“That’s goddamn right,” Caitlin said, giving him a wink. “Now suit up and move out. I want the rig ready to roll in twenty.”
“All right, Diaz,” said Tony. “You heard the lady. Let’s get the Invader prepped. I don’t want to carry your ass for another cycle.”
“You know, Tony,” Diaz said, “you keep going like this, you’re going to give yourself a stroke. You need to relax.”
“I’ll relax when I don’t have to babysit you out there on the crater,” said Tony, but he was smiling as he spoke. “Which means I’ll relax when I’m dead.”
“Well, from the neck up, seems to me you already are, buddy!”
They headed out of the common area, jostling and trading insults. Vee and Caitlin watched them go and then made their way into the locker rooms to begin suiting up.
“Where’s Shaw?” Caitlin asked, struggling into her counterpressure suit. A significant advancement from the cumbersome gas-pressurized outfits of old, these new suits acted almost like a second skin. Made from an interwoven network of shape-memory alloys, the suit contracted when heated, shrink-wrapping itself around the wearer’s body. The “squeeze suits,” as they were commonly known, made the kind of work Caitlin and her crew conducted daily that much easier. Plus they were laced with microencapsulated chemicals. In the event of a small rupture or tear, the agents would allow the suit to effectively heal itself. And in Caitlin’s line of work, small ruptures happened all the time.
“Immigration,” Vee said, working her own suit over her body. “Trying to get his wife here. He should be here before we roll.”
“Still can’t sort it all out, huh?”
“You know the drill,” said Vee. “You’re lucky you got your little girl a travel pass.”
“Benefits of being a war hero,” said Caitlin with a trace of bitterness.
“Don’t knock it, girl,” Vee said. Her green eyes, which always stood out from her bronzed skin, fixed themselves on Caitlin. “It’s gonna get her here and away from that father of hers. Maybe then you might have a chance at getting her a residency.”
“In the Hive?” Caitlin scoffed.
“Hey, beats living with her old man,” said Vee. “What did you ever see in that waster anyway?”
“I . . . I don’t know,” Caitlin said. But deep down, she did. She had just come back from the war, a woman out of place. The Last Campaign, as it came to be known, was the most brutal and unforgiving of the three wars held in Iraq and its surrounding territories. Some people thought that the conflict’s brutality stemmed from fundamentalist forces spending so much of the last century feeding on hatred of the West that they were desperate to continue acting on that hatred. Caitlin knew better. They weren’t fighting because they despised America. They were fighting because they had nothing else left. These were the Dead Enders, to whom the only avenue left was violence.
The successful mining of He-3 had ended the world’s dependency on fossil fuels. Twenty-five tons of the stuff could cleanly power the United States for a year. In the blink of an eye, the planet was suddenly freed from decades of dependence on Middle Eastern oil reserves to power their cities. One by one, the armies of the world began a steady drawdown, pulling out of the region and bringing home troops to nations of welcoming arms. Unfortunately, their absence left a void that was soon filled with blood.
Those left behind carved their nations into individual caliphates, twisted perversions of the term that ruled through fear, intimidation, and violence. And once again, the West was in the crosshairs. Those who had hated America for their presence on holy ground now hated them for their absence, telling their followers how the infidels had left their nation to burn and decay while they grew fatter on their newfound riches from the heavens. And, as the violence spread throughout the region, so too did the fear throughout the rest of the world. In an echo of the domino theory of the First Cold War, the consensus was that the bloody tide generated in the Middle East would soon wash up on American shores. Thus, no sooner had they stepped off the transports home, the troops were back on the ground with their boots in the sand, and among them was Caitlin Taggart.
