by Allen Steele
“The poor condemned English,
Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires
Sit patiently and only ruminate
The morning’s danger; and their gesture sad,
Investing lank-lean cheeks and war-worn coats,
Presented them unto the gazing moon
So many horrid ghosts.…”
Harry Drinkwater sits on the edge of Willard DeWitt’s bunk and watches as DeWitt scans the cryptic figures ceaselessly winding up the screen of his laptop computer. The latest numbers from Wall Street, messages from brokerages in New York, Chicago, Rio, Houston, Tokyo, London, Paris, the Hague, Atlanta … Willard alternately chuckles, sighs, snarls, mutters, curses, and laughs again, all while his nimble fingers dance across his keyboard and his eyes dart to the reams of printout thrown across the desk, the floor, his lap, the bunk next to Harry. Drinkwater is dog-tired; his eyes feel grainy, threatening to squeeze shut for one last time. Yet, at the same time, he is mesmerized by the high-stakes game being played. Financial alchemy is being performed, and DeWitt, who has all but forgotten that someone is in his niche with him, is the sorcerer stirring a cauldron of price-indices and market-quotes and a dozen different currencies. Working within the nebulous network of banks and brokerages, hidden behind a galaxy of cutouts and false (and very real) accounts, Willard DeWitt is struggling to make a miracle happen. This is something you don’t snooze out upon.…
“O now, who will behold
The royal captain of this ruined band
Walking from watch to watch, tent to tent,
Let him cry, ‘Praise and glory to his head …!’”
Monk lies back on his gurney, the beads still clicking between his fingers.…
Butch gasps, arching backward, as the first wave of orgasm reaches her; on the floor between her thighs, Lester shouts as white-hot pleasure-pain rushes through his body.…
The electrician slaps shut the service panel of Airlock Five as the last hardsuit in the ready-room passes inspection.…
Another cartridge is loaded by a moondog into a Night Gallery sculpture as Honest Yuri turns his back and slowly trudges away.…
A rover is put in position, its driver climbing out of the saddle to give the thumbs-up to MainOps. Mighty Joe returns the gesture as he sips from his mug of now lukewarm coffee. Annie catches a few winks in an empty chair next to him.…
The last card game finally winds down. Quick-Draw, Seki, and Tycho finally find a way to go to sleep.…
“For forth he goes, and visits all his host,
Bids them good morrow with a modest smile,
And calls them brothers, friends, and countrymen.…”
And, through the long night-that-isn’t, Willard DeWitt works the numbers, manipulating dollars and cents.
22. Shady Grove
Operation Shady Grove began at 1700 hours GMT on Tuesday, when the twin PBR nuclear engines of Valley Forge’s AOMV made a five-minute braking burn which placed the military spaceship in low orbit fifty miles above the Moon. Before retrofire, the five-person U.S. Marine Corps RDF squad had already crawled from the crew module, through five small hatches located laterally on top of the lander, the Delaware, directly into their combat armor suits in the belly of the remora vehicle. The Delaware’s pilot, wearing a normal hardsuit, climbed through his own hatch into the bubble-shaped cockpit in the bow of the lander. The five Marines sealed their CAS armor from within and the Valley Forge’s bosun’s mate battened down the external hatches before returning to the flight deck.
As soon as the Valley Forge’s nuclear engines completed the burn, and its pilot, Lt. Commander Frank Jaffrey, told the Delaware that LLO had been successfully achieved, Captain Jacob “Lazy Jake” McAdams ran through the quick-start countdown, pressurizing the lander’s liquid-fuel tanks, switching the electrical system to internal batteries, and detaching the umbilical. “All right, gentlemen,” he said into his helmet mike, “we’re on standby for depressurization. Two minutes to drop and counting. Sound off. Bleek.…”
Ready.
“Overby …”
Ready. This from Lt. Karen “Sweetheart” Overby, the team’s only female Marine.
“Snodgrass …”
Rock ’n’ roll!
“Just tell me if you’re ready, Too-Tall.”
Ready. Sorry, cap’n.
“DiPaula.”
Ready and able, sir.
“I like your attitude. Colonel Rainman?”
Ready, Jake, replied the RDF team leader. Let’s take her down.
