by Allen Steele
Melissa looked down at the floor. Even though she and I been on the Moon for almost nine weeks, MeeMee still hadn't gotten it through her head that Apollo High was a lot more serious than our school back home. She wasn't keeping up with her homework, was goofing off when she should be studying, and she'd sit in the back of the room and daydream when she needed to be paying attention. Occasionally she got away with it--MeeMee had always been good at conning teachers into believing that she was a better student than she really was--but at times like this her negligence became painfully obvious. I almost felt sorry for her, but not quite. If someone like Gabrielle, whose tongue was as sharp as her mind, wanted to come down on her, that was fine with me; I'd given up trying to change my sister's ways.
"Anyway," Melissa said, trying to save face, "I don't think they're going to attack us. Violence never solves anything."
The others regarded her with disbelief, and I wanted to crawl beneath my desk in embarrassment. Hannah was sitting across from me; she gave me a sympathetic smile and I refrained from rolling my eyes. Hannah knew that my sister could be a ditz at times.
"Actually, violence solves a lot of things," Logan said. "It's just messy, that's all."
Everyone laughed at this except Melissa. "I happen to be a pacifist," she replied, an arch tone in her voice.
"Oh, really?" Logan grinned at her. "You know what a cannibal calls a pacifist? Lunch."
That sparked even more laughter. My sister's face went red. "Oh, ha-ha-ha..."
"If you want to claim you're a pacifist," Logan went on, a little more seriously now, "that's your right. But if you were facing a hungry cannibal, I guarantee you'd forget all about being a pacifist and fight tooth and nail to stay alive."
Melissa scowled but didn't come back with anything. Maybe she couldn't. In any case, I decided to take the heat off her. "What do you think?" I asked Hannah. "You know Lina Shapar. What do you think she's going to do?"
Hannah winced, and I immediately regretted the question. She didn't like to discuss the fact that her late father had been president; all she wanted to do, really, was fit in with the other kids. She didn't duck the question, though. "Logan's right. She's a cannibal...I mean, totally ruthless. All she wants is power." She gave Melissa a sympathetic nod. "But you're right, too. There's other ways of staying out of the stew pot than killing the guy who's trying to eat you. You just have to figure out how."
The classroom door opened just then. We looked around, expecting to see Mr. Rupley, but instead Mr. Speci came in, followed by the guys who'd gone out to play. The principal stepped behind the desk and waited until everyone had returned to their seats before he spoke.
"I have an announcement to make," he began. "How many of you saw President Shapar's speech last night?" Almost everyone in the room raised their hands. "Good. Then you know what she said, especially the part about lunar resources. That means us...and it also means that we've got to be prepared for trouble if it comes our way."
He paused, letting his words sink in, then went on. "Several of you belong to the Rangers, even if you're still in training--" his gaze traveled to Logan and me "--while some have Colony Service jobs that are in vital areas of the community, like the hospital." He nodded to Hannah, who said nothing. "In any case, no matter what you do, each and every one of you have essential roles that are going to be important over the next...well, however long it is before this situation is resolved. And as important as your education is, right now you need to be spending more time at your tasks than you do here in the classroom."
Everyone glanced at one another, not quite believing what we were hearing. If Mr. Speci noticed, though, he paid no attention. "I've spent the morning discussing this with the school board and the city manager," he went on, "and we've decided that classes at both Apollo High and Apollo Elementary will be suspended until further notice."
I looked over at Hannah; she was just as surprised as I was. Melissa made a little squeal of delight that she quickly stifled when she realized that no one was sharing her joy. Everyone else was too stunned by what we'd just heard.
"So...well, I guess that's about it." Mr. Speci said. "Rangers, please report immediately to Search and Rescue to begin special training. Everyone else, you're to go to your jobs where you'll receive new assignments. We'll let you know when classes will be resumed."
He seemed to be at a loss for what to do next, so he simply turned and walked out of the room. For a second or two, no one said anything. Melissa jumped up from her seat and practically danced out the door, but the rest of us just stood up and shuffled away. School was out, but there was little reason to celebrate.