Eventually, after years of conflict, an accord was reached, with the nations of the world agreeing to share in the wealth generated by the Moon’s newfound energy source. And so, as it had been with many wars before, those in charge became rich and those who’d done the fighting got what was left. After the war, Caitlin came home a ghost, finding neither work nor peace. She wasn’t “at home” in her own house, her own town, even her own skin. People at home could never understand how the return to civilian life was even more difficult than time in the military. With so much damage and senseless devastation happening overseas, much of it at their own hands, Caitlin and her fellow soldiers had turned to each other. They were surrounded by death on all sides, so they chose to embrace what life they could in their camaraderie and brotherhood. That last word was the most important to her, because it conveyed an unspoken trust. They weren’t just friends who would do things for each other out of kindness or obligation. They were a family who would sweat, bleed, and die for each other because the code commanded it.
Caitlin remembered being holed up in a cave in Kurdistan as she and a small platoon held off wave after wave of Enders for sixteen hours. So many times before then, she had heard the phrase “Today is a good day to die,” but had dismissed it as macho posturing, something wannabe soldiers tattooed on their biceps. But there, inside that cave alongside those men and women, she understood the term in all its forms. To die there in the sand with them, it would be a good day. Because she would have died for something. Not for what she was told she was fighting for, but rather for what was real, right in front of her. She would die in the company of others who would, if asked, do the same for her. And that was a good thing indeed.
But once she came back home, that feeling vanished, a fog burned off by midday sunlight. She felt as though she had nothing to live for and, even worse, nothing to die for. Caitlin felt like a curiosity, something to be studied from a distance, or perhaps, tiptoed around nervously. Every time someone said “Thank you for your service,” her skin crawled. Caitlin knew they meant well, but she also felt like they were uttering the phrase out of obligation or guilt.
Even more unctuous were the people who tried to relate to her in some way, telling her about a family member who had fought in some other military conflict, as a means of establishing common ground. Or they’d come up to her and tell her about someone they knew who had died, as if that meant that they, too, could understand loss. She grew to dislike and mistrust civilians, finding comfort only in the company of other veterans. But then, as time went on, even they became difficult to socialize with. After all, she would say to herself, how could they tell horror stories about their old battles. Didn’t they know that her war was the worst war?
This went on for months, until Caitlin felt alone and haunted. She would lie awake at night for hours as the wind howled outside and shadows formed long and terrible shapes on the wall. When the day came, all she felt was dread at the prospect of facing it.
Caitlin had known Eric back in high school, one of the few left in town who she thought knew her. Knew the real Caitlin Taggart before she’d gone off to the campaign, back when he was the quarterback with everything going for him and she was the cool gearhead chick who could keep his Challenger running every weekend. Coming back from all the horror and seeing him was like coming back to some semblance of the life she had known.
He’d suffered his own losses in her absence. A shattered knee had taken him from the gridiron to working with his brothers selling off-world real estate. He and Caitlin both seemed to be grieving for something—she for the lives she’d taken, he for the one taken from him. He was something for her to put her back up against, or so she’d thought. Another damn mistake. The marriage lasted less than a year, with much of that time spent either apologizing for or covering up Eric’s alcohol- and drug-fueled mishaps.
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“Anyway,” Caitlin went on, “she’ll be here for a time, but sooner or later she’s going to have to go back.”
“I know,” Vee said, nodding.
Caitlin saw the look in Vee’s eyes as she spoke and knew how well she understood her plight. Vee and Tony had also been unfortunate victims of the lunar travel ban. Like Caitlin, they’d both been born on the Moon and moved to Earth as children. Vee had barely qualified as a lunar resident, having come to Earth at less than a month old. Nevertheless, her passport labeled her as Moonborn, and when things had gone south on Earth, that label had come back to haunt her. She and Tony had been honeymooning at Lake Armstrong and planned on spending extra time cultivating new sites over in Aldrin City to expand their burgeoning contracting business. Then the Nightside bomb had gone off. Within a few months, they were out of business, money, and choices. Fast forward a few months more and they were riding a harvester with Caitlin and company, scraping up Moon dust for the betterment of a world where they were no longer welcome.
