Ice Shadows

by W. R. Heustis

  When I tried to offer all of this in the most generic terms, my team was, as expected, prepared to revolt. But I had to caution them that we were at the mercy of our employer. To get off this god-forsaken satellite would require some very careful footwork. We couldn’t rock the boat. If we did, our means of escape wouldn’t be coming anytime soon. We could easily end up marooned here without a viable way home.

  I grew to hate the daily update meetings Ted had initiated. He insisted that he had to know every last detail, but especially how it related to forward progress. That was always the primary goal: filling in that spreadsheet of his with updated notations. I don’t know if this day in particular—where I was less than amiable having slept poorly the night before—made me feel a bit on the irritable end of the scale, but something seized me. At a certain point in our daily brief, I paused and asked “tyrant Ted”—a well-earned nickname defined early in the process—how much he actually knew about the moon? Did he realize that there are no laundry services up here? You know, where the most you can do is microwave the same pair of underwear you’ve been rotating for months and call it good. Did he realize there was a five hundred degree temperature swing all depending on where you are on the lunar surface? He said he wasn’t aware of that. “Yes,” I said, “When in the sun, it gets a balmy 253°F, and when in shadow, it’s a cool minus 243°F. He seemed impressed that I knew that, the idiot.

  But I wanted to press the point further. “So, Ted, do you know that due to an almost nonexistent atmosphere that we are essentially captive targets for incoming planetary dust particles? That’s why they built in that protective layer in our spacesuits—you know, the micrometeoroid layer? It’s there in case a barely visible space particle—flying faster than a bullet—happens to hit you while you’re exposed. And that’s on the smaller side of the scale. The pockmarked surface of the lunar surface is a pretty good reminder that on a bad day, something perhaps a bit larger than a bus might come for a visit. Did you know about that Ted?” He shrugged somewhat dismissively. All he could say was that “I guess with any building project there are implied risks.”

  “You have no idea. There is nothing comparable to it on earth. And I would even include the deepest parts of the Mariana Trench.”

  He pushed back: “But on the Space Station...”

  I held up my hands in protest. “It’s not the same or in the same category. Unless the astronauts are out on a spacewalk, their situation and ours is entirely different. Don’t forget, we are out in the elements at least eight hours a day. Those folks may go out once a month or two if they’re lucky. And don’t forget that in this sort of environment along with the nature of our work also comes long-term radiation exposure, or, in other words, an increased potential for cancer and other health-related issues.”

  Ted acted as if he ignored my last statement. Instead, he said, “But can’t you work any longer?”

  What? He really didn’t say that, did he? I held my tongue. I knew that any rebuttal was pointless. Until he actually got here, he had nothing but vague and somewhat inaccurate information to go on. I did tell him that even with one-sixth gravity, with time and a lot of daily exertion, atrophy begins to set it. The strength my crew had upon first arrival was slowly but incrementally dwindling away. In other words, as time went on, what once felt like feats of strength were being leveled out by the reduced gravity. The evidence was there based on the time an astronaut spent on the Space Station—except, in that case, it was accelerated due to zero gravity. Someone who had spent months there or even a year were hard-pressed to walk once they returned to the earth—even if they exercised almost every day while in space.

  Ted surprised me with his candor. “You don’t like me very much, do you?”

  I paused to consider my response. My current tenor must have come off as hostile. So I tried to temper my reply. “To be clear, I’ve got a job to do up here. My crew and I are working without any sort of break. None of us have what you would call a normal life. We are away from family. We are isolated from things we would be doing on Friday nights or the weekends...opportunities that are now nonexistent. Days blend into weeks. Weekly deliveries have become routine—except for the fact that the volume of food seems to be reducing with each load. You wouldn’t happen to know about that, now would you, Ted?”

  He tried to appear innocent as he shook his head.

  “I thought that might be the case. So do us a favor, would you? Please ask your development team to not shortchange the crew that is building their project. We would really appreciate it.” I told him I had to sign off; I had real work to do. I’m not sure he liked that comment. But as I said, I wasn’t in a particularly good mood that day. And if I were being honest, tyrant Ted needed to know the score. All things considered, coming here might end up being his worst nightmare. Given time and circumstance, he might end up hating this place as much or more than we do.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I’m not sure what spurred the topic, but one evening, D and I began talking about our work philosophy. He mentioned that there is a distinct difference between feeling obligated and being passionate. I knew what he meant. When he and I were working on a submersible or some other device with scientific merit, we were excited to be part of that team. We knew that what we were working on had the potential for new discoveries as well as scientific breakthroughs. It was meaningful work. It was easy to put in the extra hours.