Everything had just changed, and not for the better.
Two hours later, the Rangers were assembled in Airlock 7, waiting for the outer door to open. For the first time since I'd joined them, all thirty-six members of Lunar Search and Rescue were in the same place at the same time, from Third Class provos like Logan and me all the way to the First Class pros. Mr. Garcia had called a full muster, but he hadn't yet told us why, only that we were expected to be in our suits and ready to moonwalk at 1200 sharp.
The airlock doors rolled open, and we tramped up the ramp into the lunar late-afternoon. Another long night was coming, and Earth was a silver crescent, shedding little light upon the shadows that had begun to stretch across the grey terrain. By then, I'd gone EVA plenty of times; it no longer felt strange to wear a moonsuit, and Arthur had become a friendly acquaintance, a kindly English gentleman ready to help me when necessary. A few of the First Class guys still treated me like I was a kid, but most had come to accept me as a fellow Ranger, albeit inexperienced. So I was with my crew, ready to take whatever was thrown at me.
We bounced and bunny-hopped out to the vacant field where Logan and I been doing most of our training over the past several weeks. A rover pulling a two-wheeled equipment cart was parked there. About twenty yards away, a row of discarded radiator panels had been erected on vertical stands. Someone had cut sheets of red insulation film into concentric circles and used epoxy goop to attach them to the panels; they looked like targets, and as it turned out, that's exactly what they were.
Once everyone was gathered in a semi-circle, Mr. Garcia stepped in front of us. "Gentlemen, the day has come that I hoped never would," he began. "Until now, our primary function has been to provide emergency services for Apollo. That's still our job, but we now have a new function...serving as the colony's first and last line of defense. Yet our motto remains the same. Let's hear it."
"Failure is not an option," several people said. It came out as a ragged and half-hearted chorus that I barely heard through my communications carrier.
"Sorry, that's not good enough," the Chief Ranger said. "Let me hear it again."
"Failure is not an option!" This time I said it too, along with everyone else.
"I'm still not hearing you!"
"FAILURE IS NOT AN OPTION!" It became a determined, full-throated yell that made my ears ache.
"Outstanding...and never forget it." Mr. Garcia turned to a Ranger standing at the right end of the semicircle. "Mikel, will you help me, please?" Mikel Borakov, a First Class who'd been one of my instructors, skipped over to him. "In order to accomplish this, we will need to show most of you how to do something that hasn't been included in regular Search and Rescue training...how to handle lunar-rated firearms. Mikel has had this sort of training, and so have I and a couple of others, but the majority of you haven't. In fact, I don't believe most of you have ever fired a gun in your lives."
He was right. My only previous experience with guns was playing combat games on my pad, and I was sure that didn't count. "Most people here don't know this," Mr. Garcia continued, "but Apollo has a small arsenal, provided to us by the United States in case our friends in the Pacific Socialist Union should ever decide to mount an attack upon us from Moon Dragon." He paused, perhaps wondering if he should mention the ironic fact that we'd be using those same weapons to defend ourselves aga
inst our benefactors, then went on. "Mikel, would you show them our guns, please?"
Mikel went over to the trailer and opened its side panel. Stacked inside were dozens of long plastic containers, each with a red caution triangle stamped on its side. "There are thirty-five HK L-11 carbines in this trailer," the Chief Ranger continued, "along with three hundred rounds of ammunition. Fifteen more carbines are in storage, along with another nine thousand, seven hundred rounds of ammo. This, gentlemen and ladies, constitutes the entirety of our small-arms cache."
Through my headset, I heard low whistles and disgusted murmurs. Someone cursed, and someone else told him to shut up. "Obviously, we're a bit short of firearms," Mr. Garcia said, and a few bitter laughs came in response. "However, we also have five shoulder-mounted grenade launchers and two hundred and fifty grenades, sixty short-range mortar rockets...and something else. Turn around and look behind you."
We turned to see that something had moved up behind us while we weren't looking, an enormous vehicle which I first thought was a regolith hauler from the mines. As it came closer, though, I saw that it moved upon caterpillar treads instead of wheels, and upon its flat bed was a long gun mounted on a swivel turret. A driver sat within a transparent dome up front, and laser targeting apparatus stood atop a post beside the canopy.