“Yes sir. Depressurization cycle initiating. Ninety seconds to drop and counting.” Lazy Jake ran his eyes across the board once more, making sure that all systems were enabled. Satisfied that the Delaware was ready for the drop, he moved his right hand to the dashboard and flipped the toggles which would depressurize both the crew compartment and the cockpit. This was done for two reasons; riding down in an unpressurized vehicle conserved fuel, and in the unlikely event that the Delaware was attacked during the descent, a hole in either the cockpit or the crew compartment would not cause an electrical fire or a fatal blowout. Since everyone aboard was already in their suits, it didn’t matter if they made the drop in hard vacuum.
“Depressurization complete,” the pilot reported. “Withdrawing shroud.” He pushed down a pair of toggles, and the panels which had covered the upper fuselage of the Delaware during the trip from Earth orbit peeled back. The long, angular hull of the Delaware was now completely exposed to space. Lazy Jake could see the bright gray surface of the Moon slowly moving past; it looked as if he could step through the bubble canopy and take a long jump straight down into the Sea of Tranquillity. He sucked in his breath and deliberately moved his attention back to his job. “Shroud back, all systems green-for-go. T-minus thirty seconds and counting.”
We copy, Delaware, Jaffrey responded from the Valley Forge. You’re on full internal. All systems A-OK for your drop. Detach at fifteen seconds on my mark. Mark, fifteen seconds …
“Fifteen seconds,” Lazy Jake echoed. He entered the appropriate program code-number on the computer keyboard, flipped the master launch-control toggle to AUTO, then let his left hand hover in weightlessness above the main console. “Fourteen … thirteen … twelve …”
When the countdown reached zero, Capt. McAdams stabbed the EXEC. key on the computer. The grips holding the lander to the underside of the Valley Forge snapped back; RCR’s on the Delaware’s forward and aft outboard engine nacelles fired in preprogrammed sequence. There was a gentle bump as the Delaware fell away from the mother ship, and the curving horizon of the Moon swam up in front of the cockpit bubble, the terminator line cutting through the Ocean of Storms clearly visible through the canopy. Pretty as hell, Lazy Jake thought. Too bad I’m here under these circumstances.…
Drop maneuver complete, Jaffrey’s voice said in his earphones. Looking good there, Delaware.
“Roger that, Valley Forge.” He glanced up and saw the long underside of the AOMV rapidly receding. The Valley Forge would remain in orbit while the mission was being carried out. “Operation Shady Grave now in commencement. Observing code Delta Two on my mark.” He waited a second, then said, “Mark.”
There was no reply. Code Delta Two designated radio silence. It was entirely possible that hostile forces could be monitoring their radio transmissions, and even though it was unlikely that they would have missed the arrival of the Valley Forge or the deployment of the Delaware, there was no sense in tipping their hand more than necessary by chattering back and forth. From here on out, the Delaware and the RDF squad were completely on their own.
Lazy Jake pulled his helmet’s VR visor down into place, attached its umbilical cord to the socket in the dashboard, and typed in the appropriate command-code on the keyboard. A curving three-dimensional grid instantly was laid over the real-life panorama of the moonscape spread before him; Descartes Station was clearly outlined by a glowing blue circle. Unlike the usual descent trajactory made by Skycor
p’s LTV landers, the Delaware would not orbit the Moon once before landing. Instead, the mission profile called for a direct lunar descent; it was less fuel-conservative, but also far more efficient for a military operation.
“ECM on,” Lazy Jake said. “Lower main gun.” The computer, now voice-activated, raised the Delaware’s electronic countermeasures pod; the ECM would block any bogus transmissions that Descartes might try to throw their way. The aft gun-bay doors simultaneously opened, and a line of type on the VR visor told him that the lander’s 30 mm cannon was deployed from its bay within the lower fuselage of the lander.
“Test gun turret,” he murmured, and a small red crosshatch appeared in his field of vision. He moved his eyes left, right, and focused directly upon the blue circle; the target accurately followed the sweep of his eyes. “End test gun turret.” The target disappeared. “Arm gun.” A small red spot appeared at the lower right side of his visor; the gun was locked and loaded.
