Shanghaied to the Moon
Page 4
“How come I don’t remember that?”
“You just did.” Mark flips a couple waffles onto my plate. “Come on. They’ll get cold.”
I sit and butter them. Drizzle syrup into each little square. Eyes closed, I pretend the first bite is a PLV and slowly dock it in my mouth. I’m hoping something magic will happen—another memory. All I get is reminded that Mark’s a great cook.
The disappointment makes me more determined than ever to get some answers from the Counselor.
First thing when I get to school, I drop off my science project, then head for the Counselor’s office. The project’s not my best effort. I could barely concentrate once I decided to confront the Counselor with what the old spacer told me. I wish I could’ve talked to him again, but I couldn’t just run out on Mark’s birthday breakfast, and then there was no time left for a detour.
I slip a hand into my pants pocket. Run my finger over the sharp corners of the Space Academy Camp application folded there.
No harm in dreaming.
As soon as I step into the Counselor’s office—bing—the sign changes to “ENTER, PLEASE.” No waiting today. I step up to the session room door. Hesitate with my thumb hovering over the latch plate. Draw in a deep, steadying breath. I am going to make it talk about what I want for once.
I mash my thumb against the latch plate. The door slides open. The huge screen on the wall behind the empty desk declares:
MRS. PHILLIPS REGRETS SHE CANNOT APPEAR IN PERSON, STEWART. AUTOMATED SIMULATION IS DOWNLOADING.
When I sit on the stool in front of the desk, the holofield glitters, filling the chair with Mrs. Phillips’s image. Sensors whir behind the screen. The hologram leans toward me. “You have been in therapy for six years, Stewart. Suddenly you search for information about us. Why?”
A frozen moment, like when someone walks in on you in the bathroom. I was all ready for a fight and now the Counselor practically admits it was watching me. “So you were monitoring my computer yesterday.”
“Yes. In certain special cases, TIA is authorized to inform us of your activities. If you have questions about us, you should ask them here.”
“What about my rights? You can’t just spy on me! Don’t I have rights?”
“You do have rights, Stewart, but they are slightly reduced in special cases. Don’t worry.” The image smiles. “The information is used only to assist with your therapy.”
“What’s special about my case?”
“Parental permission is required for me to answer that question.” The image folds its hands together. “There are many things we can speak of without your father’s permission, Stewart. Please, ask your questions.”
“Did you make me forget things?”
“Why would you think we had done that?”
“Because I forget too many things I should remember, like how Mom and I built my spaceship tree house. How could an important memory like that just be gone?”
The image sits up straight. “When did you recall this?”
“This morning.”
“You have withheld vital information.” The little pointy place in the middle of the top lip gets sharper. “We are disappointed, Stewart.”
“I’m disappointed! You didn’t help me at all yesterday. It was a terrible session. The worst!”
“Is that why you went to the Old Spaceport afterward?”
“You tracked me?” Does it know about the old spacer?
“You feel closer to your mother there, don’t you, Stewart?” The voice is soft, soothing, the nearest to the real Mrs. Phillips it ever gets. “Closer to your dream of spaceflight.”
“There’s this fence. That’s what I feel, this fence between me and everything I want.”
“Did the pilot promise to help you?”
“Pilot? What pilot?” If TIA has identified him, then he wasn’t lying to me about being a real pilot.
“This pilot, Stewart.” The screen flashes a head shot of the old spacer. Enough background shows to let me know he’s sleeping on the bench at Gamma Station. Is that now? Or yesterday? Will I come into the picture next?
“Did he tell you his name?”
Not a statement. A question. It has pictures, but no audio. It doesn’t know what we talked about—doesn’t know I planned to meet him again. I cling to that. Shake my head, no.
“Voice response required.”
“No.” The sensors focus—to check if I’m lying! Why is his name so important?
“Did you tell him your name?”
“No.”
“We are glad you have that much sense, Stewart. You should not be alone with strange men in deserted TransHubs. You will avoid this man in the future.”
