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ICE
SHADOWS
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{a novel}
W.R. Heustis
ALSO BY W.R. HEUSTIS
Drifting in the Sea of Life
The Mystical Gospel of Miriam
The Stone Turtle
Pathos & Catharsis
The Sage of Big Sur
Diddly
Return from the Edge
The Human Curse
The Distinct Sense of Evil
Ninety-Six Words for Love
Broken Brain
The End of Magnificence: 2050
The Place Where Wild Horses Go to Die
Quiet Silver
Unfolding Reality
Ghetto Buddha Trilogy
Shadow Boxing With the Moon
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ICE
SHADOWS
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{a novel}
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MYSTERIUM PRESS
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P O U L S B O, W A
Poulsbo, Washington 98370
ICE SHADOWS.
Copyright ©2021 by W.R. Heustis
This is a work of fiction and the incidents portrayed are products of the author’s imagination, and are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner electronic or mechanical without written permission from the author except for articles and reviews.
Cover design by the author
For my father:
He always wanted to go into space
but knew he never would.
CHAPTER ONE
I wouldn’t be here if it hadn’t been for someone’s bright idea…you know, about putting human DNA on the moon. I wasn’t made aware of that until some time after it was first decided and then announced. But when I was told about it, my first question was: Whose DNA was chosen? No one seemed to know. Maybe it was classified or top secret? What criteria did “they” use to determine whose DNA best represented the human race? What human being was appointed to be the source DNA if things went south back on earth? I can tell you it wasn’t mine. But because of that one decision, a number of events began to unfold. And that was in conjunction with what was at first envisioned as the “Artemis Program” or establishing an active, long-term human colony on the moon.
The movement toward further development was now focused on our capacity to not only get to space efficiently but also to live there. It’s one thing to simply deliver men and women astronauts to the International Space Station (ISS). But it’s another thing entirely when you propose putting people on the moon for an extended stay. There is a lot to consider. Perhaps a lot more than even experts might realize. Before you even begin to conceive let alone design, let alone fabricate a lunar infrastructure that previously didn’t exist, you need to step back and consider what could go wrong. Sure, a lot had been learned through years of continued occupancy on the ISS. Decades of improvements and innovative solutions were there, floating out in space.
But it’s different when you are expected to live off of the food or produce you grow in a highly restrictive environment—rather than depend on it being delivered weekly by spaceship. It’s in another category entirely when you are informed that you will be harvesting ice on the moon as the primary source for both water and oxygen. After all, no one had ever done that before. In some early concepts, it was an idea with potential. But could it work in an actual living situation? Could someone living on the moon reside close enough to the darkest and coldest regions of Earth’s satellite to survive the cold and yet have enough time and oxygen in a self-contained spacesuit to harvest enough ice to live? But let’s get real, shall we? We’re talking about -250 degrees Fahrenheit in the shade. Even the most well-lubricated machine might freeze up under those demanding conditions. Only a select group of metals could tolerate such extremes in temperature. That was some of the early conjecture being considered before things began to move forward in earnest.
Ever since SpaceX started to become the go-to, dependable source for short-range space travel, getting to the space station had become routine. And when they received the exclusive contract for all of the NASA lunar projects, they became the established leader in space flights leading to advanced exploration. Reusable launch vehicles had refined the process to the point where multiple launches each month were not only feasible but were well established. But behind all of that was something no one saw coming. But when it did, it rocked the space industry. When the idea of creating a privately funded lunar resort was initially proposed, many scoffed at the idea. It was preposterous and ridiculous. Isn’t that what they said? Those in authority thought they could control private enterprise. But they were wrong. But behind that ambition was something far more sinister, something far more personal.
What with SpaceX committed to a long-term government contract, another space-oriented enterprise filled in the perceived void. Delivering human DNA was one thing; but what about actual human beings living outside of the range of pandemics, wars, and violent insurrections? What if a chosen group of wealthy individuals, as well as investors, viewed the moon as their private refuge—where regardless of what was happening back on earth they could be safely cocooned in their lunar retreat?
But that’s what began to happen, didn’t it? That concept was initiated. What once was but a wild and seemingly impossible dream started to become a reality. The strictly confidential promotional information said it all: Imagine living in a world free from most if not all human sicknesses. Many of the cancer-causing sources found on earth would be a thing of the past, but especially in an entirely controlled environment. Think of the reduced pressure on your body. As a result of decreased gravity and how that would feel while living on the moon—or, in other words, only 17 percent gravitational pull of the earth—arthritis, back and joint pain would all disappear. A sense of freedom would be there with every bounding leap.