"This is a..." Mr. Garcia began, and then suddenly yelled, "Incoming!"
I turned around so fast that I almost lost my balance. Even as I struggled to keep from falling over, though, I spotted what he'd seen. Beyond Apollo, rising into the black sky above the Ptolemaeus's western ridge, was a small object that reflected the sunlight and left a reddish-orange trail behind it.
A missile, launched from the other side of the nearby mountains. It reached its apogee, then it turned downward and began to hurtle straight toward Apollo.
For a second or two, no one moved. I think the other Rangers were just as surprised as I was, stunned motionless by the notion that an attack would come so soon from such an unexpected direction.
Then everyone snapped out of it. We began to run in all directions at once, bouncing or bunny-hopping away in a mad scramble to find cover in the open field. A couple of guys leaped behind the trailer, while a few others turned to flee back to the crater. Through my headset, I heard a cacophony of voices:
"Down, down...!"
"Hit the dirt!"
"Where the hell did that...?"
"Rangers! Stand down!" The Chief's voice broke through the panic. "Blitzgewehr...fire!"
I happened to be looking at the tractor when he yelled, so I saw what happened next. The giant gun swiveled about on its turret, moving so fast that it almost seemed to blur. Then a narrow beam the color of a lightning bolt lanced from its barrel. The gun made no sound as it fired, and neither did the missile when it exploded a half-second later.
For a few moments, no one said anything. We all watched as the twisted, blackened pieces of metal that had once been the missile tumbled to the ground, disappearing from sight beyond the crater. I think the other Rangers had caught on to what had just happened; if they didn't, though, Mr. Garcia provided an explanation.
"Gentlemen, ladies...that was a demonstration," he said. "The missile was one of ours. It didn't have a warhead, and it was launched from a site outside Ptolemaeus. Even if my little toy hadn't brought it down, it would have landed about a half-mile east of Apollo. You would have seen it fly overhead just before it crashed."
Mr. Garcia turned toward the gun. "Now that you've been introduced...meet the Blitzgewehr PBW-1, a mobile artillery piece provided to us by our German partners. Its gun fires a neutral-charge particle beam at nearly the speed of light toward whatever its operator targets with his laser sight. Once its fire-control computer is activated, it can automatically track, lock onto, and fire upon several missiles at once. It can take out missiles launched at us from either the ground or the sky, and even defend us from low-orbit spacecraft. Any questions?"
"Sir...?" This from Mahmoud Chawla, a Ranger First Class who'd given me a couple of tips about getting into my suit with a minimum of hassle. "I haven't seen this before, and I don't think anyone else has either. Are we missing something, or has this been kept secret until now?"
"Yes, Mahmoud, it has. The Blitzgewehr was transported here in sections several months ago and secretly assembled in a closed area of the garage. Very few people knew of its existence because we didn't want the PCU to think that we might use it to attack Moon Dragon...although we have little doubt that they have a PBW of their own. But the powers that be don't want to do anything that might provoke the Chinese, so nothing has been said about it."
"Is this the only one?" Nicole asked.
"I hate to say it, Ms. Doyle, but, yes, it is. The Germans have a second Blitzgewehr--incidentally, the name means 'lightning gun,' in case you're interested--on the drawing board, but they haven't yet had a chance to build it, let alone send it here. So we're going to have to make do with just this one. I think that'll be sufficient. Any other questions?"
Mr. Garcia waited a moment. When no one spoke, he went on. "All right, you've seen that the gun works fine. I wish I could say the same for the rest of you. Your response was pathetic. No, worse than pathetic...it was embarrassing. You were slow, and a couple of you--" he turned toward the two men who'd tried to take cover behind the trailer "--were borderline cowards. I realize that most of you have no combat training, but that's not an excuse. If Apollo is attacked, our friends and family will be counting on us to defend them...and since there's only three dozen of us, that means no one can run and hide when trouble comes."
