by Allen Steele
“Phil Carson, United Media.”
Without a word, the Marine moved out of his way, and pushed the hatch shut behind him. MainOps was a long cylindrical compartment designed without deference to gravity: duty stations above one another, with chairs fixed on either side of open-grid decks so that one crewman’s head was often upside-down next to another’s shoulders. The command center was dimly lit by flatscreens and recessed fluorescent tubes; the only sounds were the electronic chitter of computers, and the soft voices of men and women strapped into chairs before workstations.
“Carson. Up here.”
Phil looked up, spotted Joni seated in her alcove. Someone was with her, but he couldn’t tell who it was. “Coming up,” he replied, then he grabbed the fireman’s pole running through the center of the compartment and pulled himself along it. It wasn’t until he reached her station that he saw who else was there.
“What took you so long?” Mariano asked.
“Rush hour.” He was mildly surprised to see George. “What, there’s a shortcut I don’t know about?”
“I was shooting the soldiers coming aboard when I got the call.” He gently pushed aside the camera dangling loosely on its strap; Phil noticed the lens was capped. “Nice to be here,” he said to Joni, “but I wish you’d relax the rules a bit.”
Joni shook her head. No apology offered, no explanation required. No one wanted to risk a net photo of MainOps being enhanced and studied by the opposition. “You’ll get all the pictures you want,” she said. “If you cooperate, of course.”
“What sort of cooperation are you talking about?” Phil asked.
“Just a moment.” Joni cupped a hand around her headset mike, murmured something. “We’ll have company in a second,” she said. “Make yourselves comfortable.”
Phil found an unoccupied foot restraint, slipped his feet within its stirrups. A few meters away was the traffic control station; peering over the shoulder of the duty officer, he noticed a half-dozen or more blips moving slowly around the three radial bars of the radar screen. Military OTVs, no doubt, holding orbit around Olympus while men and materiel were transferred aboard the station. Operation Lunar Freedom was shifting into high gear.
Someone floated next to him; Phil turned to see a thin, fox-faced man in his late fifties. The shoulder patch of his cammies bore the rocket-and-lightning bolt insignia of the 4th Space, but the four stars sewn to his collar was what caught his attention.
“Gentlemen,” Joni said quietly, “General Errol Ballou, the CO of this operation. General, this is Phil Carson and George Mariano, both from United Media.”
Carson and Mariano caught each other’s eye. The commanding officer in charge of Lunar Freedom. Whatever this was about, it wasn’t going to be on the same lines as the press conference a few hours earlier.
Gen. Ballou didn’t smile as he shook their hands in a perfunctory way. “Gentlemen, this meeting is off the record. Anything we discuss here is on deep background. No publication, no attribution. Mr. Carson, I trust you’re not recording this.”
“Uh…no. No, I’m not.” He pulled his datapad from his pocket, held it up to show that its LED was dark. Joni extended her hand; Phil hesitated, then surrendered the pad to her. She checked to make sure it was switched off, then gave it back to him.
“Thank you, sir,” Ballou said. “We’re on a tight schedule, so let’s make this short. I’m told that you’ve volunteered to cover the ground phase of the operation.”
“Yes, sir, we…” Phil’s voice was a dry croak; he cleared his throat. “Excuse me. George and I have been on the Moon before, both of us, so we’ve been certified for…”
“I know. We’ve checked your records just to make sure that you weren’t trying to put one over. At least thirty hours of moonwalks, each of you.”
“So I…uh, I take it you’re interested in our proposal,” Mariano said.
“More or less.” A short silence; Ballou seemed to be sizing them up. “You’re better qualified to cover the ground phase than your colleagues,” he said at last. “But I’m still unwilling to put the two of you into a combat situation. When our forces touch down at Mare Tranquillitatis we’re not expecting a quiet stroll. Our intelligence indicates the Pax will be expecting us, and we’ll probably have to fight our way to the Descartes highlands.”
