Lunar Descent

by Allen Steele

  McGraw’s catty smile broadened a little. “Just wait and see,” she replied. “Somebody’s in for a big surprise.”

  Classified Information (Interview.4)

  Angelo deCastro: assistant director, Corporate Security Division, Skycorp (Huntsville headquarters):

  (NOTE: This interview was conducted in the presence of NASA Space Operations Enforcement Division public affairs officer Leslie Hieronymous, who interjected at points on behalf of the space agency.)

  deCastro: We knew … um, that some sort of smuggling activity was taking place at our Cape Canaveral operation. (spreads his hands) Really, Mr. Steele, the company has always had a problem with contraband making its way into space, such as the time in ’17 when something like four hundred cases of beer managed to get smuggled up to Olympus Station in an OTV, so it’s never been anything new to us. We’ve always tried to keep it under control, but it’s difficult to keep an eye on every single payload canister which gets shipped up there. In this particular case, though, we were able to nip it in the bud mainly because we received information from a reliable source at the Cape that … um, certain restricted items were being put into the cans when they were being loaded in the shuttles at the company’s Shuttle Processing Center … Pardon me?

  Hieronymous: I’m sorry, that information is classified.

  deCastro: Ah … Yes, right. I can’t confirm or deny if there was an informer involved. All I can tell you is that we received word that the items were being put aboard so-called Spam-cans which were scheduled for launch in company-owned shuttles, and that one of the company’s supervisors had been bribed by the same persons to overlook those payload canisters when it came time for him to inspect the shuttle’s cargo bay. This supervisor, along with the other … ah, parties involved, were eventually dismissed from our employment and turned over to NASA’s Space Operations Enforcement Division for arrest and subsequent prosecution under federal law. On that particular point, I’m … um, not at liberty to discuss the matter in further detail.

  Hieronymous: The case against the alleged suspects is still in litigation.

  deCastro: Right. Anyway, once this was discovered, the Corporate Security Division worked with NASA to find out the final destination of the contraband items, and that’s when we made a second interesting … um, discovery. Apparently the restricted items were originally intended to be sent to Olympus Station. That is, that was the original … ah, intent of the parties involved, and that this had been going along for quite some time. But in their last two attempts to illicitly ferry the contraband to Olympus, the designated Spam-cans had not made their way to the space station, although they had been launched from Cape Canaveral. Instead they went (waves his hand) somewhere else entirely.

  This led us to believe that, in some way, we were dealing with two—not one, but two—entirely independent smuggling operations, with the second one parasitically feeding off the labors of the first group. (smiles) That was when it became quite interesting … um, from a law enforcement standpoint. We had no direct clues to tell us where the hijacked Spam-cans had been sent, because whoever from the second group had arranged the diversion at the SPC had been able to doctor the cargo manifests so that the canisters appeared to have been shipped to Olympus, although the persons in the first group told us, once we interrogated them, that those two Spam-cans never got to Olympus at all. Understand? I mean, are you following me so far?

  That led us to several alternative scenarios. (holds up his forefinger) One, the contraband cargo was being sent back to Earth, by nearly the same means, for resale. We ruled that out almost immediately, since most of the contraband … booze, for instance … had little or no resale value back on Earth. Didn’t make sense. (holds up a second finger) Two, the contraband was making its way to our installation at Arsia Station on Mars, or (holds up a third finger) three, it was going to Descartes Station on the Moon. Given the closer … um, proximity of the Moon base as opposed to the Mars base, we decided to focus our attention on Descartes Station.

  This presented us with a difficult situation, given the fact that Descartes Station had recently been through a shakeout of its personnel and that we had a new General Manager coming aboard at the base at the same time that we were pursuing our investigation. Fortunately, NASA was also placing a field officer up there at the same time to act as the base’s new security chief … um, that’s right, Ms. McGraw … and she was willing to act as the point man in our investigation.…

  Hieronymous: Point woman …

  deCastro: Excuse me, point woman … um, in our investigation. So when she was transferred to her new assignment, she went in a covert low-profile role, appearing to be just another new lunar worker on her way to the Moon, in hopes of gathering additional information. But, mainly, she was to observe the covert sting operation we had put in place. In this operation, which we code-named Operation Blue Moon, we placed …

  Hieronymous: Sorry, sir, this operation is still classified information.

  deCastro: Um … right. It’s still classified information.

