Moonfall

by Jack McDevitt

  They were all wearing party hats. Charlie Haskell waved him in and pointed him to a chair. A couple of empty wine bottles stood on the table, and one had missed a trash can, but there was no sign of anything stronger. “How are things at the ol’ launchpad?” asked Hampton. And they all laughed like banshees.

  “It’s okay, Bigfoot,” said the chaplain, apparently noting his worried expression. “We can make it over there okay.”

  More laughs. Then, as if a switch had been thrown, Chandler acquired a serious expression and put the guitar aside. “How are we doing?” he asked.

  “Everything’s as ready as I can make it. Tony’s running on schedule.”

  The only one of the group Bigfoot knew personally was Chandler. The others introduced themselves, and Bigfoot got to shake the vice president’s hand. Evelyn thanked him for staying behind to help.

  Morley invited him to do an interview and they all laughed again. This time Bigfoot joined them.

  SSTO Arlington Flight Dock. 9:05 P.M.

  George Culver watched the microbus come in along his port side. The pilot laid it smoothly in position and began sending over his passengers. Two other buses were following close behind, and he had both in his instruments. He would load the passengers from all three as quickly as he could, make his window, and get out of the neighborhood.

  That was the vehicle that was going to turn around, go back, and try to rescue the vice president. George admired the pilot. He looked out at the comet and tried to cover it with his hand at arm’s length, but could not. He was happy he wasn’t going to be here.

  The Micro informed him that transfer had been completed. He watched the lamps signaling that the passenger cabin airlock was closing down. When it was sealed, Mary came forward. The Micro’s thrusters lit and it arced away into the night.

  “Heads up,” he said. “Next one’s coming in.”

  One of the passengers who’d volunteered to help now appeared at the door behind him. “Problem, Captain,” she said.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I think they’re getting a little nervous in back. Could you come back and talk to them?”

  George couldn’t leave the flight deck with a bus approaching. “Mary?” he said.

  She nodded. But another voice broke in, deep and angry. Its owner appeared immediately behind the volunteer: “I don’t think we need any talk. What we need is to get this goddam plane on the road.” The speaker was a beefy man, thin hair, angry eyes. Lot of loose flesh. Enough mass for two people, George thought. He was barely thirty.

  The flight engineer jumped to his feet. “Sir,” said Curt, “you’re not permitted in here.”

  “You people are going to get us all killed. You see how close that son of a bitch is?” He looked at the comet.

  George got up. “We’ll be out of here in plenty of time—”

  “We damned well need to get out of here now. Everything’s taking too long.”

  “I assure you, Mr.—?”

  “Donnelly,” the man foamed. “I was only here doing survey work. Nobody said anything about something like this.”

  “It’s a surprise to us all, Mr. Donnelly.”

  “Why wasn’t I put on one of the other planes?”

  “We’re already on course for home,” said George. “Our window’s up ahead. We’ll be picking up more passengers on our way out. But we need everyone to sit down and stay out of the way.” Curt took Donnelly’s arm and tried to lead him back to the passenger cabin. But he shook free and began a string of invective.

  George turned the controls over to Mary and got up. “Go back to your seat,” he said calmly. “You’re interfering with flight operations and endangering everybody.”

  “Screw you,” said Donnelly.

  It was enough for George, who delivered a short hard right to Donnelly’s stomach. The man folded up and went backward. “Get him out of here,” he told the volunteer flight attendant.

  “Captain,” she said, “he isn’t the only one who feels that way.”

  Donnelly tried to get up and hit back, but he measured George’s size—and maybe his anger—and thought better of it. He grumbled about bringing legal action and limped out.

  George followed him back to the passenger cabin.

  The SSTO had a capacity for two hundred and thirty-five passengers. They had seventy-four on board now, with thirty-seven to come. They were well distributed, and George picked a spot from which most of them could see him. He picked up a mike. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I know this is unnerving for some of you. But we’re on our way back home now. One bus is pulling alongside us as we speak; another’s running right behind it. We’ll pick up those people and that’ll be the end of it. Meantime, I repeat, we’re headed home at this very minute, and we can’t do any better than this even if there were no more buses, because we have a window to hit. Please stay calm.

