Moonfall

by Jack McDevitt

  They were on their way.

  Moonbase Spaceport. 10:24 P.M.

  Viewers around the world watched the scene in Bay Four through Keith Morley’s camera as Saber flung her umbilical away and dashed for the open hatch. Then Bigfoot appeared in the picture, moving with deliberation through the light gravity, throwing himself up and into the airlock. Saber helped drag him inside. And the hatch closed.

  Morley was still speaking in a voice-over, describing the passengers’ coolness, admitting his own tensions. Later, many viewers would wonder how he’d managed not to get on the nerves of the others, especially during that final countdown, whispering in his coolly dramatic tone, “six minutes to impact, five minutes,” and so on.

  Occasionally the image switched to the comet, captured by a range of instruments on the ground and in space. Several had been placed at ground zero at Mare Muscoviense, where they looked directly up at the oncoming monster. In the lower right corner, a clock ticked off the remaining time.

  News media estimates indicated that 3.6 billion people saw the first wisp of smoke from the main engine just before it roared into life. That number made it the third most watched telecast ever, behind Super Bowls LXX and LXXII.

  The blast from the main engine blanked the screens. But Morley plowed smoothly ahead: “I see we’ve lost our picture. Bruce, from this point on we’re going to have to rely on audio….”

  Transglobal went to a split screen, matching a live image of the comet with a photo of Keith Morley in a tropical shirt and a Panama hat, taken during the Rio conference in January.

  “We’re clear of the terminal, picking up speed. You can hear the roar of the engine.” (Pause.) “I should tell you, by the way, that we’ve switched over to internal relay so we won’t lose the audio signal no matter what happens at Moonbase.

  “It’s becoming a little hard to talk. I’m getting pushed into my seat. My weight’s come back, but I feel as if I weigh an extra hundred pounds or so. The sky’s different from the way it looked when I came last week. It’s lit up.

  “I can’t see the pilot. The door to the flight deck is closed. Saber Rolnikaya came through here from the cargo deck minutes ago and went up to the cockpit. She was wearing a p-suit and carrying her helmet, which she handed to me. I’m going to hang on to it as a souvenir of the occasion.

  “However this turns out, everyone should be aware, Bruce, that this is a group of very special people. You can’t see any of them anymore, but they’re hanging on pretty well. I don’t know what’s running through their minds right now, but I can tell you what’s running through mine. I’m scared.”

  AstroLab. 10:33 P.M.

  Feinberg had gone to the AstroLab, where he watched the approach from the operations room. A dozen monitors displayed magnetic fluctuations, relative velocity, comet brightness, spectrum analysis. The Farside observatory had used its chemical oxygen iodine laser to vaporize a small section of Tomiko. The analysis showed slight but significant amounts of titanium and aluminum. What kind of comet carried processed metals?

  “I really wonder about it,” Feinberg told an assistant whom he trusted not to quote him. “We might be suffering a loss of monumental proportions.”

  The assistant understood he was not talking about the Moon. Or the hazards from falling rock. She nodded.

  I wish we could have got a closer look,” Feinberg continued. “Landed on it. Dug it up.”

  “It’s moving too fast,” she said. “Even if it were just passing through, we could never have caught up with it.”

  Feinberg stared at Tomiko’s image in the displays. What are you?

  Tomiko had lost a substantial fraction of its initially observed velocity. But it was still running with the solar wind at almost twenty-four thousand kilometers per minute. Halfway around Earth in thirty seconds.

  Astronomers were still trying to account for the velocity. A mathematician at the University of Hamburg, noted for metaphysical ramblings, suggested that the comet had in fact been aimed, that its velocity was intended to demonstrate that it was not part of a natural event, and that the pinpoint strike on the Moon was a warning. He did not elaborate.

  The networks and the Web, during the final hours before impact, had been filled with admonitions to get right with God.