Time to check on the grunts. Lazy Jake switched the comlink to the bay, using a shielded frequency, and asked, “How’s it going back there, boys and girls?”
“Show me the way to go home …” The singing voice belonged unmistakably to Too-Tall Snodgrass, the squad’s smartass-in-residence. “I’m tired and I wanna go to bed.…”
If you take much longer up there, I’m going for some Z treatment myself. Sweetheart Overby sounded impatient. Lazy Jake grinned; it was just like her to be overeager for action.
Chill out, Colonel Taylor Rainman snapped, and the others shut up. The squad leader was all business, as usual; a weird mix of Irish and Apache bloodlines made him a relentless s.o.b. We’re doing fine, Jake. Just let us know when we’re down. We’ll do the rest.
“Got it, Colonel.” Lazy Jake could easily empathize with the RDF squad. Behind him, separated by the bulkhead aft of the cockpit, each grunt was cocooned within his heavy CAS armor, held immobile by breakaway straps until he landed and threw the switch which would open the egress hatches on the lower fuselage. All they could see were the VR displays on the inside of their helmets. Until they landed, the grunts were blind, cramped, utterly helpless larvae in the womb of the insectile lander … and these were four men and one woman who did not like being helpless.
“You want it, you got it.” Lazy Jake keyed the computer to switch from AUTO to MANUAL, armed the engines, and grasped the attitude-control stick between his legs. “Hang on now,” he said. “We’re going in.”
The pilot nudged the stick forward, and the main engines on the Delaware’s nacelles fired, sending the lander on its way down to the shadowed wasteland below, straight for the big blue circle on his visor.
“Semper fi,” he muttered. Time to make some wicked voodoo.
As it turned out, though, the civilians were capable of making voodoo of their own. Ten miles up and fifteen miles downrange from Descartes, the weapons-board started bleeping, announcing that objects had been launched from the moonbase. At the same moment, Lazy Jake spotted five white spots shooting up from the direction of the base. Ground-to-air missiles? No way … Descartes Station was unarmed. “Track and identify incoming objects,” he told the computer.
There was the briefest pause before the computer’s androgynous voice spoke in his ears. Objects identified as mass-driver cargo canisters. Five in number. Velocity two-point-three-three kilometers per second. Bearing due west, longitude eleven-two degrees. Altitude thirty kilometers and holding, range twenty kilometers and decreasing.
Damn! “Target missiles on best of the five bogies and prepare for manual firing,” he said. On his visor, the canisters showed up as thin white crosses.
What’s going on up there? Colonel Rainman asked.
McAdams was already arming the Delaware’s two smart-rocks, located in separate bays just above the aft-engine nacelles. “They’ve shot up five mass-driver cans, sir,” he said, thumbing aside the covers of the twin firing switches. “They’re not heading our way, but I think I know what they’re up to. Firing missiles now.”
There was a slight jar as the two Star Cobra missiles were launched from their bays. They showed up on Lazy Jake’s visor as curving white lines, heading for the limb of the Moon. Within a minute, he spotted their explosions high above the Sea of Clouds. Two targets destroyed, the computer reported. Remaining three targets passing beyond visible horizon.
McAdams grimaced. “Shitfire,” he muttered. He had already figured out the opposition’s strategy. “Sneaky. Very sneaky.”
I don’t get it, the squad leader said. If they were launched away from us …
“That’s the idea, Colonel,” Lazy Jake replied. “I’m afraid we haven’t seen the last of ’em yet. I scratched two, but the other three are heading around the Moon. If I’ve got it figured right, in ten or maybe fifteen minutes they’ll boomerang back over the eastern horizon and nail the Delaware when it’s on the surface.”
Damn! Any chance of hitting them with the cannon?
“When they come back? Not a prayer, Colonel. They’ll be coming in too fast for the gun to track ’em.” Lazy Jake hesitated, then added, “Cute trick. They’ve got creativity, I’ll give ’em that.”
Too much creativity. There was a pause. All right, Rainman announced, change of plan. It’s going to be a dustoff, ladies and gentlemen. Jake, put us down at the drop zone and get back upstairs to the Valley Forge mucho pronto.…
What about our lander backup, Colonel? This from Two-Tall Snodgrass.