  “This is a very tough and very reliable spacecraft. It’s extremely fast, and we’ll be gone more than an hour before impact.

  “That’ll be plenty of time. Now….” He paused. “We can’t afford distractions, because they endanger all of us. I’m going to be busy, and my crew will be busy. So we won’t tolerate any nonsense.” He looked across the rows of seats and found Donnelly, who was glaring at him. Most of the passengers wore Moonbase uniforms. Donnelly and four others, in-civilian clothes, were clustered together. Non-Moonbase personnel, he decided, who’d been out on the surface and gotten back late.

  “Don’t worry about it, Captain,” said one of the uniforms, looking meaningfully in Donnelly’s direction. “Nobody’ll get out of line.”

  “Thank you,” said George. “I know we’ll all cooperate.”

  Point Judith, Rhode Island. 9:11 P.M.

  Luke Peterson cut a slice of cherry pie, poured a glass of cold milk, and listened to the soft rumble of the incoming tide. A couple of trawlers moved listlessly through the dark, and he could hear kids laughing on the beach. Otherwise, Point Judith seemed deserted. Its streets were quiet. The shops down at the mall had mostly shut down early. Even Kroger had closed.

  The Hendersons next door had told him they’d been planning all along to go see their cousins in Woonsocket, and no, it didn’t have anything to do with the comet. Pete Albuchek across the street had discovered that he had to go visit an old friend in Worcester.

  Luke wondered whether there’d be anyone down at the lodge, which was where he usually spent his Saturday evenings.

  He tasted the cherry pie. In the old days, he and Ann had made a ritual out of the late-night snack, often carrying it out onto the porch and munching away while the tide rolled in. Now, instead of Ann, he had a computer display.

  It was set on a shelf overlooking the kitchen table. He aimed the remote and clicked it and the Time logo filled the screen, then faded to an image of the comet. The comet was overlaid by the vice president’s picture. It carried the legend: WILL WE LOSE HIM?

  Luke liked Charlie Haskell. Like most Americans, he instinctively distrusted politicians, but he thought Haskell might be an exception. Luke’s friends laughed when he said that. No such thing as an honest politician, they maintained.

  But he’d decided that, if Haskell got the nomination, he’d vote for him. Luke didn’t have the energy to try to sort out the issues. Both sides seemed reasonable when they presented their arguments for reducing the debt or handling the influx of immigrants or dealing with nanotech. Hell, Luke didn’t really understand what nanotech was. So his philosophy was to do the next best thing: find a candidate who seemed honest and put him in charge and hope for the best. His son Christopher liked to say that the country wasn’t governable anyhow. Problems were too big, too intractable. The nation was too deep in debt. The borders were a joke. Every now and then some terrorist group took out a thousand people with nerve gas. Meantime, everybody who was out of power leveled all kinds of personal attacks against the people who were in power. Maybe Christ was right. Maybe even Andy Culpepper couldn�
��t have dealt with things anymore.

  Maybe the comet was a sign.

  Skyport Terminal. 9:12 P.M.

  Tory Clark’s flight left without her. It carried two hundred twenty-two passengers and a crew of fifteen. Prior to departure her phone bleeped for several minutes. She ignored it.

  SSTO Arlington Flight Deck. 9:25 P.M.

  Their window was coming up. George watched anxiously while the last of the moonbuses arced in to dock.

  They were down to four minutes before he had to lift out of orbit. Or forget about getting clear.

  He listened to the rattle of conversation between Mary and the bus pilot, which seemed to go on interminably. Finally he broke in with a sharp warning and she acknowledged. He debated whether the clamps would hold if he tried to accelerate out while the bus was still attached. It wasn’t something he wanted to try.

  Listening over Mary’s cell phone, he heard the inner hatch open, heard voices, gotta move, hurry up now, let’s go let’s go.

