Come In, Collins (Riddled Space Book 2)

by Bill Patterson

  Horst looked around from the stage. “Anyone else have business to bring before the whole crew? Anyone? Then I call for the adjournment of this meeting, is there a second?”

  ***

  “They're screwed,” said Horst. “If they land, then they leave all that wonderful machinery behind and are just a floating bubble of humanity atop a big reentry disk. Problem with that is they get shotgunned full of debris before they get close enough to Earth to attempt a landing.

  “They can't colonize the planet, either, without living like, well, us, in tunnels underground. They've got some inflatable shelters, true, but like them, we were never designed to be a fully self-sufficient colony. Too few women, inbreeding, scarcity diseases. They're dead whichever way they turn.”

  “Mr. Sunshine, you are,” said McCrary. “Still, put some gray matter behind it, would you? Now, let's talk about this new proposal of Sean Pallock, one of our biologists, concerning fiber production. I, for one, would like to have a new set of pants someday.”

  Everyone Needs a Hand

  UNSOC Lunar Colony Michael Collins, March 3, 2083, 2315 EDT

  The suggestion queue was fairly full of ideas, nearly all of them impractical. There were a couple, though, that caught McCrary's eye.

  Smelt iron plates out of Martian sand, use as armor when returning.

  Lasso a comet, vaporize it to degrade debris orbits.

  Laser debris, just like the Collins is doing.

  He would privately discuss these ideas with Donovan, determine which ones were even remotely feasible, and propose those quietly to Roger Smithson.

  In the meantime, though, the uproar over the use of the nuclear bomb to push away the potential impactor continued unabated on Earth. McCrary spent more and more time on the radio to Earth, explaining himself and justifying the action.

  “I tell you, McCrary, you should tell them to self-fornicate,” said Horst. “They can't do a thing to us up here, so why put up with their crap?”

  “Because we're going to have to go back there some day, and I, for one, do not want to be hunted down on the streets.”

  “You mean like Subby.”

  “Exactly.”

  The hunt for Subraman Venderchanergee continued unabated on Earth. He was wanted more than any other figure in recent history. Many of the crew of the late Chaffee lent their names or reputations behind various hunt groups, and it was a hobby of sorts for people all over the world to photograph men of Southeastern Asian descent and post them online. The reward for capturing Subraman was rather high, making it a sort of lottery for the average citizen.

  “I don't want to be forced into a kind of Witness Protection just because I had to save my people.” McCrary was not depressed, however. Horst wasn't quite sure, but it seemed that McCrary was, what was the best word, joyful at the prospect of imminent action.

  “What's gotten into you, boss? If I didn't know better, you look just like you did just before you hatched the ShelterCan on Commander Lee. There's something in the works, isn't there?”

  McCrary clamped down on his expression. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he said.

  Horst smiled. “That confirms it. Your whole demeanor just changed. There's something in the wind, I just know it. Now, all I ask is you trust me with it sometime before the rest of the world knows about it, please?”

  McCrary stretched. “If and when, Horst. If and when. In the meantime, let me ask you, completely apart from this Mars Expedition distraction, what would be the next thing we should be working on here?”

  Horst scratched his head. “Well, let's see. We've got both greenhouses up and running. The central dome is shipshape, the laser field is at capacity. Oh, we could add more lasers, but they could only work half the time. How about a second Mighty Thor? Maybe not—no Hastalloy pipes or beryllium around up here. Probably don't want to make any nukes, and even if we had them, there's no way to fling them up to the impactors.”

  “So,” began McCrary, but Horst rode him down.

  “Wait. That's it. Work on the Flinger! But why? What do we have to use it for?”

  McCrary kept his peace this time. Horst performed a slow bunny-hop back and forth across McCrary's office, using just his toes for propulsion. At the wall, he performed a completely subconscious yet highly intricate turnaround move: a push towards the wall, a tuck and half-spin so that he hit the wall three feet up and in the fetal position, a slow push off the wall, and an unfolding to vertical posture once more. All the time he was muttering about possible cargo loads for the Flinger.