  Hieronymous: Sorry.

  deCastro: Sorry. Well, um … (coughs) do you have any more questions?

  9. Booby Trap

  Damn, it’s dark out here, Annie said. Gimme some more light, Joe, willya?

  Mighty Joe reached to his left and flipped a switch which turned on another bank of the exterior hull searchlights. Through the canopy windows he could see the stark white glare reflecting off the gold Mylar foil wrapped around the AOMV’s hull. Two spots of light shined on the opaque cockpit of Noonan’s work capsule, hovering alongside the Collins. “See better now?” he asked politely.

  Fine, thanks, Noonan replied over the comlink. He couldn’t see her through the windows of the tiny, bottle-shaped RWS, but he could watch the long, triple-jointed arms of its remote manipulators imitating her hand movements. She had already transferred most of the Spam-cans to the tug; they were lashed to the strongbacks on the Dreamer’s lower fuselage, giving the tug the vague appearance of a worker bee carrying pollen sacs to the hive. The empty cargo cradles yawned open behind the Collins’ aerobrake heat shield. Once the AOMV was reunited with its lander, the moonship would be heading back to Earth orbit; although it would never land on the planet itself, it would make an aerobraking maneuver in the upper atmosphere before rendezvousing with its LEO hangar near Phoenix Station.

  Annie had unlocked the final Spam-can—the one in particular which had been diverted from delivery to Olympus Station—and had the massive canister gripped by the arms’ pincers. Okay, we got it, Noonan said. Ready to bring it aboard?

  “Affirmatory on that.” Joe double-checked the status lights for the cargo bay, making sure that the hatch was still open, and then glanced at the event timer. Rusty silently pointed at the CRT screen between them, where a three-dimensional image of their position over the lunar farside was displayed. They were completing their third orbit now; things were getting a little tight. “We need to hurry it up, sweetheart,” he added. “Big Russ here tells me we’re T-minus-eleven to coming over the terminator again, and I’d rather not …”

  Okay, okay, I heard you already. The RCRs on the sides of her work capsule flared briefly, pinpricks of matchlight against the dark bulk of the Moon in the background, and the little one-person vehicle glided sideways toward the stern of the tug, shoving the Spam-can along in front of it. Tell me again at T-minus-five if we’re still cutting it close, but otherwise shut up and lemme work.

  Joe watched as the work capsule moved closer to the open cargo hatch. A floodlight beam briefly caught the words “Wonder Woman” painted in a bright red slash on the fuselage, just below a hand-painted picture of the comic-book superheroine. He waited a moment, then said, “Annie …”

  What, damn it?

  “You’re still a bitch,” he finished sweetly.

  He heard her sigh over the comlink … but she didn’t say anything. Mighty Joe grinned. Noonan caught a lot of flak from him, most of it of th
e sexist variety, but he had to admit to himself that she was one hell of moondog. If there was a bitch out there next to the Dreamer, it was the little work capsule, not the woman who piloted it. It took a special touch to fly the damn things; the reaction control jets were notorious for being overly sensitive, and even with the aid of a virtual-reality control system, operating the remote manipulators was a lot like trying to juggle balls while wearing plaster casts on both arms.

  After the Dreamer’s last payload specialist had completed his contract, and before Annie had come aboard, Mighty Joe and Rusty had flown pickup missions for six weeks without a cargo rat. They had done the grunt work themselves in that period, and by the time Noonan had arrived for duty, the two men were on the verge of having fistfights over whose turn it was to fly the capsule. Noonan had just climbed in, shut the hatch, flown out, and got her first non-simulated Spam-cans transferred and latched down without any sweat.… Then she had climbed out and told them that they were both clumsy jerks and to bathe before the next time they climbed in her RWS, if she even let them. “It stinks like a jockstrap in there,” she had said.

  “It’s a woman’s job,” he murmured aloud.

  “Say what?” Rusty asked, looking up from his navigation console. He was working out the flight plan for the Dreamer’s return to Descartes.

  “Never mind. Just thinking aloud …”

  But I appreciate it, Annie said. She sounded sincere. Thanks, Joe.