  The comet was as big as the Earth, visibly inching forward. “Let me know as soon as they’re aboard, Mary.”

  There were nineteen people on this one, including the two bus pilots. Full load.

  He could hear Mary’s voice counting heads as they came through. Fourteen, fifteen….

  “We’re down to two minutes, babe. Hurry it along.” He switched to the public address system and warned the passengers to buckle in. “Departure is imminent,” he said.

  “Arlington.” One of the moonbus pilots this time.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Not set up yet for auto.”

  The plan was to let the autopilot ease the moonbus clear of the SSTO, which didn’t have much flexibility for maneuver. “Forget it and get over here,” said George. “Or we’re leaving without you.” He leaned back and looked at Curt. The port wing might clip the bus on the way out.

  “I’ll have a solution in a minute,” Curt said. He worked over his console.

  The comet was sinking. Not good.

  “Nineteen,” said Mary. “All accounted for.”

  “Get everybody buckled in. And stand by to jettison the bus.”

  She repeated the order and waited.

  Curt’s numbers flowed across George’s display. “Ready to go,” the flight engineer said.

  “Cut it loose,” said George. His control board winked.

  “Bus away.”

  George applied Curt’s solution and the SSTO wheeled to starboard and began to climb.

  “Bus clear,” said Curt. “Return to base course. Go for the window.”

  George went to full thrust and the space plane rose swiftly out of orbit.

  Micro. 9:26 P.M.

  Tony and Saber, descending toward Alphonsus, overheard most of the conversation between Arlington and the bus. Saber thought she saw a brief flicker of light against the velvet sky, a flicker that might have been Arlington starting for home.

  They were now alone with the monster.

  6.

  Moonbase, Director’s Dining Room. 9:27 P.M.

  It was winding down. Jack Chandler felt a wave of regret when Bigfoot, after glancing several times at his watch, excused himself, explaining that he really shouldn’t be here, that he should be at his station in case something went wrong.

  What could go wrong? Chandler asked, but did not listen to the answer.

  “We should probably all go,” said Evelyn a moment later. “This isn’t a good time to be late.”

  The others nodded, glanced at their watches, drained their glasses.

  “Good luck,” said Haskell, so low that the words were barely discernible.

  Morley looked at the vice president and pointed to his throat mike. Haskell glanced at Evelyn, who shrugged. The vice president nodded and Morley withdrew to the far end of the room, took his microcam from his pocket and set it on the table. He aimed it at himself and began to speak into the mike. Chandler couldn’t make out what he was saying.

  The chaplain looked over at him and smiled encouragement. We’re going to be okay, Jack.

  “I know,” said Chandler aloud.

  He hadn’t yet made up his mind what he was going to do. Or maybe he had, in some inner recess where no light lived. And maybe that was why his heart pounded so fiercely, he thought the others must hear it.

  “You okay, Jack?” asked Haskell. He was frowning.

  “I’m fine. It’s an emotional moment,” he admitted.

  They filed from the dining room into the adjoining passage, took the elevator, descended to ground level, and emerged through the front doors. It was, of course, night in Main Plaza. Post lamps provided pools of light, illuminating benches and shop fronts and walkways. It was a scene of almost painful tranquillity.

  Chandler paused near an azalea bush. “Something I forgot,” he told Evelyn. “Family pictures. I’ll meet you at the Spaceport.”

  “Okay,” she said. “But hurry it along, Jack.”

  He nodded.

  “Want company?”

  “No, no. You go with the others. I’ll be right over.” He felt his face growing warm.

  She looked at him for a long moment. The others were walking toward the tram station. Their leisurely demeanor had been replaced by something more precipitate. “Make it quick, Jack. Okay?”

  He nodded, turned away, and descended the ramp to level three, where he walked back to his quarters in McNair Country, an area reserved for Moonbase managers.

  His footsteps echoed through the empty corridors. He seemed preternaturally aware of the texture of the walls and the geometry of the passageways. There was a sense the place was alive, as if everything that had ever happened here had somehow been captured and stored.