  “Maybe we can fling iron panels to the Expedition, and they could use those to build a flying bunker. No, no power plant to push it. Orbital flyby? Got to talk to Earth for that. Maybe some more thorium? Heh—fire a nuke on the backside of Mars, nobody on Earth would ever know.”

  “You know, Horst,” said McCrary, “you're going to have to unlearn some habits when you go back to Earth.”

  “Huh?” Horst performed another turnaround move. McCrary pointed to him.

  “You won't be able to do those in full gravity, you know.”

  Suddenly conscious of what he was doing, Horst completely screwed up the timing of his turnaround, over-rotated, and ended up in a heap at the base of the wall.

  “Something like that, only a lot faster,” opined McCrary. “By the way, you're mostly correct. We will need the Flinger, and rather soon, I am afraid, for the Mars Expedition. Better start working out the procedure to clear out the wrecked hoops, assess the system, and figure out how to rebuild it.”

  “Is this an endorsement?” asked Horst. “I thought you weren't going to pick a favorite suggestion.”

  “I'm not, but I can see the hand writing on the wall. Of all the suggestions, almost seven in eight would require the Flinger. It's a lead-pipe cinch that the top three would include at least one of them. So, let's get ahead of the curve. Besides, it would be something for our Moondogs to work on. There's been a lot of make-work time for them to earn their pay.”

  “What do you think we should be sending to the Expedition?” asked Horst.

  “Not gonna work,” said McCrary. “I'm still not endorsing any suggestions.”

  “Ms. Huertas is not going to like this,” said Horst, brushing himself off. “One gets you ten that she'll accuse you of getting it running so that you can nuke the Earth.”

  “Way ahead of you, Horst. I had her in here yesterday, pointed out which way the suggestions were going, and offered her a position on the Flinger targeting team. That way, when the button gets pushed, it's her finger on it, not mine.”

  “Wait—she's a suit mechanic. Does she even have the math for a spot on the targeting team?”

  “No, Horst, but she does have the jaws for it. I want her to have to explain, to not just her friends here but to the crews of the Expedition, why she can't send them something they're asking for. My bet is she won't. Also, she might not have the math now, but I will bet you a bottle of scotch that she'll have the math in less than a year.”

  “No bet, Chief. No way to pay off the bet anyway. She'll have to get the math just so she can double-check you. She doesn't trust anyone.”

  “Consider this my contribution to the continuing education of my crew, Horst. Now, I believe you have some work to do. Point your toes on those turnarounds next time, you're losing points among the judges.”

  Horst growled as he left.

  ***

  The Flinger was in bad shape, and would continue to be as long as it was subject to the random impacts of debris from The Event. Horst was not happy with his results.

  “It's terrible, boss,” he said. “Sure, the hoops are down, we knew that, and the power cable is chopped to hell, even though it was buried pretty deep.”

  McCrary was thumbing through the summary of the inspections. Since he read each one as it came in, he was more than ready for the grim result.

  “We can restore it, but we'll need to clear out all the radioactive debris from The Event
, then cut out over half of the hoops and manufacture more. The power supplies and the RF generator boxes survived on three quarters of the hoops, but the ones that didn't were completely unsalvageable. I don't know where we're going to get the components to build more. Those were Earth manufactured components.”

  “Mmmm,” McCrary answered. He appeared to be absent.

  Horst stopped briefing him. He recognized the look—McCrary was in that imaginary head space where equations and atoms and components rebounded and collided, guided by the laws of physics and experience. It was the space where McCrary created solutions. Some would say impossible solutions, but they worked the first time they were tried.

  Horst stood still, awaiting the result. The 'flow' or creative fugue, could be interrupted by almost anything and not return for hours or days. Were he to depart, McCrary would snap back to the here-and-now, his semi-solution forgotten as he wondered if he had irritated his subordinate. So, Horst stood and thanked God that he was in one-sixth gravity, for this looked like a long one.

  Thirty minutes later, McCrary's eyes took on a merry twinkle, and Horst relaxed with a sigh. The boss had come up with something.