  The Moon was in its first quarter. Seen from New York, it was in the western sky. The comet was a magnificent sight, spread across the heavens, its tail leading the way, overwhelming the Moon, reaching across the Atlantic and diving beneath the horizon. The corona, on the other hand, was bright and solid, a sheath of golden light.

  Marilyn Keep watched Tomiko closing in from Louise’s terrace. Larry seemed content to talk finances with the boys, to leave her in Marv’s company, to behave as if he were the only male in the world. By ten-thirty she’d had too much to drink, Marv was taking advantage of whatever occasional solitude they could find, a brief interlude on the terrace, a moment passing each other in a corridor, to brush lightly against buttock or breast. She didn’t mind it at all, as long as they did not get caught. She liked the brief suggestion of possession, enjoyed the sudden fluttering excitement. It was the first time during her marriage she’d allowed anything like this. When she looked reprovingly at Marv, his eyes glowed with mischief. And his fingertips casually touched her hip, as if it were something they did all the time, as if they shared some mutual secret. So it happened that, as the comet touched the Moon, while all eyes turned skyward, Marilyn was really quite busy with something else.

  At Point Judith, Luke Peterson watched from his backyard through a pair of field glasses. He’d read enough, and seen enough, to know there was more danger near the water. But the night was peaceful, and the sky was full of stars, except where the comet wiped them out. This was where he lived. If God had set the machinery in motion to take him tonight, well then, God would find him at home.

  And no complaints.

  It was raining in Carlisle, Pennsylvania, and no one was going to see the Moon at all. Claire Hasson and Archie Pickman sat with the three Esterhazys, watching Keith Morley’s report from the launchpad. It was all very exciting for Archie, despite the skepticism of his hosts. “See,” said the elder Esterhazy to no one in particular, as the Micro fled the lunar surface, “what did I tell you? They’re free and clear.” His son Jeff was very much like him, except for a condescending smile that seemed to have become a permanent part of his features. Other than that, he had the same pinched face, the same bullet head, the same irritatingly self-confident expression. The male Esterhazys were not persons with whom one spoke; they were persons to whom one paid attention.

  Archie was worried that the vice president was going to get killed.

  “Ridiculous,” said Jeff. “You don’t really believe this, do you?” He looked sympathetically at Archie.

  “What part of it don’t you believe?”

  “Archie,” said Scott, speaking with the dry voice of experience, “this whole thing’s an election stunt.”

  “You think the White House controls comets?”

  “Don’t get upset,” said Jeff. “But these people saw their opportunity and took advantage of it. They’ve choreographed everything so Haskell comes out of it looking like a hero. There’s no danger, never has been. It’s going to look close, it has to look close, but they’ll get clear okay.”

  Archie saw Mariel Esterhazy frowning and shaking her head at her husband. Please shut up, the gesture said. “I don’t think so,” said Archie.

  “That’s the payoff for them,” glowed Scott. “You’re an intelligent man, Arch, and they’ve even got you fooled.”

  The Kapchiks had gotten out of Pacifica and well out into the Diablos. They were on a two-lane mountain road, well above the floor of a valley filled mostly with scrub. The Sun was just dropping into the peaks behind them. The same Moon and comet that lit the night sky over Rhode Island floated in daylight directly overhead. They’d been driving in heavy traffic since leaving San Francisco, carefully keeping bo
th vehicles together. But they were high up now, certainly safe from any deluge, and they were looking for a place to turn off when they came across a cluster of tourist shops. A rusting sign proclaimed the area to be the Jenkins Point Shopping Center. There was a charger station, a Mexican restaurant, and a souvenir store. Although they’d been traveling several hours, Jerry’s solar units had replenished the power and he was still carrying almost a full charge.

  The electric cars of the Twenties were far more economical than their gas-fueled alternatives. They didn’t have the acceleration most drivers would have preferred, and they needed to be plugged periodically into rechargers when operated at night or in gray weather. Recharging was the major drawback of the system because it took a half hour, and might be required every five hours or so when conditions weren’t right. But in sunlight they could run almost indefinitely.

