Oliver, in his wisdom—or possibly just boredom and surplus of free time at the office—has programmed my range finder with a helpful estimation software module, which will tell me how fast I have to run to get somewhere or whether I can jump high enough to reach a platform that might be rising up and away from me. The software knows how much I weigh and how strong my legs are, and will do the math to draw glowing lines in my field of view so I know whether I have any chance of making a given jump.
I don’t have a lot of time to use the implanted motion-sensing controls in my eye and fingertips to enter the precise parameters for the software to show me exactly what my chances are here, so I just turn it on with its gross estimation features. The target lines are wide and blurry, but it looks like I can jump into the open cargo bay.
I’m now about five meters from the ship, which is still scraping along slowly away from me. I look up at the open cargo bay again. It’s about seven meters above me in the air, and five—no, make that six meters in front of me. Oliver’s software gives me a wide ribbon of probability that I can make it inside from a standing jump. I bend my knees and prepare to leap.
Then the cargo ramp door starts closing.
I let loose with a string of expletives as the range-finder ribbon changes from green to yellow and then starts flashing red. I blink to change the parameters—how fast do I need to run, dammit?—and watch as a new set of arrows and numbers lights up in my eye.
“He’s closing the ramp!” Hong shouts. “If you’re trying to jump in here, you better do it soon! Once that door closes—”
I tap my suit’s wrist controls to mute the radio. It’s going to be hard enough to concentrate without all that noise right in my ear.
I turn, bound backward, then skid to a halt in the Lunar dust. I swivel around again on one heel, check my distance, and run toward the stealth ship.
When my suit’s speedometer flashes green, I plant both feet on the next step, bend my knees as deep as I can in the armored suit—I really hope the estimation software isn’t too far off—and push off the ground with all my might.
I can tell I’m going to fall short when I reach the top of my parabolic arc and start descending again. My jump didn’t take me high enough above the ship’s off-kilter back section. I stretch out both arms in a vain attempt to grab the lip of the rapidly closing cargo ramp, but the fingertips of my gloves just slide off the edge.
Time to take one giant leap, Kangaroo.
I bend at the waist, pushing my boots as far forward and up as I can, and work my wrist controls to activate the magnets in the soles. I see the touch indicator light up in my helmet, and I feel the slight vibration as the electromagnets power up.
My boots clank against the outside of the cargo ramp, and I exhale in relief.
Then I continue sliding downward.
“What the hell?” I cry, to absolutely no one except myself. I check the mag-boots again, but they’re working just fine—
Fuck me. This is a stealth ship. Of course it’s going to be nonferrous—not magnetic—to avoid any possible detection by electrical induction sensors. Goddammit.
And now my upper body is tilting backward, because there’s nothing to stop it from falling faster than my legs, which are scraping against the hull and thus being slowed down by friction. That’s great. I’m going to fall ass-over-teakettle and—
Wait. Wait a minute. Scraping. Clawing. Claw!
I think of an angry crow, open the pocket right in front of my chest, and reach in to pull out a grappling claw gun. I charge the firing bolt, aim the gun at the edge of the cargo ramp, and pull the trigger.
The recoil from the grapple-gun spins me backward, so I can’t even see if it’s hit the mark. I hope that my backward spin doesn’t yank the tether back so much that the claw is stopped short of connecting with the stealth-ship’s hull.
My anxiety evaporates when my arms are nearly yanked out of their sockets by the claw tether pulling me forward and up. I probably didn’t need to worry at all. Given the fact that momentum is the product of an object’s mass times velocity, my larger mass would have sent me backward at a much lower speed than the smaller claw was shot forward, which means that it would have hit the ship faster than I could spin it away, as long as I was close enough—
Hey, it looks like I’m actually learning some science stuff. Too bad Oliver isn’t here to witness this. Or to tell me what to do next.