  “Tell me, Horst, just exactly what does the box on the base of the hoops do?”

  Dammit, give me the solution, don't make me deduce it on my own! McCrary loved doing that—Socratic revelation. Horst used to appreciate it as a window into the thought processes of his superior. Now, though, it was much more like a punishment.

  “McCrary, I just spent thirty minutes waiting on you to figure this thing out. Just tell me, dammit. The old student on the other end of the log routine will cost me another hour. I've got things to do, and so do you.”

  McCrary blinked rapidly. “Was I gone that long? Damn. I'm sorry, Horst. All right—the one thing we can make here on the Moon are logic chips for the boards in the ShelterCans. All of that sophisticated circuitry in the Flinger is just there to turn on and off the electromagnet power in the hoops. I was thinking—why not let the loads themselves do that? It's like the old days—the way the old photographers did those bullet-through-the-apple pictures was to move a microphone closer to or further away from the pistol, and use the gunshot as the flashlamp trigger. We can use a laser and a photocell to do the same thing. When a load passes through a laser beam, we use that event to turn on the next hoop or turn off the one it's going through. Hell, photocells are easy to make out at The Works. There's no reason we can't have one for each discrete task. Just label them, and there's no worry.”

  Horst, as usual, was astonished at the simplicity. “I never would have thought of that. Let me guess—control is done by adjusting the location of the photocells?”

  “Correct. Oh, I'd put them on a threaded rod and let the computer spin the rod until they're at the right spot, but that's just mechanics. The idea behind it is sound.”

  “Good. Now, what about the current Flinger? When do you want me to dismantle it?” Horst had his pad out and was making notes.

  “I don't.” McCrary waited while the thought percolated through Horst's brain.

  “Say what? You don't want us to touch the Flinger?”

  “Remember what you said about the amount of debris around? No, we're not going to touch the current Flinger. Besides, I suspect some of the hoop foundations are compromised, and I don't want to go through the hassle of figuring out which ones, digging them out, putting in new ones, and all the tedious alignment work. Let's build a new one.”

  Horst stared at the boss. “I gotta sit down.”

  Deliverance

  UNSOC Lunar Colony Michael Collins, March 10, 2082, 2015 EDT

  Ashley felt it first. A dull ache in her lower back. She grimaced as she shifted position in her Controller's chair in Operations. On the surface, Moondogs and machines were performing a complex ballet as they continued to improve man’s lot on the Moon.

  She squirmed again, trying to get comfortable, when it hit her. Wait, how am I getting a backache in one-sixth gravity? She quickly called Peter Brinker. “Tell Doc I've got a lower backache, then get up here and relieve me. It's time.”

  “Be right there,” he said. “Lori says good luck.”

  Peter got up to Operations as fast as possible. “Good luck,” he said, shaking her hand formally. He leaned close and whispered, “I love you. Kick butt.” Ashley smiled faintly and bunny-hopped to Sick Bay.

  They were waiting for her. They had just finished prepping Lori.

  ***

  In the Operations module, Peter fretted. It was clearly impossible, of course, for him to be in Sick Bay. He had no plausible reason to be there once he had dropped Lori off ten minutes before Ashley's call.

  A shadow fell over his console. Peter twisted to look behind him.

  “McCrary.”

  “Peter. I can relieve you,” he said.

  Peter lowered his voice. “Don't. Might as well put up a flashing sign.”

  “I understand. Good luck.”

  Peter smiled. “I might be the last one to see them. I was supposed to relieve Ashley after her shift ended. Now it's a double.”

  “I'd gripe, if I were you,” murmured McCrary. “Deflect attention.”

  “I'll keep that in mind.”

  ***

  In Sick Bay, Doctor Kumar had both beds brought close together so that he didn't waste time running from one to the other. This was the easy part—just listen to fetal heartbeats, check on dilation, and assure the mothers that they were doing just fine. He smiled inwardly. Peter must be losing his mind.