  The Jenkins Point Shopping Center was located on an overlook on the western rim of the San Joaquin Valley. “Why don’t we stay here tonight, hon?” Jerry suggested.

  It was as good a spot as they were likely to find, snuggled against the face of the mountain. Other people had apparently had the same idea. Roughly forty cars were parked in a secondary lot on the south side of the road, across from the shops. Where there was still plenty of room.

  Jerry turned off the highway. He found a space where they could put both vehicles side-by-side against an ancient plank fence. Beyond the fence, the mountainside rose almost sheer for two hundred feet. The kids asked if they could go to the top, but lost interest when Marisa pointed out there was no way to get there. They agreed to substitute the restaurant, called Pablo’s.

  Jerry had parked at the extreme eastern end of the lot. This got them to one side of the crowd and also looked like a good spot to set up the telescope. To Jerry’s left, the land ran abruptly downhill into a gully.

  The Moon looked soft and fog-ridden.

  Tomiko was a bright nebulous blur, following the track of its tail, cruising down the sky. People were bunched together in the lot, looking up, no one talking. Traffic on the two-lane road stopped and the cars emptied.

  Erin asked where Moonbase was. She wanted Jerry to set up the telescope so she could see the microbus. But there wasn’t time, even if the telescope had the capability, which he doubted.

  The only person at that moment who might have been able to see the Micro as it lifted away from the lunar surface was Tory Clark, who had redirected L1’s ADCOM telescope array and instructed it to lock onto any moving object in the Alphonsus area. But the light wasn’t favorable for high magnification at that range, so she too was unsuccessful.

  Passengers on board the Merrivale would have had to look east to see the collision. But the sky was overcast and a light drizzle had slicked down the decks. Horace had not recovered from his disappointment over the loss of Amy, and on this night he was not at all aware of any unusual events in the sky.

  Arecibo, which tracked the comet throughout its six-day run, estimated its impact velocity would be 417.6 kilometers per second.

  At the AstroLab, Wesley Feinberg watched it move toward the Moon with both fascination and sadness. The collision would be intoxicating, an astronomical joy unique to this generation. But they were losing this most fascinating of comets.

  Comet cores are often more solid than their “dirty snowball” appearance had led twentieth-century astronomers to believe. Whether this was the case with Tomiko, or whether Tomiko was an asteroid with a massive accumulation of ice and dust, or whether it was something else altogether, no one was ever going to know.

  9.

  Micro Passenger Cabin. 10:34 P.M.

  They were also watching the comet on board the Micro, where the images from the Farside observatory had expanded into pure light. Even in the cargo hold, where Bigfoot had spread out some cushions left there for him by Tony, a wallscreen was picking up the Transglobal feed. Keith Morley’s picture was on-screen, with a voice-over running conversation between the journalist in space and Bruce Kendrick on the ground.

  “Here in the Micro, Bruce, everyone’s quiet. We’re just waiting now to see what’s going to happen.”

  “Can you see anything yet, Keith?”

  “No. The horizon’s bathed in light. In all directions. I wish I had a camera to show you. But nothing’s changed out there as far as I can tell.”

  “How high are you?”

  “I don’t know. High. Maybe six thousand meters.”

  They were closer to five thousand meters a moment later, when the light exploded.

  Impact came at 10:35:17 EDT.

  The world watched through its array of orbiting telescopes. What they saw resembled not a large meteor crash, but a lightning strike. Tomiko had filled the sky, filled the lenses, floating in the optical field until there was nothing but comet. And then it came silently down, not a giant piece of rock and ice, nor a falling star of immense proportions. Rather, it was a lightning bolt blasting the moonscape, melting the regolith and its underlying rock, crushing the mantle, vaporizing everything within hundreds of kilometers of ground zero.

  The Moon spasmed.