He paused, almost as if daring someone to disagree with him. No one did. Everyone knew what we'd done--or rather, what we hadn't done--during the phony missile attack. I was ashamed of myself, and I'm sure the others were, too.
"That's going to change," Mr. Garcia continued. "From now on, being a Ranger is your first priority...you've been relieved of all other responsibilities. At 0800 each and every morning, we will meet here for drill, which will include special training in small arms and military tactics." He turned toward me. "Mr. Barlowe? You and Mr. Marguiles will continue your Third Class training, with Ms. Doyle and Mr. Tate as your instructors. In two weeks, I want both of you ready to take your walkabouts. No excuses...understand?"
"Yes...yes, sir," I stuttered, and when Logan said that the same thing, I could tell that he was just as stunned as I was. It usually took months of training before a Ranger Third Class was ready for walkabout; Billy had to do it twice before he passed, and he'd been in Lunar Search and Rescue for over a year. It seemed impossible that Logan and I could be ready go solo by the beginning of the next lunar day. Yet the Chief wasn't giving us a choice. We would be ready; failure was not an option.
"Very good." Mr. Garcia pointed toward the trailer. "All right, ladies and gentlemen...gather round Mikel here, and he'll show you how to use a gun."
And that was the beginning of my career as a citizen soldier.
Officially, the Rangers were still a peacetime outfit; Lunar Search and Rescue was supposed to be doing just that, nothing more. Everyone knew better, though. We'd been drafted to fight a war that none of us wanted but which was being thrust upon us anyway: thirty-six men and women, charged with protecting Apollo from a foe which, only a few weeks ago, we would have considered to be our friend. If I still had any illusions that I was never going to have to go into combat, they evaporated as soon as I was given a gun.
At first glance, the HK-11 lunar carbine looked like an ordinary military assault weapon, save that it had only a rudimentary butt. The resemblance pretty much ended there. In fact, it operated on different principles entirely. A round ammo drum that jutted out from below its stock contained thirty rounds of what were called bullets, but which were actually 9mm hollow-point projectiles that were fired by a miniature electromagnetic catapult contained within the barrel. Sort of like having a little magcat of my own. This meant that the gun had virtually no recoil: no
gunpowder, no kick. The butt was there only to brace and balance the weapon.
Although a sight was mounted above the barrel, it wasn't meant to be used visually. No one wearing a moonsuit would be able raise the gun high enough to gaze through a normal sight, let alone get a good fix on the target, because his helmet faceplate would get in the way. So the gun used a virtual gunsight instead. Once the carbine was interfaced with my suit computer, all I had to do was raise it to my chest and point it at the desired target, and a translucent red crosshairs would appear within my faceplate. When I moved the gun, the crosshairs would move as well, until I had a dead bead on whatever it was I wanted to shoot. I could select laser, ultraviolet, or infrared for the targeting medium.
Once I was ready to fire, I'd curl my index finger around the trigger and the gun would kick out a bullet. And if I kept pressure upon the trigger for longer than two seconds, the carbine would shift to full-auto mode and keep firing at a rate of thirty rounds per minute, until I either relaxed my finger or ran out of ammo.
In theory, the bullets could penetrate a moonsuit's polymer shell, although in actual practice that meant getting a direct hit at ten feet or less. But helmet faceplates were vulnerable, as were the elastic joints at a suit's shoulders, elbows, wrists, waist, hips, knees, and ankles. We were told to aim for those joints; a head or stomach shot would be instantly fatal, while an arm or leg shot would cripple or immobilize an attacker.
Another target was a suit's life support pack. A direct hit at close range could penetrate the oxygen-nitrogen tanks and cause the suit to lose pressure. However, that would mean shooting someone in the back, and I don't think any of us were bloodthirsty enough to do that. As Mr. Garcia said, few of the Rangers had military experience, so it was hard for most of us to even consider killing another human being. Lunar Search and Rescue was supposed to save lives, not end them. It was particularly difficult for Americans like myself to think that we may have to soon go up against US Marines; their space infantry would probably be the ones sent to the Moon, and I didn't like the idea of shooting someone from my own country.