  He found his room, inserted his keycard, and opened up. When he’d left it to go to the dinner, he hadn’t known whether he would return or not. Even now he wasn’t sure about his intentions. But he was sure he did not want to go back groundside, back to the crushing weight in his chest, back to the constant fear he took to bed every night that he would not wake up in the morning.

  He could probably arrange to live at Skyport, but there was no job for him there. He’d be a hanger-on, a pathetic former paper shuffler, sucking up space and resources. And zero gravity would only mean further decay anyway. No. What he needed was a clean end. Cut it off and be done with it.

  Moonbase Tram Station. 9:32 P.M.

  The tram was waiting.

  They climbed on board, Evelyn and Charlie, the chaplain and Morley. Morley asked if he could interview the vice president when they arrived at the Spaceport. Just get his reactions, very casual, very quick. Charlie knew that Rick would never agree to such an arrangement without preparation, fearing Charlie would say the wrong thing, admit to fear, express indecision, say something that would be used against him later. So he readily acceded. Then he sat back to take his last look at the interior of Moonbase. Beside him, Pinnacle looked distracted.

  “You okay, Chaplain?” Charlie asked.

  “Yes.” His eyes seemed far away. “You’re very fortunate, Mr. Vice President. However things go, you’ve accomplished a lot with your life.”

  Charlie thought about that as the vehicle drew away from the station. It navigated Main Plaza, penetrated copses and gardens, passed along rows of darkened shops that looked as if they’d been empty a long time. The smell of freshly cut green grass was in the air.

  “I’m not so sure,” Charlie said. “I’ll admit I’ve done better than I would have ever thought possible. But it’s all position. I don’t know that I’ve ever actually accomplished anything.” There were probably a lot of people out there who remembered the chaplain fondly for one reason or another. But whose life was better because Charlie Haskell had lived? “What would you change about your life?” he asked suddenly. “What would you do differently?”

  The chaplain thought about it. “Veronica,” he said.

  “Veronica?” Charlie had expected an answer couched in piety, a failure perhaps to
be sufficiently charitable. Not something as mundane as a woman’s name. “An old girlfriend?”

  “No. To my everlasting shame.” Pinnacle smiled shyly. “I conceived something of a passion for Veronica years ago. When I was nineteen. I seem to harbor it still.”

  “What happened?”

  “Not much. We dated a few times. Over a period of three months. She lost interest.”

  “Oh.” Charlie looked past the chaplain’s shoulder at a cluster of elms. “It must have been a pretty strong passion to survive for so many years. What happened to her?”

  He shrugged. “I took her at her word and never went back.”

  “Not ever?”

  Pinnacle chuckled and shook his head. “Pride’s a deadly thing, isn’t it? The most destructive of the vices, I think.”

  They rolled through manicured parks and clicked into stations where no one waited. Eventually the greenery dropped away. They passed out of Main Plaza, crossed a bridge over an excavation that would have become the operating area for the Mining and Industrial Department. Then they slipped into a tunnel. The tram grew dark and lights came on. They were climbing now.

  “What about you?” the chaplain asked. “What would you change?”

  Charlie considered the question. “I’d like to have had a couple of kids.”

  “Are you married?”

  “No,” said Charlie. “I never got around to it.”

  “Things undone,” said the chaplain.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Regrets always involve things undone. Never stuff we did that we shouldn’t have. Always opportunities missed.”

  “Yeah,” said Charlie. “I think that’s probably true.”

  “Mr. Vice President, if we get clear of this, I think I’ll be a different man.”

  “We better hide the women,” smiled Charlie.

  But the chaplain said nothing more.

  The mood had grown sober. After a while the tram began to slow down. Its automated voice warned them to exercise caution, that a curve was coming. Minutes later they emerged into the terminal. Before the vehicle stopped, Morley got up and twisted round to face everyone. “What I’d like to do when we arrive,” he said, “is to get off and set up. And I’d like to send you guys and the tram back into the tunnel. Just for a minute. Then I’ll bring you out again so I can get pictures of the arrival.”