So Phil’s guess was right; they were planning to make Mare Tranquillitatis the landing zone “However,” the general continued, “I’m put in the position of having to balance your personal safety against the public’s right to know why we’re doing this. You two are best suited for the job, and you’ve offered to represent the press, and that’s why I’m sending you to the Moon.”
“Thank you, sir,” Phil said. George murmured the same.
Ballou shook his head. “Don’t thank me yet, guys. You haven’t heard the rest.”
Warm darkness. The low background hum of an air-circulation system. The sound of bare feet padding across plastic tiles.
He opened his eyes in time to see something move past tiny red and blue lights. A door opened, allowing a shaft of light to enter the room, then a small figure—a child?—darted through the door. It closed again, and once more he was alone.
Phil felt around himself; his hands moved across a thick blanket until they found the edge of the bed. He raised his left hand to his chest, discovered that he was naked under the covers. He focused on the tiny lights: the readouts of a medical monitor.
“Lights on,” he murmured, and ceiling panels flickered to life. He squinted, raised a hand to his eyes. He appeared to be in an infirmary: white-painted mooncrete walls lined with cabinets, a small sink in the corner, an oxygen mask dangling from a hook above his bed. There was a slight soreness in the crook of his left arm; looking down, he noticed a small bandage on the inside of his elbow. Yet there seemed to be nothing wrong with him; he was weak, but otherwise uninjured.
Phil carefully climbed out of bed. The room was much colder now that he was out from under the covers. Rubbing his goosepimpled arms, he looked around for clothing of any sort, even if it was only a surgical robe. Finding nothing, he pulled the blanket off the bed and wrapped it around himself.
Next order of business was finding the head. A door on the other side of the room led to a tiny water closet; he relieved himself in a bare steel commode, and noted that, when he stepped away, only a minimal amount of water was squirted into the bowl as it automatically flushed.
He stepped out of the w.c., went to one of the cabinets, opened it and found a pack of bandages. He held it at shoulder height, then let it go. The pack fell straight down, but slowly; it took almost two seconds to hit the floor.
“I wish you wouldn’t play with the medical supplies, Mr. Carson. They’re rather scarce just now, and can’t be easily replaced.”
He looked around. In the small room, the filtered voice sounded as if it was coming from everywhere at once. “Sorry. Just trying to figure out if I was still on the Moon.” He scanned the ceiling, searching for the lens of a hidden camera.
“You’ve deduced that fact by yourself.” The voice was male, somewhat young, but with a European accent and not the quasi-Southern drawl of a loonie. It came from a small grid near the door. Phil still couldn’t find the lens.
“Well, thanks for bringing me here…wherever here is.” Although he had a good idea.
“You’re welcome. Oh, stop looking for the camera. It’s located behind one of the ceiling panels…I forget which one, but it’s there.”
“Sort of figured as much.”
“If you’ll be patient, I’ll come meet you. I imagine you want some clothes, too.”
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
“None at all. Be there soon.”
“Sure. Okay.” He sat down on the edge of the bed. As an afterthought, he picked up the bandage pack and put it back where he’d found it. A few minutes later, he heard footsteps coming down the corridor. The door opened again, and his benefactor stepped int
o the room.
Tall, slender, only a few years older than Phil himself. Narrow-boned face, sallow complexion, thin blond hair brushed straight back from his angular forehead and tied behind his neck in a short ponytail. Wearing a white lab coat over an old brown sweater. There was a bundle of clothes beneath his arm.
“Good morning. I trust you’re well rested.”
“Can’t complain. Is it morning?”
“Only in a manner of speaking. It’s still midday local time, but the last time I checked the clock, it was 0900 GMT.” A quick smile. “Time’s not something I much pay attention to down here.” He dropped the clothes on the bed next to him: drawstring trousers, a pullover shirt, underwear, moccasins, a pair of 10-kilo anklets. “Hope they fit. I had to guess your size.”
“Thanks.” Phil picked up the trousers; a little long for him, but better than wearing a blanket. “Guess you’re the guy who found me…found us, I mean. Where’s…?”