I work the controls on the side of the grapple-gun to reel in the tether cable. Halfway to the ship, I feel a shudder as the cargo ramp closes.
Well, that’s another problem.
I unmute the radio, but Hong has stopped shouting for the moment. When the cable is fully reeled in, and I’m right up against the hull of the stealth ship, I pull my legs up and brace them against the hull. Then I open the pocket again, to another location, and use my free hand to pull out a pair of modified icepicks and matching crampons, specially designed for use with standard spacesuits—which, thankfully, this armored number appears to be.
Thank you, Oliver, for thinking I might have to go mountain climbing on the Moon for some reason.
The climbing gear is designed for quick attachments, and I snap the crampons onto my boots in a matter of seconds. I’ve got the first icepick attached to my right forearm—the one holding on to the grapple-gun for dear life—when the ship shudders, and I feel myself falling backward again.
“Thrust reversed!” Hong calls over the radio. “Kangaroo, I can see you on camera. Get the hell out of there before you’re crushed!”
“Working on it!” I shout back, no longer caring whether anyone can actually hear me.
I switch the grapple-gun to my other hand. This second icepick really doesn’t want to attach to the left wrist cuff of my spacesuit.
A red proximity warning flashes on the visor of my suit helmet. I’m out of time. I drop the second icepick, slap the grapple-gun onto my belt, push off the hull with my boots, and reach up as far as I can with my right arm and swing forward.
The icepick snags the hull of the ship, and my kick-off from the ship swings my lower body back behind me. I grab at the hull with my left glove. It’s too smooth for me to get a purchase. My hand just slides off.
I feel the ship pulling down on me. I need to move fast to avoid being smashed between this very large vehicle and the rocky Lunar surface.
The thrusters are still firing. I can see their faint pale blue lines coming out of the hull above me and feel the slight vibration of the ship back here, right between the rear jets. I push myself back, pulling the pick out of the hull and shoving myself away with my left hand. The ship falls away from me. But I know where it’s going—it’s going to stop when it hits the ground again. I just need to grab it again before it leaves. And hopefully little Joey isn’t that good at flying yet.
I pull the grapple-gun off my belt and work to reset the firing mechanism. Below and in front of me, the stealth ship smacks into the ground, sending Lunar dust up momentarily. It’s weird how nothing hangs in the air here, but of course it doesn’t; there’s no air to suspend any loose particles and counteract the force of gravity. Things fall differently on the Moon.
Hong is yelling at me again, or possibly still yelling. Doesn’t matter. I know what I need to do.
The maneuvering thrusters shut down just as I get the grapple-gun reset. I aim it at the top of the ship and fire a split second before I see the main engine covers irising open, revealing the large rockets that propel the ship forward.
“Don’t leave yet,” I mutter through clenched teeth as the grappling claw sails through vacuum toward the ship. How did I drift so far away in such a short time? “Not just yet—”
The claw hits the ship and sinks into place. I have barely enough time to breathe a sigh of relief before the main engines fire, and I’m yanked forward with not quite enough force to dislocate my shoulder, but more than enough to make it very painful.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
&nbs
p; The Moon—farside
11 minutes after the slapstick hijinks began
I’ll say this about Hong: he’s persistent.
“I don’t know if you can hear me, Kangaroo,” he says over the radio, “but it looks like you’re still out there. At least, I hope you’re hanging on. Something’s attached to the ship, anyway, judging from the way that tether cable is stretched taut back there.”
“I’m here!” I yell. Fun fact: yelling a lot does help reduce frustration. Even if no one can hear you. Something to do with the physical act of producing sound. I don’t know. I’ll ask Jessica when we have some free time.
The motor on the grapple-gun is having a lot of trouble right now. Probably because young Joey has pushed the throttle wide open on this souped-up stealth ship and is flying us across the Moon at what seems like a very dangerous speed, considering that nobody can see us.