“I shouldn’t complain,” Caitlin said. “I know you’ve had your share of tough breaks. Although, whenever I hear your story, I just keep thinking about one thing.”
“What’s that?”
She tossed her friend a sly look, eyes glinting. “Who the hell honeymoons at Lake Armstrong?”
“Don’t mess with me, Taggart. I’m not in the mood.”
“Oh, you love it,” Caitlin said. “Come on. Fire me up.”
Caitlin turned around and Vee hit a patch on the back of her suit, sending forth an electric current. In an instant the suit sealed around her. She flexed and stretched, getting comfortable inside the garment she’d be wearing for the next eight hours.
“Whoo,” she said, feeling the current pass through. “Tingles. Now you’re up.”
Vee turned around and Caitlin did the same for her. Vee gave her a nod.
The two walked out of the locker room and into the motor pool, where the harvester rigs were gearing up for the day’s runs across the Moon’s surface. Their rig, the Space Invader, was at the far end of the pool, and the two women began making their way to it.
“Gonna set the record today, Taggart?”
Caitlin turned around to see the grinning face of Tom Hudson looking down at her. She returned the grin with one of her own.
“Thinking about it,” she said. “Figure someone’s got to be bringing in rego around here. The way you run your crew, Earth might be blacked out by the end of the week.”
“Cute,” said Hudson. “Real cute. I’ll have you know that the Dun Ringill has just come off a major overhaul. Best harvester in the fleet.”
“It’s not the harvester, my friend,” said Caitlin. “It’s the crew that runs her.”
“If that’s the case,” Hudson said, “then you’re definitely going down.”
“Oh really?” said Caitlin. “Care to make a wager out of it?”
“Loser buys the round?”
“For a month,” said Caitlin.
“Now you’re talking,” Hudson said. “You’re on.”
He put out his hand and Caitlin slapped it hard. Hudson grinned.
“See you back at the Doghouse, Taggart,” he said. “I’ll have my drink order ready.”
He turned to go, and Vee cocked an eyebrow at Caitlin.
“My man has got eyes for you,” she said.
“Please,” said Caitlin, walking again.
“What?” said Vee. “What exactly is the problem here? He’s young, handsome, and you both have . . . shared interests.”
“What, mining rego?” asked Caitlin.
“Hey, it’s a jumping-off point!”
“Look,” said Caitlin, “he’s a nice guy and all, but I’m not looking to get involved with anyone, OK? I’m trying to get home to my daughter. The last thing I need is to start making attachments.”
“I’m just saying,” said Vee, “it’s cold up here. Might be nice to have something warm to wake up to.”
“You’re gross.”
Finally, they reached the end of the motor pool where the Space Invader was prepped and waiting. She was a big, ungainly machine, designed to grind up regolith and convert it to He-3. A four-treaded vehicle, the Invader was fitted with a massive sawlike blade that jutted out from the front like an insect’s proboscis. The blade, commonly called a “bucket wheel,” was used for chopping and gathering rego before dumping it into an electrostatic separator. The process saved rocks more than fifty micrometers in size, since those were proven to have the highest He-3 content, and discarded the rest. In the center behind the cab, a giant dish, the solar collector, jutted upward. The collector gathered the Sun’s energy and sent it through a piping system to the heater, which baked the regolith to seven hundred degrees Celsius, releasing the helium from inside the rock.
Now fully prepped, the Invader sat poised and ready in front of the airlock. On the other side was the vacuum of lunar space. Diaz and Tony scrabbled around, tools clattering and voices raised. Vee eyed the two of them with disdain.
“What was it you were saying?” she asked. “It’s not the harvester, it’s the crew?”
“Yeah,” said Caitlin. “That was it.”
“Care to revise your statement?”
“All right, you two,” Caitlin barked. “Playtime’s over. Let’s get this thing on the surface.”
“It’s ready to roll, Boss,” said Tony. “Just waiting for your go.”