“Why?”
“You will avoid this man.”
“Because he told the truth? Is that why?”
“You will—”
I jump up. Slam my hands down on the desk. “Why did I forget about the tree house?!”
The image freezes, then fractures into a thousand cubical elements. I stare through the suddenly faceted eyes to whatever sensor array is behind the screen.
“You’re a machine. You must answer!”
“It is essential to maintain trust.” The mouth doesn’t move. The voice becomes mechanical. “This is a critical time for you, Stewart. Perhaps we should review past events.”
The overhead lights go out. The screen flickers. The pale blue sky from the opening scene of the NewsVid washes through the frozen hologram.
“No!” I back away, smack into the stool. “Don’t show that!”
“This has helped. It will help.” The cubes meld. The image regains structure and reclaims Mrs. Phillips’s voice. “Watch, please.”
“I won’t!”
The volume cranks. The splutter of static is like a cymbal crash next to my ears. Tower Control booms, “Contact lost with incoming.”
I bolt for the door. Mash my thumb against the latch plate.
Locked!
“Let me out!” Kick it! Pound it!
The NewsVid sound mutes.
“Stewart, please calm yourself.”
“Let me out!”
“Stewart, return to the stool. Focus on the screen.”
“No!”
“Alert! Alert!” The Counselor slips into its machine voice, blaring out the words. “Mrs. Phillips, report to session room immediately. Subject at serious risk of associative bifurcation.”
“I’m not an experiment!”
“You must cooperate. Mrs. Phillips may not arrive quickly enough to prevent harm.”
“Harm?! What’s the matter with me?”
“Emergency conditions.” The NewsVid freezes on the image of the upside-down shuttle. The scene strobes, seizes my gaze. I can’t look away. “Stewart. Sit. Down. Now.”
“NO!”
I grab the edge of the stool. Swipe it through the hologram. Spin around from not connecting with anything solid. Raising the stool over my head, I hurl it at the screen behind the desk. The screen implodes in a riot of short circuits, leaving the room barely lit with the glow from the hologram.
The soundtrack starts running again. The sound waves hit me with force, as if the Counselor lashed out with a fist.
“Stop!”
I clamp my hands over my ears. Stagger into the far corner. The sound of the plunging shuttle bores through my hands.
I slide down to the floor.
The volume increases, ragged at the limits of the speaker’s audio range. Scenes come, vivid on the inside of my squeezed-tight eyelids, as if the Newsvid is running in my brain. I slam my head against the wall. Pain blooms on my cheek, around my eye, weakens the images in my head.
Do it again.
Lights dance in my head.
Again!
The door opens.
“Ohmygod!” Mrs. Phillips staggers under the blast of sound. She shouts at her own hologram, almost invisible in the shaft of light from the waiting room. “What are you doing?”
“Stop!” She rushes to the desk, nose to nose with the wavering image. “Stop at once!”
“Necessary—”
“Override! Code seven, triangle, beta!”
The hologram disappears. The soundtrack goes silent.
“Stewart? Stewart, where are you?”
Mrs. Phillips looks anxiously around the room. But she’s caught in the glare from the open door and can’t see me. She shields her eyes. The light glints on a hypodermic needle in her hand.
“Stewart? Can you answer me?”
Blindly, she steps my way.
I take her down with a scissors kick.
She sprawls onto the floor. The arm holding the hypo folds against her stomach and hisses out its supply of tranquilizer.
“Oh no … no …” she groans, reaching toward me. “Don’t run—”
Then her eyes turn up white as the tranquilizer takes hold.
5
MISSION TIME
T minus 00:45:05
THE old spacer’s asleep on the bench, just like in the picture the Counselor showed me.
“Wake up.” Barely a whisper. Cameras? Mikes? I’m glancing around, but I’d never see them anyway. “Mister! Wake up!”
One eye opens, rakes me head to toe.
“Beat it. I’m waiting for a midget.”
The eye closes.