  It was a joy to be dedicated to something that you knew would make a difference. What we were currently doing, however, was diametrically the opposite. It was a pain in the ass. Sure, there was the possibility that NASA, MIT, or some other scientifically motivated entity would send representative scientists and students here. D and I got that. We knew the potential. But in its essence, and in the most fundamental of terms, this was a high-priced resort. Just the ride alone would cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. After all, Lawther and his investors had an enormous investment to recoup. The cost per launch for the module deliveries was in the fifty million dollar range. And that was being conservative. When you consider that the initial design for this facility was 120 units, we’re talking billions of dollars. Knowing that, it simply put more pressure on what was already a pressure cooker of a project.

  When we paused to consider when our perspective shifted toward disdain, D insisted that he saw this coming; that even before we began our initial ground-based training, he had the sense that things could easily go off the rails unless everything was thoroughly planned out. For example, why wasn’t the crane the first thing delivered? That’s not to mention that that vital tool had yet to appear months later and after untold requests and justification for its obvious need. If time was of the essence, why not send a time saver and save our backs and even our lives in the process? But no, the cost was far too prohibitive to simply send “a tool.” Wasn’t the rover with the lift sufficient? Of course it wasn’t. How high can a forklift go even at full extension? That’s what we were talking about. You can’t use a tool with obvious limitations and expect it to do more.

  But then to suggest that we build the steel infrastructure and then use it like a crane was out of the question. As mentioned earlier, one of my men—most likely Raphael, our most skilled rigger—would have to shimmy out on a narrow beam and then somehow assemble the damned thing. Along with that, one of the men on the development team proposed using a wench. But when I asked how big or powerful a wench he was proposing, he couldn’t say. The most he’d ever seen in use was on the front end of some pricey, four-wheel truck or Jeep. I had to remind him that each of the modules weighed well over a thousand pounds. Even the stoutest come-along couldn’t handle that much weight, but especially when the module straddled and inched along on a narrow metal framework. Of course, he insisted that I had to be in error and that “I shouldn’t shoot down a good idea until we tried it.” Reminding him and the others that we were still waiting for the crane didn’t help.

  So D said he wanted out. He and the o
thers had had it. I told him I felt the same way. The only problem was that our protests would fall on deaf ears. As D noted earlier: we were obligated. He wasn’t happy with my answer, but then again, neither was I. My only hope was that when Ted finally got here and had the opportunity to get a realistic sense of what we were up against, things might improve. But I wasn’t holding my breath. From what I knew about Ted up to that point, I was fairly certain his loyalties were elsewhere. It would be a mistake to depend on him or his feeble influence.

  The day Ted arrived was perhaps the moment the boulder got loose that then started rolling down the hill precipitously. I know, an Indiana Jones reference...but the metaphor is there nonetheless. Ted arrived on the delivery shuttle. I knew he was coming. But I had been debating in my mind if I should go to greet him or not. By that point, I knew him well enough to dread his arrival. I didn’t want my appearance to seem as if it were done as an expression of welcoming. No, instead, he needed to find his way on his own. If he needed our help, he could ask. But something more proper or perhaps honoring protocol forced my hand. I had to be there to set the tone. I had to show up and be a professional—even though I hated myself for having given in.

  So when Ted stepped off the shuttle, he was about as green as they come. He was bug-eyed with wonder, was stumbling over his own feet, and looked about as prepared as a newborn child. It was more than obvious that whatever training he’d received, it hadn’t prepared him for what was actually going on. Worse, I didn’t have the extra time to train him or to teach him the ropes. I couldn’t be bothered with a newly arrived loaded with a questionable agenda. He was going to have to sort things out on his own. My crew and I couldn’t be bothered.

  Oddly, Ted arrived with what appeared to be a somewhat large aluminum footlocker. And when I say footlocker, it was more the size of a coffin rather than a large suitcase. My immediate assumption was that it was filled with untold dozens of pairs of underwear and snacks or preferred food items that Ted had no intention of sharing. But I did note the printed initials “AJV” on the lid of the otherwise unmarked container. I’m not sure why those initials stayed with me, but they piqued my curiosity. I also noticed that there was a keypad lock on it—something that seemed unnecessary, but especially if all it held were personal items. I helped Ted stow it in the module next to his. When I mentioned in passing that it looked like he was here for the long haul, he said, “You have no idea.” Did that mean he was here permanently or that there was something more to that offhanded comment than it seemed?

  Once Ted was somewhat settled, it soon became apparent he saw things differently. He had unrealistic expectations. He wanted to run my crew like an executive meeting. Every Monday morning, the crew and I were supposed to meet with him to go through the week’s expectations. He had his spreadsheet to fill in, you know, and then get that updated information back to his superiors. But my crew didn’t need anyone looking over them or being heavy-handed—but particularly when each of them knew what to do and when it needed to be done.