  “Don’t let it go to your head, toots,” he growled back. He watched as Noonan slowly maneuvered the canister toward the starboard cargo hatch; it was a tight fit, and she had to move gradually to keep the blunt forward end from bashing into the tug’s fuselage or the hatch doors.

  “Five minutes,” Rusty said.

  Mighty Joe glanced up again. In the far distance, beyond the edge of the RWS, the farside terminator hove into view as a white-silver crescent, the ragged western edge of Hirayama Crater outlined by the half-light cast by the rising Earth. Once over the Hirayama, he knew from experience, they would again be within range of Descartes’ traffic radar; MainOps would be expecting them to make the braking thrust for return and touchdown. If they had to delay, any excuses given for making another orbit might arouse suspicions, and that was the last thing Mighty Joe wanted from the new GM.

  “Annie, I don’t mean to be an asshole,” he urged softly, “but can you hurry up? It’s getting a bit tight, if you know what I mean.”

  Why, what’s your rush? she replied breezily. She had the Spam-can almost one third of the way inside. Five minutes, four minutes, what’s the …?

  “Move it, Noonan!” Rusty snapped.

  All right, all right! she yelled back. Take it easy, I’m coming. There was a pause, then: Hang on to something, this could be rough.

  “Annie, what …?” Rusty began.

  The elbows of the capsule’s manipulators folded against the canister’s back end. Joe suddenly realized what Noonan was about to do and managed to grab his armrests just before the RCR jets on the back of the capsule flashed again and the manipulators shot out in the opposite direction. The Spam-can was brutally shoved the rest of the way into the cargo deck; Noonan was obviously counting on the cargo deck’s capture-and-support cradle to keep the massive object from breaking something inside. Lights flashed on the dashboard and an annunciator rang as the tug’s RCR’s fired once, automatically compensating for the shift of inertial mass. Joe’s hands darted for the alarm override.

  “Goddammit, Annie!” he shouted. “Watch the—!”

  Keep your shorts on, Joe. It’s okay. The work capsule was slowly backing away from the hatch, its manipulators disengaged and floating free. There, see? Nice and neat. The cradle caught it and everything. Now close the hatch and prep the RWS sleeve. I’m coming in. She paused. That fast enough for you guys?

  Pilot and co-pilot exchanged a glance; Rusty let out his breath and Joe shut his eyes and let God know he was grateful for not allowing some reckless wench to wreck his ship. “Uh, yeah, that’s an affirmative,” Rusty said. “Superlative. Now c’mon in and let’s get ready for touchdown.”

  “Three and a half minutes till we’re over the terminator,” Mighty Joe rumbled. “Good deal.” He closed the cargo deck hatch and started the repressurization cycle, then unbuckled his seat harness and carefully pushed himself out of his chair. He felt the back of his shirt unstick from the upholstery as he moved. Damn, had he been sweating that much? “I’m going below to help Noonan out of the capsule,” he said shortly, hoping Rusty didn’t notice.

  “Uh-huh. Sure. You want to check out the goodies.” Rusty shook his head as he programmed the autopilot for the return leg of the trip. “Just make sure that if there’s a bag of pot in that thing, it has my name written on it.”

  “You’ll have to arm wrestle me for it, bub.” Legs dangling upwards, Mighty Joe grabbed the recessed floor rungs and pulled himself toward the mid-deck hatch. “I’ll let you start taking us down. I’m gonna go see what the lady’s done brought home.”

  The pirated Spam-can took up most of the space in the mid-deck cargo hold; it hung within the nylon net of the cradle like a huge moth strangled in a spider’s web. As Mighty Joe came down the ladder, he glanced once at the open service panel leading to the conduits for the main electrical busbars. When Main Bus A had started acting twitchy, Rusty had taken the precaution of unscrewing this particular service panel and leaving it off, exposing a candy-striped U-bar within the recess. If an emergency arose which could not be controlled from the flight deck, someone could get down here and cut off Main A by throwing the manual circuit breaker. Next to the open panel was a strip of white masking tape, scrawled with the words DON’T TOUCH THIS!!