“No! You don’t understand—I’m in trouble!” I shove his bulk.
Snake quick, his hand darts from the folds of his jacket and grabs my wrist. His reflexes are better than mine!
“Don’t do that again.”
I try to yank away.
His grip tightens. He draws me close. “Sweet Neptune, what happened to your face?”
“My face?” I remember banging the side of my head against the wall. I touch my cheek. Pain flares. “We’ve got to get out of here! They’ll see us soon as she wakes up!”
“What are you talking about?” He releases his grip. With a grunt and a curse, he sits up.
“I smashed the Counselor.”
“With your head, right?”
“No, a stool. It tried to brainwash me. Even smashed … it wouldn’t stop. Then Mrs. Phillips came in. She had a needle! I knocked her down and she injected herself. I don’t know how long she’ll be out. Get up, will you! Before they come after us!”
“Us?”
“They had your picture. Sleeping right here!”
He looks over my head into corners, then drops his gaze to confront me with narrowed eyes. “What have you mixed me up in? Huh?”
“I had to find out if it was goofing up my AstroNav. It told me to stay away from you. It wanted me to watch Mom’s crash all over again. Tried to push it into my head.” I can still feel the hard walls trapping me in the corner, see the glint of light on that needle …
“I don’t need this.” He looks away.
“It’s your fault. You’re the one who said they can make you forget. All I did was ask it to tell the truth. It went haywire! You have to help me!”
“Have to? Like fate, huh?” He laughs, a dry, tight sound.
“Please …” My teeth chatter. I notice the chill air for the first time. Running off, I forgot my jacket.
“Sit down.”
“No! We’ve got to go away from here!”
“It isn’t easy to hide from TIA, kid. Gotta think, so sit down.” He slaps the bench.
He’s going to help me! My knees fold from relief and I collapse onto the seat next to him. He knows what we’re up against. Maybe he can come up with a plan.
He shrugs out of his jacket, wincing as he draws his arms from the sleeves. He wraps it around me. It settles heavy on my shoulders. The pockets must be crammed with stuff. Smells a little sour, but it’s sleep-hot. I pull my legs into the cave of it, too.
“Have a sip of this.” He takes a squeeze bottle out of his pants pocket. He folds my fingers around it, urges them toward my mouth. “Do it. I’ve seen shock plenty of times, kid, and that’s where you’re headed.”
Dad’s let me sip wine before, but this stuff grabs your attention in a whole different way.
“Hey, that’s enough!” He snatches it back, fires in a mouthful for himself. “When did this happen?”
“Fifteen minutes ago? Longer since we’ve been talking.”
He looks at the Chronomatrix on his wrist. His lips draw thin and straight.
“Go buy a soda. Machine’s right there.” He points to a cluster of vending machines along the same wall the bench is against.
He’s crazy! “We can’t sit here drinking soda!”
“Not to drink. For that bruise on your cheek. Gotta get something cold on it to stop the swelling.”
I pull the jacket tight and head for the soda machine, press my thumb to the charge plate.
TIA can trace that.
I never worried about TIA before. Mark knows a lot …
Mark! Has anyone told him yet? Does anyone know anything yet? Or is Mrs. Phillips still zonked out?
She shut the Counselor down. Maybe she was going to help me. I just ran away. What if she’s hurt? I just ran.
Two Helium Zingers drop out of the slot. I might drink one. Supposed to be good for queasy stomachs. When I come back to the bench, he sits rigid as a block of ice, staring out at the ships on their launch-pads.
“Tend to that bruise.” He doesn’t even glance at me. “And keep your mouth shut.”
Gingerly, I press the cold, sweating can to my right cheek. Hiss in a sharp breath. But the cold feels good. Slowly, I rotate the can.
“Okay.” He lurches to his feet with a curse and a grab at the small of his back. “Come on.”
He bends down only far enough to catch the strap of the duffel bag. He hitches the strap over his shoulder, then, Igor-like, limps toward the rear of the station. I stand up, but it’s tricky holding the sodas and keeping the jacket from falling off. He’s around the corner already. I rush to catch up.