  ***

  “…doing just fine,” said Doctor Kumar over the headset intercom. “It's going to be about four hours before things get interesting, so don't wear yourself out.”

  “Thank you. Let them know I'm thinking of them.”

  “Of course you are. Just don't send me any casualties from outside, though.”

  Peter twitched and checked out his board. No—everyone was doing what they needed to be doing. Nothing was any more unsafe than normal.

  “Thanks, Doc. Ops out.”

  ***

  A wave of pressure and pain rippled through Lori, and she gasped. Doctor Kumar glanced at his watch. “Forty-five seconds. Coming pretty close together now. Let's take a look.”

  He checked out the situation, then looked at her and smiled. “Time we prepped you. I'm sorry, but we don't have anything for the pain—we're not set up for an epidural.”

  “Doctor,” called Terence Hatchett, his assistant. “Is this 'crowning' on the other patient?”

  Oh, damn, they're coming at the same time!

  “Better get another stool in here, Hatchett. Looks like we're going for a photo finish.”

  “Damn,” said Terence. “I had money on Ms. Boardman.”

  “Well, there's always the gender sweepstakes to look forward to,” said Doctor Kumar, heading towards the sink to wash up.

  ***

  “About thirty minutes, tops,” said Doctor Kumar. “Everyone's doing fine. My assistant is taking Ms. Boardman, I'm doing Ms. Minelli. You're in good hands.”

  “Thanks, Doc. Better get back to them.”

  Peter fell back in his chair. Both at once? That's too much of a coincidence.

  “Operations? Frank Maleski here. Permission to take a buggy over to Grid Foxtrot? Got a ShelterCan to refurb.”

  Peter shook himself. “Roger, Maleski, permission granted.”

  “How's the baby race going?” asked Maleski. “Who do you have your money on?”

  Both of them. All four of them, really.

  “Rumor has it that it's going down to the wire. Boardman, of course. Got to support Operations.”

  “Funny neither father has stepped forward, or that the women are keeping it so quiet,” said Maleski. “I wonder if there's only one father! Imagine that. That guy must be freaking out.”

  You have no idea.

  “Nobody told me anything,” said Peter. “I can't see there being just one father. Three to one guy to gal
ratio up here. How can one guy snag one gal, let alone two?”

  “I've been trying for Sheila, but she's not interested. Good thing McCrary slammed the door on that. Imagine the battles.”

  That's why I ain't sayin' nothin'!

  “Well, you're cleared for Foxtrot, Maleski. I've got other traffic.”

  “Roger, Operations. Maleski, out.”

  ***

  “How's it looking?” called Doctor Kumar, as he held the infant's head in one hand and gently rotated the shoulders free of the birth canal. “OK, Lori, just one more push!”

  The little girl slipped into his waiting hands. He looked the girl over quickly, held her upside down, and briskly smacked her on her bottom.

  She spat out a little fluid and began crying.

  “Got an issue!” called Hatchett. “Cord around the shoulder!”

  One of the other patients with a broken ankle was seated with a sterile towel in his lap. “Let me,” he said. Doctor Kumar gave him the baby girl.

  “Towel off the goop and wrap her up in it. Leave the cord alone for now.” Kumar dodged around the mothers' legs and looked over the situation.

  “You keep hold of the baby. Ashley, do not push!” Kumar quickly eased the shoulder back into the birth canal, slipped the umbilical cord off the shoulder, then eased the shoulder out.

  “Get ready, Terence. OK, Ashley, one more push!”

  Terence was holding a little boy.

  “OK, Terence, hold him upside down and give him a smack.”

  Doctor Kumar clamped off the umbilicals and waited for the pulsing to subside in the cords.

  “Let me,” said Ashley, holding her hands out for the scissors.

  Kumar shrugged and handed them to her. She swiftly cut her son's umbilical cord and handed the scissors over to Lori.

  “Wait!” said Doctor Kumar. He wiped off the instrument, dipped it in a beaker of alcohol, and then handed it to Lori. She grimaced slightly and cut the cord before flopping back on the bed.