The grapple-gun reels me in with agonizing slowness. I really hope the motor doesn’t burn out before I get close enough to stick my climbing pick into the hull again. The ship’s main engines are accelerating continuously, but not staying on course. Joey must be flying the ship manually, judging from how we’re weaving all over the place. All the jerking around is starting to get really annoying.
We’re in this situation because of one stupid kid who has no idea what he’s doing and doesn’t understand just how much trouble he’s making for everyone else around him. I hate this kid. This kid is not me. He’s not me at all. He hasn’t had the same upbringing, the same environment, or the same terrible circumstances that led me to Paul Tarkington and my current life of interplanetary intrigue.
Joey may have my DNA, but he’s a totally different person. He’s just like my identical twin. Time-shifted by a couple of decades.
Boy, Science Division is going to have a field day with the whole “nature vs. nurture” argument on this one.
I’m finally close enough to catch my boots on the back edge of the ship. I pull myself onto the top of the hull, crouch down to secure my right-wrist icepick into the hull, and release the grapple-gun. Then I reset the grapple, aim it over the left side of the ship, and fire into the engine pod there, hoping it doesn’t cause any significant damage. I’m pretty sure it won’t; this hull needs to withstand micrometeoroid impacts while it speeds through outer space. And the engines inside need to be shielded. I’m sure it’s fine.
The claw digs into the engine pod, and I reel the line in until it’s tight. Only then do I release my pick and start walking, slowly, carefully, one cramponed boot at a time, over the hull toward the port side airlock.
“Okay, I see you moving, Kangaroo,” Hong says. “I’m coming to meet you at the airlock.”
I am so glad for Lieutenant Hong right now. I plan to give him a glowing write-up in my after-action report.
The airlock’s outer door pops open as I approach. Good thing Joey hasn’t figured out all the ship’s override controls yet. I pull myself inside the airlock, leaving the grapple-gun attached to the engine pod just in case, and pull the airlock door closed behind me.
The airlock cycles, and sixty seconds later I step through the inner door. Hong is waiting for me, and he starts shouting immediately. I can barely understand him through the suit helmet. Behind him, Jane Doe is awake but still restrained, giving me an angry glare. Alisa and Rich are huddled around the MTI rig.
“What happened to your radio?” Hong says. “I’ve been trying to reach you this whole—”
I hold up one hand, which turns out to be my icepick-equipped hand, but that’s probably good as it causes Hong to shut up quickly. I remove the icepick and take off my helmet.
“Nice to see you, too, Lieutenant,” I say. “I’ll explain in just a minute. Right now I need to do a thing.” I point at Jane Doe. “Would you mind knocking her out again or blindfolding her or something?”
“I don’t have any sedative slugs,” Hong says.
“Touch me and you’re dead,” Jane growls at us. That voice is really effectively creepy. I can understand why she went for that particular personal modification.
“It’s not like that,” I say. “Secret stuff. We can’t let you see what we’re doing. You understand, right?”
“Apparently you let a child take control of my ship,” she spits at me. “I’m not really interested in cooperating any further.”
“Oh, for crying out loud.” I point to a spot on the floor between Jane Doe and me. “Lieutenant Hong. Stand right here, please.”
He nods and steps between us. I think of an antique hypodermic syringe, open the pocket between Hong’s torso and my own, and pull out an emergency medkit. Hong’s eyes go wide just for a moment.
“Here.” I give him the medkit. “Sedate her, please?”
Jane struggles as Hong approaches her with an injector slug, but she’s tied down pretty well. He slaps the slug onto the side of her neck, and a few seconds later she’s snoring again.
I open the pocket and retrieve Jessica. Hong helps us remove our spacesuits.
“What happened?” I ask Alisa. “There were three of you here to keep an eye on one child.”
“This ship isn’t exactly childproofed,” Alisa snaps.
“Joey always gets a little hyperactive after an inducer treatment,” Rich says.
“He found some hydrazine fuel cells,” Hong says. “Thought they looked like flying disks, started throwing them around.”
