice and there stood Colonel Medaris, splendid in a bemedaled military uniform and cavalry boots. He walked up alongside Crater. “You were supposed to deliver this package to me, Crater,” he said in a severe tone.
“But I will forgive you if you’ll tell me how you got here.”
“I rode a horse, sir.”
The Colonel lifted a single eyebrow. “You are an interesting young man,” he said.
“My gillie was killed along the way,” Crater added.
“Is that so? I am sorry to hear that. It was an interesting artifact although illegal.”
“It knew that, sir.”
“We also found some odd devices with this boy, their purposes unknown,” the Czarina said as she rose. “What was most intriguing was a container of water that my chemists tell me is perfectly pure, even purer than the melted water ice of the lunar poles. Where did you get it?”
“From the dust of the Sea of Serenity.”
“Impossible,” she scoffed.
“I can find water there,” Crater said. “And I know how to bring it to the surface.”
The Colonel and the Czarina traded glances. The Colonel said, “It seems I’ve underestimated you from the start, my boy.”
The Colonel noticed the Czarina was frowning and said, “You are not pleased, my dear?”
“Are these bones a bribe to convince me to let your monorail cross my land?”
“No, my lady,” he said. “It is an engagement gift. I have come to ask your hand in marriage.”
The Czarina’s frown deepened. She nodded to the guards, who reverently picked up the skull and restored it to the duffel bag, then carried the bones away. She turned back to the Colonel, saying, “We will create a fine memorial for the man who led the way for all of us into space. I thank you, Colonel.”
Then a small smile replaced her frown and she said, “I shall consider your proposal, although marriage of royalty to a commoner is a delicate proposition.”
“Yet we would make a great team,” the Colonel answered.
“The future would be ours.”
“Perhaps,” she replied with a regal tilt of her head.
The Czarina climbed the steps to her throne, gesturing for the Colonel to sit before her on the steps. He did so.
“Sir,” Crater said, “if I may ask, how did you get here? I thought your jumpcar was in need of repair.”
“So it was,” the Colonel replied, “but the sheriff dispatched the part by a rental jumpcar.”
“Did the sheriff tell you I was headed to New St. Petersburg?
I didn’t think he knew. I didn’t tell anyone. I just stole the bones and took off.”
The Colonel shrugged. “There are many spies everywhere.
If there is a thing that needs to be known, I usually know it.”
“Do you know Maria’s condition?”
“Of course. I have been in constant contact with her doctors. She is a Medaris, Crater. None so tough in the universe.
She will be fine.”
Crater knew his part in the Colonel’s plan was done. He started to leave but the Colonel’s voice stopped him. “Crater, thank you. I suppose now you will want your old job back on the scrapes, but I intend to do better. Your ambition, so I’ve heard, is to be a foreman. Consider it done. You are now a blue banger.”
Crater wanted to be happy. He knew the Colonel expected him to be, and he knew Q-Bess and probably even Petro would be happy for him. But he just couldn’t be happy. He was no longer certain he wanted to be a Moontown blue banger. He wasn’t even certain he wanted to go back to Moontown at all.
So much had happened. He wasn’t the same Crater who’d joined the convoy. Maybe his future was to be a convoy scout. He’d liked doing it well enough. “I will think about it, sir,” he said.
“That’s fine,” the Colonel said.
“What happens now?” Crater asked.
“I suppose now things will really get interesting. We’re going to build that monorail, assuming the Czarina accepts my idea, and then we may have to fight a little war.”
The Colonel’s answer, at least the last part of it, confirmed Crater’s worst fear. “But who is the enemy, sir? Who are we fighting and why?”
The Colonel allowed a gentle smile. “We fight the ones who lurk in the darkness, Crater, those who would take away our freedom to live our lives the way we choose. Can we count on you to fight with us?”
Crater didn’t know if he could be counted on or not. He still felt it important to know who the enemy was. “If you could give me and Pegasus a ride back to Armstrong City, sir, I would appreciate it.”
“Of course,” the Colonel replied.
Crater left the throne tube and headed to an airlock. There he donned a suit, pulled on a helmet, and went out into the big suck. He needed to get outside where at least he might think and maybe even reach some conclusions.
The sun blazed down, obliterating the stars and casting a golden glow on the dust. Crater looked across the emptiness and thought of his gillie and how it had sacrificed itself. He swore to himself that someday he would go back to where the crowhopper jumpcar had exploded. The gillie had been his friend and deserved at least a prayer said over where it had last breathed, that is if it had any lungs, which, of course, it didn’t.
Crater thought about the journey he’d just made and the dangers he’d managed to live through. From the start, the crowhoppers had known too much, had always seemed a step ahead. Were there traitors in the Colonel’s circle or on the convoy? If so, who were they? Or was Crater always meant to be a sacrificial lamb, his mission deliberately leaked, so that the sheriff or somebody else could catch the Cycler?
And where was Petro? Had he joined a convoy as the sheriff had suggested? Or did the sheriff know something he wasn’t telling?
Crater also thought of Maria, what she had come to mean to him, and also her family. He didn’t know if there was any chance of a future with her, but he hoped there might be. Maybe he could be a scout in her company. He just didn’t know.
Everywhere Crater looked, there was dust and more dust and the endless expanse of his little planet that Earthians dismissed as the moon. It was a serious little planet, that’s what it really was, and also the blessed home for anyone willing to brave its harsh beauty.
Crater was willing. He was willing because of the kindness the people of Moontown had shown him over the years.
He was willing because of Q-Bess, Petro, and all the residents of the Dust Palace. He was willing because of the gillie, and the convoy drivers, and poor, brave Captain Teller who’d given everything just to deliver heel-3 to a desperate Earth that depended on his homeland, the moon.
And, to keep his homeland safe, if it meant fighting in a war—even though he knew deep in his heart that there was something very peculiar, perhaps even wrong, with the conflict that was about to be fought—Crater was willing to do even that. He reached for the courage that had always been there, even as he yet doubted its existence. Let war come if it must, he thought. He was a boy of the moon. He would fight.
Return to the Moon
for the Next
Helium-3 Novel
«TAKING OFF IN 2013»
:::
Notes and
Acknowledgments
Humankind will, of course, eventually sweep back to the moon. It’s just a matter of time and circumstances. Luna is too close, too rich, to be ignored forever. Some people will go for scientific purposes and others will go as tourists, but I believe most of them by the thousands will go into that extremely harsh environment to dig, process, containerize, and transport a magical but very real isotope called Helium-3. In other words, they’re going to be miners, convoy truckers, and bush pilots, which describe some of my favorite people. As someone who grew up in a mining town and was a coal miner, I am pleased that the future citizens of the moon and I will share a natural bond. It also means that anything I write about the way they act and think, even before it happens, is probably going to be fairly close to reality. Miners and mine owners don’t change that much just because a century or two passes by. As for bush pilots and convoy truckers, I know them pretty well too. They’re actually a lot alike. They’ll get their rigs from point A to point B one way or the other—and do it with some flair.