From the outside, all of this seemed like an impossible dream that started to become a reality. With enough money, you and your family could escape the madness—but especially when environmental conditions worsened to the point where climate refugees were becoming the most pressing issue confronting the northern and southernmost regions of the earth. This was to be a safe harbor. It was blessed with an extraordinary Earthrise view. You could live safely ensconced in a temperature-controlled environment while a trained masseuse massaged away your every concern. While you relaxed under the securely maintained environ-dome, you could read your favorite author or enjoy your favorite video game. And all the while, you would be freed from the myriad conflicts raging back on your home planet.
So that’s how it all began. But as for me…that’s another subject entirely. I wasn’t wealthy by any means. I wasn’t a close family member of one of the founding executives that helped make Lunar Base One a reality. No, instead, I was scouted, identified, and then offered the opportunity to be the foreman of the construction crew. That also meant I was to be a member of the first colony of human beings living on the lunar surface. That’s right. My background was not only in design/build but also troubleshooting, repair, and maintenance. I had worked for NASA for a time. I knew the demanding standards required for living in space. I was part of a select group of individuals that understood the intricacies involved in assembling airtight environments. Not only had I worked on space modules, but I had also done considerable work designing and building deep-sea submersibles.
Both demanded precision work. Even a slight misstep would lead to disaster. But
to be clear—and it’s important to make this distinction—working on the moon is nowhere near the same as on earth. The feeling is so different that there is no comparison. For one, you feel as if you have astounding strength. What was next to impossible to lift on earth seemed effortless in the reduced gravity environment. Or, to be precise, any object is one-sixth of its former weight in the lunar environment. One man can lift or move things once unimagined. But there is also the issue of wearing a spacesuit along with somewhat cumbersome gloves. Small magnets were attached to each finger. That is not to say, however, that even thinking about attempting something requiring acute dexterity was out of the question. Small screws or bolts were pointless and next to impossible to use. Putting the basics together with Velcro would have been far easier. But again, what we are talking about in this sort of demanding construction is such a tight and demanding fit that there’s absolutely no room for error. Every part has to fit perfectly and then seal tightly to maintain an airtight environment.
But then you have to take into account the working conditions. First, a spacesuit has obvious limitations. Under normal circumstances, our typical field of vision is beyond 180°. But with a space helmet on, that decreases considerably. That also means that you have to slow everything down. If one were to make an overly aggressive move and potentially run into a portion of the superstructure, even a slight tear in the multi-layered spacesuit material would spell immediate disaster. You would be gasping for air as you did all you could to get back into the living module. When our spacesuits were first being designed, I pushed the designers to come up with some sort of self-healing material. In the event of what I just described happening, that sort of material would easily save one’s life. But time was of the essence; those at the top of the corporation had an aggressive timeline to meet. Given time and the inclination, later improvements might be added that might include what I had proposed. But for now, we had to be mindful of our every move. And forget about trying to back up. Considering the rock-strewn nature of the lunar surface, you were far better off always moving forward. Even if the surface appeared somewhat smooth, a layer of moon dust often covered potential trip hazards.
But did we know all of this when we first landed? No. Not in the least. No different than the first aqualungs, this was trial by direct experience. There was always that lingering thought in the back of my mind that if something failed, I was the one who would have to fix it. There wasn’t a convenient workshop nearby. Yes, we arrived with a small backup of various replacement parts. We had individual sets of tools designed for this purpose. But if you were out too far and a serious malfunction happened, there was a very good likelihood you would die before you could return to safety. So it wasn’t like that image of the first men on the moon—you know, freely frolicking in the reduced gravity environment. No, instead, this was a hostile place to work. The only thing I could compare it to was deep-sea diving. You were at the mercy of the surrounding environment. Every move had to be calculated. Your support team had to be constantly monitoring your progress and the overall situation—no different than here.
So, as far as the “outpost”—as my team and I referred to it—the minds behind this project felt that the logical site for this emerging community would be located in a fairly small crater. That meant that an asteroid or comet had already done the necessary excavation work. All we had to do was utilize what was there. A superstructure needed to be built to support the triple-layered, glass dome. Once completed, it would fit neatly inside the crater walls. Deliveries of each of the components continued to arrive almost weekly. The crew and I lived in a cramped, two-compartment module. It was outfitted with solar panels, a heat-based composting toilet, a moisture capturing and purifying water retention system, and enough room to barely move around. As with the space station, our meals were being shipped in for the time being. But with time and experience, there was the distinct expectation that food —or produce, to be exact—would be grown in the greenhouse section of the dome-covered environment. The eventual goal was self-sustainability.