Won’t be any if one of the things socks the Delaware while it’s on the ground. I don’t want us stranded down there. Jake, when we’re dropped and you’re safely upstairs again, break Delta Two and inform the Valley Forge of our situation. Maybe Frank can ECM the cans’ guidance systems from orbit, but it’s going to take more time than we’ve got during the drop. Copy that?
“Loud and clear, sir,” Lazy Jake said reluctantly. As much as Rainman had a point—it wouldn’t do to risk getting the Delaware nailed by a mass-driver can—he didn’t like the idea of abandoning the squad in Indian country either. The operation had called for the lander to back up the team with its onboard arsenal. “I’m going to write General Dynamics when we get home and tell ’em to put some more missiles on this hunk of tin.”
You do that, Captain, and I’ll sign it too. Okay, Marines, it’s going to be a quick one, so let’s lock and load.
The target was already visible through the cockpit bubble, even without the aid of the VR visor: Descartes Station, a white-on-gray jumble of rectangles and domes. Lazy Jake moved the attitude-control stick between his thighs, firing the descent engines to retard their velocity for landing. Okay, you bastards, he thought. You won the first round. But if you fuck with us any more, I’m coming back with the gun firing. And that’s a promise you can take to the bank.…
As anticipated, the base’s landing pads were blocked with tugs and LRLT’s, the navigational beacons darkened. No surprises there. The Delaware set down two hundred yards east-northeast of the base, in a boulder field just beyond Pad Two. As soon as the lander was on the ground, Capt. McAdams released the crew bay hatches and extended the elevators.
One by one, the RDF squad descended through the open hatches the final eight feet to the ground, lowered on small platforms that vaguely resembled forklifts. The graphite-composite CAS exoskeletons were too cumbersome to allow them to jump straight down from the lander; vaguely egg-shaped, completely opaque except for thin eye-slits that curved around the smooth upper carapaces, with servomechanical arms and legs that increased their power tenfold, and three-fingered claw-manipulators for hands, they gave the Marines the appearance of robots.
Lt. Mike “Too-Tall” Snodgrass unbuckled his harness and stepped off his elevator. He felt the solid crunch of lunar soil through the six-inch soles of his armor’s boots; inside his $2.5 million exoskeleton, he grinned happily. “Hot diggity shit,” he said. “I’m on the Moon!”
One small step for man … he heard Sweetheart say reverently through the c
omlink.
And a big fuckin’ deal for mankind, Carl “Lollypop” Bleek finished sourly.
Poetry, Lollypop, Sweetheart said. Sheer poetry …
Okay, cut the comedy, Rainman snapped. Through the wraparound eye-slit, Too-Tall could see the team leader already bounding forth into the boulder field, clearing the shadow of the Delaware. He turned around, clutching his assault rifle to his chest. Penguin, get off the ramp and let the captain get out of here.
Yes sir. Working on it sir. Alec DiPaula seemed to be having trouble with the restraints. He had ridden down in the cell just in front of Snodgrass. As Too-Tall watched, DiPaula gave up on trying to unbuckle the frozen snap of his chest harness; he grabbed both ends of the stubborn strap between his claw-manipulators and yanked. The exoskeleton’s arm servomotors gave him the power to rip the webbed fabric apart like paper; the harness fell away and Penguin jumped free of the ramp. Typical Penguin maneuver, Too-Tall thought. If finesse defeats you, try brute force.…
Snodgrass took a couple of baby steps to get himself accustomed to one-sixth gravity—it wasn’t much different or any more difficult than the practice sessions in the neutral-buoyancy tanks-then jumped clear of the Delaware’s shadow. In the instant before the suit’s coolers sensed the sudden change in the thermocline, he felt for a moment the searing heat of the unfiltered sun. Like a spacewalk, but somehow different. Then his suit began to cool off-he all but ignored the digital numbers on the bottom margin of his screen telling him that the coolant system was compensating for the abrupt temperature change—and he landed on his feet twelve feet away from his jump-off point, his knees bending just slightly as the leg servomotors took the brunt of the impact. He glanced at the heads-up display, saw no red numbers. Jesus, he thought. If I jump high enough, I could put myself in low orbit with this suit.