“Oh,” I say. Hydrazine is a highly toxic, highly flammable rocket fuel, and normally shouldn’t be stored anywhere near human passengers. But I guess a freelance mercenary like Jane gets to make up her own safety rules, or ignore common sense if she sees fit.
“He ran into the cockpit while we were back here cleaning up,” Rich says. “And figured out how to lock the door.”
“Can we talk to the cockpit?” Jessica asks, pointing at the door leading forward.
“I believe so,” Hong says, “but either Joey’s muted us, or he’s just not responding.”
“Having too much fun, maybe,” I say.
Alisa whirls to face me. “This is your fault.”
I throw up my arms. “How is this my fault? He’s your project. If we’re talking learned behaviors, there’s only one place he could have learned them.”
“You’re setting a bad example,” Alisa says. “He feels a bond with you, for obvious reasons. And you’re strutting around, being insubordinate, demonstrating—no, actually taking pride in how you can get away with outrageous breaches of security and discipline. You think you’re special, and the rules don’t apply to you. Well, guess what! You’re not the only person in the world! Your decisions affect others!”
Jessica steps forward. “Calm down, Ali.”
“I will not calm down!” Alisa says. “I had everything under control. Why couldn’t everyone just leave us alone and let us do our work in peace?”
“Your work,” Jessica says, “is illegal.”
“His entire job is illegal!” Alisa points at me. “The point of this whole fucking agency is to circumvent international law!”
Jessica slaps her across the face, hard, with an open palm. That’s a little surprising. But it does shut Alisa up, at least for a few seconds.
I notice that Rich and Hong have moved forward and are fiddling with the intercom. Maybe they’ll be able to distract these two before we have a full-on catfight here.
“Are you done?” Jessica says. “Because we have actual problems to solve.”
Alisa gives her a look that could melt steel. “If you weren’t my sister, I would straight up murder you right now.”
Hong turns toward us. “Dr. Garro. Can you come talk to Joey, please?”
* * *
“This is awesome!” Joey says, his voice high-pitched and excited. The intercom is audio only, but I can imagine the oblivious grin on his immature face.
“Joey,” Alisa says, leaning close to the intercom panel, “are you okay?”
I wave my arms in frustration. Alis
a hits the mute button on the intercom.
“What?” she asks through clenched teeth.
“Is that really the first question you needed to ask?” I say.
“She’s showboating,” Jessica says.
I turn to frown at her, too. “What?”
“She wants him to know that she cares. Present concern first, not anger. Parenting basics.”
“What would you know about it?” Alisa says.
“Careful,” Jessica says.
“Both of you, shut up and let me work,” Alisa says. She unmutes the intercom. “Can you hear me, Joey? Are you okay up there?”
“Yeah! I’m fine!” Joey replies. “It’s so cool out there! Just like the history vids!”
“Jesus Christ,” Alisa mutters, muting the intercom again and turning to point at Rich. “You need to talk to him.”
“I guess I’d better,” Rich says, stepping forward. He trades places with Alisa at the intercom and unmutes the microphone. “Hey, Joey. It’s Rich. Are you seeing some cool stuff out there?”
“It’s the Moon!” Joey says. “And space! And I can see Earth, way out in the distance!”
“Wow,” Rich says, much more convincingly than I would have. “That does sound pretty cool. Where is the Earth? Can you tell me where in the sky it is?”
Smart. You’re trying to figure out our position. The stealth ship is still jamming all our external comms, so we can’t even get a location fix to know where we are.
“It’s just hanging there, up out in space,” Joey says. “Hey, if I put up my arm, I can cover the whole planet with my thumb!”
“Yeah, that’s right, Joey.” Rich shakes his head at the rest of us. “We’re very far away from the Earth. Hey, can you tell where we are above the surface of the Moon? Do you recognize any craters or other features from our lessons?”
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