  Just looking at it made Joe irritated. Somebody’s got to get in here and fix this frigging thing. He shook his head and pushed off the ladder, gliding across the compartment toward the captured Spam-can. Before Mighty Joe opened it, though, he went to help Noonan out of the RWS where it had docked inside its sleevelike berth. Like the hardsuits the moondogs wore, the RWS was zero-prebreath; Annie didn’t have to spend hours in decompression, waiting for differing atmospheric pressures to adjust to each other. By the time Joe reached the berth, Noonan had opened the topside hatch and was pulling herself out, looking like someone emerging from an old-fashioned iron lung.

  “Well, you certainly were a pain in the ass today,” she complained, giving him a dirty look. She removed her bulky VR helmet, shook out her hair, and tossed the helmet back into the capsule’s tiny cockpit before kicking the topside hatch shut. “I was half inclined to accidentally let that thing slip out of my hands.”

  “Sorry,” Joe said. “Maybe I got a little carried away there.”

  “Yeah, maybe you did.” Annie pulled her communications headset out of her vest pocket and pulled it over her head, then shoved Mighty Joe aside as she pulled herself along the overhead handrail to the Spam-can. “Well, it’s aboard at any rate, so let’s pop the hatch and see what Santa brought us good little boys and girls.”

  Joe cocked an eyebrow. “It’s the first week of July, sweetheart.”

  “Haven’t you ever heard of Christmas in July? Car dealers get a lot of mileage out of it. Now hurry up and open the damn thing.”

  “Now you’re talking sense.” Mighty Joe pushed himself over the top of the Spam-can and located the recessed valve that unsealed the O-rings which kept the canister sealed and airtight. He twisted it counterclockwise; there was a slight hiss of escaping air, and the long, refrigerator-door-size hatch popped open slightly. One by one, Joe flipped open the three latches, then grabbed the main rung and pulled it up. “Let’s see what …”

  “Hush!” Annie snapped. “You hear something?”

  “Naw, I don’t …”

  Before he could react, Annie brutally shoved him away from the hatch. As Mighty Joe reflexively grabbed for a ceiling rung, he started to yell at Noonan. And then he heard, from within the open hatch, a tinny electronic tickatick
atickatickaticka.…

  “Duck!” she screamed and threw herself backwards.

  Mighty Joe barely had time to double up, when there was a sharp, loud bang! and something within the Spam-can exploded.

  Pieces of ceramic shrapnel and bright blue ink exploded from within the canister. The dye sheeted across Joe’s shoulders and forearms and the front of Annie’s suit, plastering half of the cargo bay with sticky blue goop, as fragments of the bomb ricocheted off the interior of the cargo bay. Something behind them made a loud snap! and …

  “GAAAH!” Mighty Joe howled as his shoulders caught the worst of the dye-bomb’s discharge. “Fuck!” he screamed. “What the holy fuck was that?”

  All at once, alarms started going off in the mid-deck, a harsh, white-noise blare mixed with a high, whining beep-beep-beep-beep. Recovering herself, Noonan absently wiped blue dye from her chin and stared into the open Spam-can. She looked up at Joe and started to laugh—the tug pilot looked as if he had walked under a housepainter’s ladder just in time to have a bucket of blue paint spill over his head—then caught herself. The air was suddenly tinged with an acrid, ozone-laced odor … and, over that, a faint smell like burning tires.…

  She looked at the open service panel at the same time as Mighty Joe, to see blue-green smoke billowing from the lacerated electrical conduits. Unable to control herself, she screamed as Joe launched himself at the fire-extinguisher station.

  What the hell’s going on down there? Rusty’s voice shouted in their headsets. Is everyone …?

  “Fire in the hull!” Joe yelled. “Fire in mid-deck! Shut ’er down! Shut ’er down!” He ripped the fire extinguisher from its plastic tie-downs, twisted around in midair, and jammed the nozzle toward the fuming service hatch.

  Main A and B down! Rusty shouted. Repeat, Main A and B are …

  “I know, I know!” Mighty Joe squeezed the extinguisher’s valve within his fist. The nozzle squonked and a white blast of carbon dioxide knocked him backwards, his ass slamming into the Spam-can as he struggled to direct the frigid jet against the electrical fire. Crystalline snowflakes spit from the sides of the panel and drifted in the air; the alarm continued to howl as Noonan pushed herself forward, making a grab for the fire extinguisher to steady it in Joe’s hands.