  Tyrant Ted was needless redundancy. He was an impediment to our work. He was essentially a waste of time dressed in his corporate space suit. Fortunately, one of the first tier modules was now operating at full capacity and was a convenient place for him to both hang out as well as sleep. If he had bunked with us, he might soon find the smell intolerable and the company even worse. Given circumstances where they were at the time, any overt pressure coming from Ted might result in his dying in his sleep. Naturally, it would be from natural causes or a malfunction in his air replenishment system.

  One of my crew couldn’t possibly have done it. It was already that bad. To keep Ted at a distance was the wisest choice. Even with sporadic contact, a few minutes was more than enough to prove to my team that Ted was so far out of his league, that he didn’t even know the league existed. He was guessing his way through something so far over his head that he didn’t have a clue. But as long as he kept filling in the boxes on that ubiquitous spreadsheet of his, it appeared as if we were making progress. And I put the emphasis on the word appeared. To be clear, the original plan was to build the entire front half of the dome first.

  But without a crane, we had reached our limits. So to keep up appearances, we began building the back half of the dome instead. The lift rover could handle four rows of modules and then, if pushed, perhaps the fifth. But that was it. That was the extent of that piece of machinery’s capability. And I’d be damned if I was going to put any of my men at risk by going any higher. But that was where the real problem began. It was relatively easy to get the ground-level modules in position. The dome superstructure was then attached to them as ballast. But as noted, by the time the fifth row was reached, we couldn’t move forward. But even with showing Ted the obvious limitations and how the lift rover had reached its limits, Ted insisted that we had to move forward; that regardless of apparent limitations, we couldn’t afford to lose an hour let alone days moving on to weeks. There had to be a solution—something he insisted we had to determine immediately.

  Once again, I reminded Ted that if a crane had been delivered as was initially suggested, we wouldn’t be having a problem. In fact, if things had gone to plan, there was the distinct possibility that we might have been close to completion—at least as far as setting all of the modules were concerned. But no, such a convenience was far too expensive or of lesser importance to send. Rather than solve an obvious problem, Ted and the others wanted to take dangerous shortcuts or questionable approaches. But if you asked me, I would gamble that this project and its investors were running out of investment capital. That meant that sending a piece of equipment wasn’t as valuable as another module.

  We were now at a stalemate. Ted could push all he wanted. But I warned him that if one of my crew were injured or killed in the process, it would be on him and not me. If progress had to come at the price of a man’s life, then we had reached an unreasonable impasse or an untenable point that would halt forward progress. Ted was furious. He accused me of insubordination. Okay, I thought...send me home if you want. I will gladly get out of your way and take my crew along with me. But when I told him that, he said something that he soon regretted (but also caught my attention): we were to be here until every last outlet cover was attached. That was never the agreement. We were to build the overall structure and that was the extent of it. Any detail work after that was up to another crew to complete.

  With that in mind, it felt like I was caught in a trap. It was something I was incapable of escaping. Naturally, Ted got on a conference call. I don’t know what he said but I could easily guess. Later that day, and on one of those important and rarely celebrated occasions, I was able to connect with my son. He, however, did something odd the moment his face appeared on the monitor: he signed me rather than said something. That needs further explanation. When he was around ten or eleven, a new boy had appeared at school that was hearing-impaired. Eric felt sorry for him. He even went so far as to defend the boy against typical bullying. But with that, Eric felt compelled to learn to sign. As it turned out, that coincided with a rare time when I was home and wasn’t working. Needless to say, Eric and I bonded somewhat as we learned to sign together.

  Now, years later, I couldn’t have imagined that that form of communication would prove necessary or even vital. Eric signed that there was trouble with the project. But he also alluded to the idea that our conversation might be monitored. When I asked what he meant, he signed back that Lawther had given a news conference and was blaming the crew and me for delays and serious cost overruns. We were now on the evening news along with a story about our apparent culpability. Of course, there was no mention of the failure on Lawther’s part or that he’d failed to supply the needed equipment to not only complete the project but also keep my crew safe. Eric went on to explain that it appeared as if my reputation was being torn to shreds. Knowing I wasn’t there to defend myself, he wanted to do something, anything, to correct the record. But I warned him that
if he did, they would know he had spoken with me. No one knew what was actually going on here except for my crew, Ted, and what I assumed were those closest to Lawther.

  What did surprise me, however, was hearing that if my crew and I didn’t honor the contract, we would be sued the moment we returned to earth. And to be clear, we hadn’t been paid while in space. All along I had assumed that our monthly paycheck was being deposited in our bank accounts. With all of that in mind, the general public was already being seeded with the narrative that we were the problem; we were the bad guys—while those in control were somehow innocent. I signed Eric and told him this was nothing more than a smokescreen. It was meant to cover the mistakes Lawther and the development team had made. It was their way of keeping their investors in the dark. If someone else could be blamed for any perceived failure, it was being assigned to us and to me in particular.