About that human DNA, I mentioned earlier…it seems that what at first was envisioned as a sort of secure time capsule was instead replaced with actual human beings. Even though the crew and I lived off to ourselves, we knew we weren’t part of that exclusive club. No, instead, the chosen ones were high profile scientists, professors, doctors, and those who had both the pedigree and the means to justify their being “the replacement stock.” In the event the earth ended in the sense it had once been, this select group was to be the gene pool to restart humanity. But that could only happen once this lunar resort was completed. And that, more or less, was where the problems began. You see…those of us doing the assembly were to be here only as long as it took to build the structure. Once that was done, and everything was operating at optimal levels, the crew and I were to return home. Our contract was very specific about that. We weren’t to linger a day longer than it took to complete our portion of the project. Another crew would come after us to do the follow-up details.
In other words, behind that agreement was the idea that the powers that be didn’t want “our sort” hanging around. We weren’t acceptable in the genetic sense of the word. Our kind or ilk was substandard or disqualified due to some inherited family flaw. The blood work had already been done to substantiate that. But it wasn’t because we were being considered as potential candidates asked to stay. No, instead, it was about our blood type—you know, in case one of the select group happened to have an accident and needed a transfusion. You might say that we would provide a backup resource—at least until we left. I wasn’t entirely certain that the doctors on-site would be content with just blood. What if a heart or kidney donor was needed? What then?
The question that arises—and a fair one at that—is why am I taking the time to write all of this down? Why is my account of this adventure of any importance or relevance for the future? Well, it’s a long story. And besides, I may end up the only one to survive this grossly mishandled nightmare if things don’t work out as planned.
CHAPTER TWO
My wife didn’t like the idea; in fact, she hated it. When I told her I had been approached about a new, essentially top-secret project, she said I had already been away for far too long as it was. Up to that point, my life had been defined from one series of building contracts to the next. My wife, of course, was correct. I was barely home when another opportunity would soon appear. But to be clear, my reputation had been built from one demanding build to the next. And, as I alluded to earlier, these were demanding sorts of projects that only a limited number of engineering and build companies were capable of pulling off. They were about constructing things that most builders had never heard of let alone would have any idea how to build.
So my wife wasn’t happy. Our only child, my nineteen-year-old son, Eric, had essentially grown up with an absentee father. Sure, I felt guilty about that. How could I not? But this was the way I made my living. More than that, I was passionate about what I did. I deeply cared about the potential impact my work would have and how it would advance science and cutting-edge research. Yes, these were lucrative contracts—but what truly spurred my interest were the challenges each of these projects presented. These were often one-off creations with unique capabilities as well as demands. But in each case, the central theme was creating an airtight habitation for human beings. It was demanding work. But it was also exciting. Once completed, I was always a member of the after-action team. I monitored the completed device as it went into the depths of the ocean or made its way out into space. By this point, I’d been at this for over twenty-five years.
But like I said, I may have pushed my luck. I may have reached the outermost limits of my wife’s tolerance for my being absent. She was sullen and a bit grumpy. I couldn’t blame her. For the most part, but not always, what I was working on was so secret that she couldn’t even be in the area. When I first began this line of work, we naively thought my wife could st
ay nearby and enjoy the often balmy, seaside locales. For the first two or three projects that worked as well as could be expected. But when I was pulling sixteen-hour days, that didn’t sit well with my wife. She hadn’t traveled halfway around the world only to experience what might have been viewed as a holiday by herself.
When I protested that I had a tight deadline to meet and that taking off even an hour was nearly impossible, my wife gave up and caught the next flight home. Logically, that was less than desirable. But again, the lifestyle she was living was being supported by my many work endeavors. She was living a life many would envy. But I guess when you do that alone it has its limits. And that limit had been met once when I was away on yet another demanding project. My son sent me a cryptic email. It suggested that I had better pay closer attention to what was going on at home. At the time, I barely had a moment to spare. Every instant was essential to address what soon turned into perhaps a nightmare from hell. I had been working on a new generation submersible. But for some unapparent reason, it began leaking once it reached a certain depth. Despite my every effort, my team and I couldn’t isolate the problem.
Oddly, that issue was a metaphor for what was actually going on back at home. Little did I realize that my wife’s loneliness had resulted in her scanning dating sites. When someone has that much time on their hands and naturally has needs to be met, morality and life-long commitments get tossed out with the yesterday’s garbage. But I was too involved and oblivious then to recognize the warning signs. You know, that odd expression on my wife’s face when we would Skype on the rare occasion. Or when she would act as if things were normal when I knew they weren’t. By that time, my son spilled the beans; he let the cat out of the bag; he let the truth slip at a time when I was not prepared to hear it. But once I did, and knowing something similar had happened with most of the men working with me, I had to admit I wasn’t surprised. In the back of my mind, I knew I was pushing my luck. I was expecting my wife to put up with something that, in hindsight, was undoubtedly intolerable. But again, I was the breadwinner; I was the primary source of that marvelous home and lifestyle my wife was enjoying—or so I thought.
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