  The comet nucleus ripped deep into the ground before exploding in an enormous fireball that melted the mantle to a depth of more than six hundred kilometers, exposing the outer core. Shock waves rolled through the lunar interior at thousands of kilometers per hour. The fireball expanded over the fracturing surface, moving seemingly in slow motion, spreading around the Moon, cradling it, engulfing it.

  Tony watched it come. From his perspective, it was a wall of fire racing in from the north. He sensed the sudden stillness in the passenger compartment, saw the moonscape break up beneath him, saw Alphonsus disappear into the ground. A curtain of dust rolled over the churning scene, and the darkened flight deck glowed red.

  The Micro fled before the fire, crawling away at a constant one g.

  The sensors exploded in a tornado of pings and bleeps. Debris rattled against the hull. The Micro rocked and dipped and swerved, a leaf caught in a vast wind. A tread came off and a warning lamp blinked on.

  Fire filled the sky.

  It seared his eyes and licked at the blister housing the flight deck.

  Saber switched off the warning. “Rising external temperatures,” she said.

  Tony nodded and refrained from sarcasm.

  Something hit from below, hurled them higher, snapped his neck back. Bulkheads and decks creaked.

  “Water line,” said Saber. “Cargo.”

  That meant Bigfoot was getting wet. “Shut her down,” said Tony.

  “Done.”

  The attitude jets were firing in frantic sequences, trying to maintain stability.

  Tony was hurled against his harness and thrown back into his seat. The Micro rolled and fell and soared. The storm swept it along, a steel bubble in a sea of fire.

  Morley’s running account was broadcast from the Micro to a Comsat, relayed to his New York studio, where it was combined with the network signal and returned to Tony’s console. But the signal, not surprisingly, had died. The monitor carrying the Transglobal telecast was a blizzard of interference. Tony thought about informing the journalist he was no longer getting through, that he might as well give it up, but decided to say nothing. It kept Morley occupied, and maybe served as a link to safety for the others.

  “Engine overheating,” said Saber.

  “Roger.” Let it overheat. They’d be lucky if that was the worst that happened.

  Something inside let go with a bang.

  “Passenger cabin,” Saber told him. “CDS.” That was the Coolant Delivery System. Nothing to worry about.

  A tentacle of melted rock splashed across the blister. The glass began to bubble. Tony opened his channel to cargo. “Bigfoot, you okay?”

  “Great ride, Tony.”

  “Doing what I can. We’re almost out of it.”

  Saber glanced at him. The world outside was full of fire. “What makes you say that?”

  �
�One way or another. We can’t take much more of this.”

  “Engine’s in the red,” she said.

  He couldn’t shut down. The Micro needed two-point-four kps to avoid falling back to the surface. Acceleration was passing two-point-zero. He watched it climb, not knowing whether there was a surface to fall back to, suspecting he’d be carried along with the blast whatever he did.

  Two-point-two.

  The storm clattered and banged and raged against the hull.

  He’d have to cut power once he reached escape velocity. Or risk losing the engine and possibly the ship.

  “Tony, we’re pushing it.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “There’s always a certain amount of leeway built into these things.”

  Two-point-three.

  Red lamps were blinking all across the status board.

  Two-point-four. Tony gave it another minute and killed the engine.

  Riding now in relative quiet, they listened to the storm beating against the hull, the squeals of the status board, and the electronic burble of the instruments.

  Saber picked up the mike. “Everybody okay down there?”

  Evelyn’s voice responded: “Alive and well.”

  “Good. Stay with it. We know it’s loud but we’re doing okay.” She explained why they’d shut the engine down. “But we’re still moving. We’ll relight in a few minutes and begin to accelerate again.”

  At that moment the flames fell away, and the Micro rose above great, dark, boiling clouds. A river of light exploded from one and arced gracefully across Tony’s field of vision.

  Then he was out among the stars. Earth, blue and serene, floated almost directly ahead.

  Saber sighed happily.

  “Too soon,” he said.