“You’ve got it,” she said as she climbed into the Invader’s cab. Vee slid in next to her at the wheel as Tony and Diaz clambered into the back.
“Now,” said Caitlin, “are we ready to head out?”
“Hell yes,” said Diaz. “Let’s move this mother!”
Caitlin looked around, doing a quick head count. Still no Shaw. Then she spotted him running across the motor pool, hastily pulling his suit up over his wiry frame as he did. He scrambled on board, running his hands through his brown tresses and offering an apologetic look.
“Nice of you to join us, buddy,” Caitlin said.
“I’m sorry, Chief,” Shaw said between deep breaths. “You know how Immigration is. It’s worse than the goddamn DMV back on the world.”
Caitlin winked at him to show that she understood. She ran a tight ship, but she also knew that you didn’t earn your crew’s respect by always riding them. “Everything OK?” she asked. “Can we expect a happy reunion between husband and wife?”
Shaw’s face darkened. He looked at his boss squarely.
“Don’t think so,” he said. “She’s leaving me. Said she can’t wait around for me to come home, and even if she could, she never . . .”
“Never what?” asked Caitlin.
“Never could see herself married to a miner.”
“We are a rare breed,” Diaz piped up.
“Shut it,” growled Tony.
“Forget it,” said Shaw. “It’s all good. Come on, we’ve got rego to move.”
“Hey,” said Diaz. “Forget her. All the family you need is right here, brother.”
Diaz extended his fist and Shaw bumped it. Weakly, but it was enough for now.
“You sure you’re good?” asked Caitlin.
“Yeah,” Shaw said. “I’ll be all right.”
She decided not to probe further for the time being and nodded in compassion.
“Take a seat,” she said. “Let’s ride.”
Shaw began stowing his gear. Vee started up the Invader’s massive engines and moved the rig toward the airlock. They slid forward until they were almost bumping against the exit. Behind them, the door to the motor pool slid shut, sealing them inside.
“Helmets on, people,” said Caitlin.
Almost in sync, the crew snapped on their helmets, hearing the click as the locks slid into place. Unlike the older model helmets, which employed a layer of gold to shield astronauts’ faces from the Sun’s ultraviolet radiation, the newer helmets employed a visor made from a tinted high-density polycarbonate ma
terial that blocked the Sun’s rays but allowed their faces to be seen. This was particularly helpful in their line of work. Facial expressions were often the first sign of distress, and when mining He-3, distress was something everyone encountered sooner or later. Being able to read it on a fellow miner’s face could make the difference between reacting in time or being a second too late.
The crew looked at each other and nodded. Everyone was ready and everything was humming. They could all feel it. But before they could officially get moving, Caitlin had one last task to complete, already being met with a groan of protest from Diaz.
“No,” he said, seeing Caitlin’s gloved hands dancing over the dashboard. He shook his head. “Come on, Boss, not today.”
Not bothering to answer, Caitlin hit the screen to activate the satellite radio. The Beach Boys’ “I Get Around” filled the cabin as Diaz groaned.
“OK, fine,” he said. “I get it. Music is a big deal in your rig. But does it have to be this . . . whatever this is? Stuff’s like a hundred years old!”
“My rig, my radio,” Caitlin said in a tone that conveyed how much pleasure she derived from torturing Diaz’s eardrums. He merely shook his head. Reaching for the mic, Caitlin got on the comm to base control. “Control, this is Rego One, awaiting clearance,” she said. A hiss of static and they received the OK to head out.
“Rego One, this is control. You are cleared for Bear Crater. Good hunting.”
“All right, let’s go make some money!” said Tony exuberantly over the music.
The amber warning lights surrounding the airlock entrance lit up and rotated slowly, accompanied by a Klaxon alarm that alerted anyone still in the vicinity to exit the area or be sucked out. The door slid open slowly as air rushed into space. Vee throttled the gearshift forward and the Space Invader headed out onto the Moon’s surface.
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