He’s standing behind some kind of wheeled thing.
“What’s the matter?” He shrugs the duffel into the back of the thing. “Haven’t you ever seen a golf cart before?”
“Not with wheels!”
“Get in.” He hitches up his right leg and works it over the sidewall into the driver’s side. The cart tips as he shifts all his weight onto that foot and hauls the rest of his body in using the steering wheel.
“Where are we going?”
He gestures toward the ocean and now I see that the cart is parked at the beginning of the long road out to Pad 12—must be at least a mile. The ancient concrete is heaved and shattered, but there’s a smooth path of fresh sand down the middle of the decayed roadway. Two ruts are packed hard from frequent trips. His berth. He’s been living out there with the rocket! Probably cleared away any surveillance stuff. But he’s wrong if he thinks Pad 12 is a safe place to hide.
“It won’t work. Your ad is on my computer. They’ll know where I am.”
He turns the key. “We’ll be gone before anyone comes.”
“Gone …?” I look toward Pad 12. One old PLV, operational. He does have a plan. To blast off. With me. Now.
“Take off that wrist yapper.”
I shield the wireless OmniLink on my wrist with a soda. “I can’t just disappear!”
“That’s sort of the point, kid.”
“I have to call Mark.”
“Not with that. Easy to spot as a supernova.”
“But—”
“We’ll call him from orbit. Safer that way.”
Orbit. He really means it.
“Ditch it and get in. We’ve got to keep moving now.”
Suddenly, he’s the one in a hurry. I pull my gaze from the rocket, toss the sodas onto the seat. Hooking a finger under the stretch band of the OmniLink, I slip it off. The breeze slides coldly over the bone-white skin of my naked wrist. That skin only sees daylight during a bath. There aren’t even any li
ttle hairs growing there anymore. We were always told: Never be without your OmniLink. Never talk to strangers.
I look at the TransTube curving away from the station toward the city. Things don’t seem that simple anymore.
“Don’t fool yourself, kid. You were lucky today. They won’t screw up again.”
I drop the OmniLink into the sand and hop in.
He lays the throttle to the floor. Sand sprays, tires squeal, then catch, bucking us into motion. I slam back against the seat. The soda cans go flying out of my hands. No acceleration dampers; this sure isn’t an ordinary golf cart! Even the modern air-riders don’t go this fast.
I whoop and shout against the breeze. “What did you do to this thing?”
The corner of his mouth curls up a bit. “Double wired the traction pack.”
Bad news for the motor. Then it dawns on me. Nobody’s going to drive this cart away from the gantry. It’ll be burned toast as soon as we … blast off.
We’re close enough now to get a good look at the rocket. Not a fleck of paint left on it. The skin is as rusty brown as an uscrubbed potato. Black stains fan down the sides from each of the staging joints. I know my boosters. This is an old ICBM. A lot of nuclear missiles were converted to PLVs during the worldwide disarmament a half century ago. They were a quick, cheap, and dirty way to orbit for people who couldn’t afford a ride on shuttles.
Not exactly what I imagined making my first trip to space in.
Taller and taller it looms until even with my head tilted way back, I can’t see it all at once. We coast to a stop right under the rocket nozzles.
A smell of burned motor wiring wafts up from below my seat. I hop out and step away from the cart, worried it might burst into flames. He’s either not worried or can’t move any faster, I’m not sure which.
We’ve pulled up next to a tent. A tidy campsite is arranged compactly around it. The PLV towers silently above us. The only sound comes from the waves breaking on the beach just over the sand dunes.
“Grab that duffel.” He heads for the open mesh-wire elevator at the base of the gantry.
Guess he doesn’t need anything from his camp.
I sling the duffel over my shoulder. It isn’t too heavy, but you’d never guess that from the way it bent him over. Whatever is inside shifts around like potatoes in a sack, settling into a lumpy bulge at the bottom.