“Your friend? Safe and sound.” He nodded toward the clothes. “Get dressed, that’s the first step.”
Carson stood up, picked up the underwear. He half-expected the other man to modestly turn away, but he didn’t. “So…uh, where am I?”
“Sosigenes Center. A small research facility near Sosigenes Crater, maintained and staffed…at least until recently…by a certain Earth-based company. Don’t you want to get dressed?”
“Yeah, sure.” He turned his back, shrugged off the blanket, stepped into the underwear. He felt the stranger’s eyes upon him. “Located underground, I guess.”
“What makes you think that?”
Phil felt his face grow warm. He was glad that he had turned away from the other man. “Nothing. Just a hunch.”
“Ah. So. Yes.” Each word a distinct syllable. “Yes, we’re located underground. Thirty meters, to be exact. This facility was built within lava tubes, with only a few components on the surface. Airlock dome, garage, solar farm, and so forth…everything else is down here.”
The trousers fit better than he expected, although he had to roll up the cuffs a few centimeters to keep them from dragging on the floor. “What sort of research?”
“Biological. Aren’t you concerned with other things first?”
A bio-research lab. Ballou’s information had been correct. Phil turned around, picked up the shirt. “My friend. His name’s George Mariano, and he’s…”
“A news photographer, yes. Just as you’re a journalist.” A small nod. “George is safe. He’s in the next room, being treated for his injuries. A broken leg, mild concussion, shock…he’s undergone nanosurgical therapy, though, and he’s regained consciousness. We’ll soon be joining him.”
“So you know who we are.”
The other man chuckled. His discomforting gaze didn’t waver as Phil pulled the shirt over his head. “Of course. The first thing I did after bringing you down here was download your suits’ memory chips. You’re both correspondents, covering the war for United Media International. I take it that you were separated from your unit.”
“Our lander was shot down. It crashed about thirty klicks west of here. George and I were the only survivors.” The shirt fit better than the pants. “So you were driving the…?”
“The rover you spotted, yes. It wasn’t necessary for you to jump up and down like that. I saw you as soon as you entered the outer perimeter. You’re quite brave, hauling your friend on a stretcher all that way. Very commendable, given the circumstances.”
“Circumstances?”
“Neither of you had more than fifteen minutes of oxygen left. You wouldn’t have made it here on your own. It was only fortunate I happened to be scanning the area. When I picked up your radio signal, I came out to retrieve you.” He paused, and then added: “If you’d left him behind, you wouldn’t have used up so much oxygen.”
“Never occurred to me.”
“Indeed.”
Silence fell between them as Phil pulled on the moccasins and fastened the ankle weights. The more he thought about what his benefactor had just said, the less he liked him. Nor did he appreciate being studied; at first he thought it might be sexual interest, but now he realized that it was more clinical in nature, as if he was an interesting specimen.
“What’s this about?” Phil gently peeled aside the bandage he’d found on his arm; there was a small puncture mark within his elbow, surrounded by a yellow disinfectant stain. “Did you inject me with something?”
“Only glucose. You were rather dehydrated when I found you. I took you off IV a while ago.”
“Uh-huh.” Glancing around, he spotted a post with an empty plastic sack dangling from it. “Since you know our names, maybe you’d like to tell me yours.”
Hesitation. “Moreau. You can call me Moreau.”
“Just Moreau?”
“Yes.”
“So, Mr. Moreau…”
A dry chuckle. “Dr. Moreau, if you please.”
Something tugged at his memory, but he couldn’t quite place it. “Dr. Moreau, how many people are at this facility? Besides yourself, I mean.”
“I’m here alone.” For the first time since he entered the room, Moreau turned away. “Sosigenes usually supports a staff of fifty people…researchers like myself, for the most part…but when the Pax learned that an invasion was imminent, the others were evacuated to Descartes. I volunteered to remain behind and make sure that none of our ongoing experiments were disturbed.”
Phil frowned. “You know, I could be wrong, but…”
“Yes?”
When I woke up, I thought I saw a child leaving the room. Didn’t you just say that you were alone? But he didn’t voice his thoughts. “Never mind. Do you have any idea what’s going on out there? The invasion, I mean. I saw something that looked like a battle…”
Moreau kept his back turned to him. “I’m afraid it’s come out badly. Most of the Marines were killed, the rest routed from Mare Tranquillitatis. Major casualties among the Free Militia as well, but the Americans suffered worse.”
“Damn.” Then he remembered where he was. “Of course, that means your side won. Shouldn’t you be…?”
“Pleased?” A long sigh; Moreau folded his arms across his chest, lowered his head. “War isn’t a game, Mr. Carson, regardless of however much we may pretend otherwise. Our violent tendencies are the worst attribute of the human species. You might view it otherwise, but personally, I grieve for the lives lost today, regardless of whose side they were on.”
It was the first thing Moreau had said in the last few minutes that Phil believed. The man might be a liar, yet first and foremost he was a humanist. “No argument there. There’s stories I’d rather cover than a war.”
Moreau glanced over his shoulder. “Really? A story more significant than war?”
“Is there something more significant?” Moreau smiled. “Let’s look in on your friend. Perhaps he’s ready for a bite to eat. After that…well, we’ll see.”
Mariano was in the next room, sitting on an examination table as he was carefully pulling his drawstring trousers over the semirigid plastic cast that encased his right leg. Moreau took a few moments to examine him. “The compound fractures in your femur and patella have been rejoined,” he said, “but it’s still new bone. You’ll need to avoid putting any weight on your leg for a couple of days. I’ll see if I can find something for you to use as a cane.”
He left the room, leaving Phil alone with George. There was an uneasy silence; George didn’t seem to want to look at him. “Guess I should say thanks,” he murmured. “I’d probably be dead now if it weren’t for…”
“Forget it. You would have done the same for me.”
“Don’t count on it,” he replied, but it was with a wry smile. George winced as he pulled a shirt over his head, then peered at the bandage on his left arm. “What the hell?”
“Glucose on IV. He said we were suffering from dehydration.”
“Swell. So what do you make of this place? Think this is what Ballou wa
s talking about”
“Could be. It’s in the right location, near Sosigenes Crater. Or at least that’s what Dr. Moreau just told me.”
“Who?” Phil repeated it, and George shook his head. “Yeah, right. I’m sure that’s really his name.”
“Why don’t you think so?”
“Haven’t read H.G. Wells, have you?” George raised an eyebrow. “And you call yourself a writer. But it does give us a clue as to what’s going on here.”
“He said it was bio research, but he didn’t…”
Footsteps outside the room. Mariano raised a finger to his lips just as Moreau reappeared, carrying a titanium walking stick of the sort used by lunar hikers. “This should help a bit,” he said, handing it to George. “I imagine you’re both hungry. If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to the commissary.”
The corridor was narrow and circular, winding its way around what appeared to be a central core. It was deserted, or at least so far as Phil could tell; all they could hear was a low hum from the ceiling air vents. The doors they passed were shut, but he noted that they were all coded with numbers that began with the digit 3. Moreau noticed his curiosity. “Sosigenes Center is a new facility,” he explained. “My company built it just a few years ago, and until now it’s been…well, not that well known.”
Carson glanced at Mariano; the photographer gazed back at him, his eyes wide. As General Ballou had told them, the lab was secret. Yet if it was, Moreau was being unusually candid about its existence, particularly in the presence of two journalists. “So what sort of work have you been doing here?” Phil asked, wondering just how far he could take the line of query.
Moreau didn’t say anything at first. He strolled ahead of them, slow enough for George to keep up with him. “At first it was principally agricultural,” he replied after a moment. “We were developing ways of genetically engineering new species of various crops…corn, wheat, soybeans, and so forth…for easier cultivation in a low-gravity environment.” He plucked at the sleeve of his sweater. “Our first success was with Cannabis sativa. We managed to develop a new strain that yields taller plants in lunar conditions. Your clothes, for instance, are made from lunar hemp.”