Asimov's SF, Sep 2005

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Jilson said, “Ten ... nine ... eight..."

  Felt my heart suddenly speed up like mad, trying not to imagine what an “abort to lunar surface” might be like. Hell, Borodin already knows.

  "Three ... two ... one..."

  Something thumped behind my back. I looked up, out through the hatch porthole in time to see a big splash of brilliant yellow sparks flying up and away, then the lunar surface dropped, like the ground seen from one of those elevators they sometimes stick on the outsides of big buildings.

  "Holy shit!"

  I could feel myself sinking into the seat, arms and legs like lead. Glanced at the accelerometer. It said, point-eight gee. Great.

  Jilson, sounding nervous, said, “Everything okay, Bill?"

  "Yeah. What a ride! You'll love it!"

  I glanced over at Borodin. Eyes shut, mouth open slightly. Fainted? Hope his stump's not bleeding again. That's all we need.

  "R-3? Telemetry shows you haven't done Roman numeral eight yet. Turn the page and try to stay focused."

  "Roger, Flight."

  When I couldn't see the control panel and the manual at the same time, I picked the book up, holding it overhead, and started flipping switches and taking readings, just the way the checklist said.

  Well. It just feels funny. I'll get used to being heavy again.

  When I looked out the window next, there was nothing but black sky. The TV screen, however, showed only Moon, shrinking Moon, full of craters and rilles, starkly lit up by brilliant sunshine, slowly rocking back and forth as we flew higher and faster, up and away.

  Homeward bound.

  I put the book back in my lap, and thought, if I can get out through the hatch under my own steam, stand on my own two feet on Enterprise's flight deck, shake President McGovern's hand, smile and wave to the TV cameras...

  I could see that future unfold all the way, if only I had the will to make it so. Starover 1 to a near-Earth asteroid. And maybe, just maybe, they'd let a fifty-six year old planetary geologist...

  I could picture that, too, standing on Mars with my son.

  That one bright dream.

  Worth all the rest of it?

  That loss of everything else you once dreamed about?

  That home, family, security, love?

  Maybe so.

  The ascent engine shut down with a gassy thump, leaving us in sudden silence, and I was on my way.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Copyright © 2005 by William Barton.

  Author's Note:

  As with most so-called Alternate History, everything in this story is “possibly true,” in the sense that at least the kernel of the thing existed in our real timeline. How these things would have played out is a matter of conjecture, bordering on fantasy.

  "Harvest Moon” is based on a 1959 Army feasibility study called Project Horizon, initially known as Project Mountain Top, which called for the construction of a space station and permanent moonbase in the mid 1960s, using technology then under development. It proposed using a conceptual Saturn vehicle, consisting of a Saturn C-1 first stage, with a Titan ICBM booster as the second stage, and a Centaur third stage to land small cargo packages on the Moon, with men following in a two-man vehicle using the Earth-orbit rendezvous technique. It would've required hundreds of launches, at an average rate exceeding sixty per year. And, oh yes, Horizon included a return capability from the start. There was also a real Project Adam, proposed by the Army Ballistic Missile Agency, and it sort of really flew, as the two Mercury-Redstone suborbital missions of 1961.

  The real Project Gemini was remotely descended from the Air Force's Project MISS of the 1950s, MISS standing in Phase I for Man in Space Soonest, and in Phase II for Man in Space Sophisticated. In the story, Gemini A is our Gemini, which flew ten missions in 1965-1966. Gemini B is based on the Manned Orbiting Laboratory, whose hardware was actually built, but never flown. The real MOL was considerably heavier than what I describe here. Gemini C and M are the B variant stripped of reentry hardware and mounted on a hypothetical lunar descent stage. Gemini T is based on the “Big Gemini” proposal put forward when it looked like Apollo might never fly. Gemini R is a hodge-podge of MOL and Apollo LM hardware.

  I think everyone of a certain age will remember the Air Force's X-20 DynaSoar, a reusable spacecraft proposed to be launched atop a Titan II ICBM. There was an unmanned version called Asset that really flew, and these, along with various lifting-body testbeds, were ancestral to the Space Shuttle.

  The Titan IIIZ of the story is based on the Titan IIIC, a Titan II ICBM with two strap-on segmented solid rocket motors, and a transtage whose engines were the same ones used in the Apollo Lunar Module. The IIIZ comes from a proposal to build a much bigger version, by scaling the Titan tankage from ten to fifteen feet diameter, and bolting on four solids. The US really did build nuclear rocket engines under the aegis of Project NERVA. The Rover 1 engine, with 75,000 lbs. thrust, was ready for flight testing in 1973, but the program was canceled.

  In our timeline, Project Apollo succeeded partly because a certain German engineer politicked to have his brainchild become the American space program, but mostly because it was associated with a certain American president who was murdered in public.

  The Soviets, on the other hand, really did have multiple, competing space programs, including two complete, hardware-and-everything Moon projects. When Korolyov died in 1966, the Russians had a chance to recognize the technical superiority of Chelomei's Moon/Mars program, and go with it. Instead, Mishin was allowed to fumble what Korolyov left behind, and to be displaced by Glushko, who spent a Moon program's worth of money building Buran, which flew once, unmanned, in 1988. Chelomei was taken off space work, and his Almaz/TKS spaceships were used as “military” Salyuts. On the other hand, while Korolyov's N-1 died in a series of spectacular explosions, while Glushko's Energiya wound up so much scrap metal, Chelomei's UR500 continues to fly. We know it as the Proton, one of the most reliable space launch vehicles ever built.

  One more thing: there was a real Project Harvest Moon. In the early 1970s, a group of private investors proposed to buy an Apollo/Saturn V stack from one of the canceled missions, fly it with borrowed NASA astronauts, and profit from the sale of moonrocks. One of the more interesting parts of the proposal was to erect a dome on the Moon, fill it with moonsoil, air, plants, and animals, and leave it behind to be observed by remote-controlled cameras.

  That would've been cool.

  —William Barton

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Finished by Robert Reed

  A Short Story

  Robert Reed's most recent novel, The Well of Stars, came out from Tor in April and his new short story collection, The Cuckoo's Boys, was published around the same time by Golden Gryphon Press. In his latest story, he reveals what it takes to survive.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  What did I plan? Very little, in truth. An evening walk accompanied by the scent of flowers and dampened earth, the lingering heat of the day taken as a reassurance, ancient and holy. I was genuinely happy, as usual. Like a hundred other contented walkers, I wandered through the linear woods, past lovers’ groves and pocket-sized sanctuaries and ornamental ponds jammed full of golden orfes and platinum lungfish. When I felt as if I should be tired, I sat on a hard steel bench to rest. People smiled as they passed, or they didn't smile. But I showed everyone a wide grin, and sometimes I offered a pleasant word, and one or two of the strangers paused long enough to begin a brief conversation.

  One man—a rather old man, and I remember little else—asked, “And how are you today?"

  Ignoring the implication, I said, “Fine."

  I observed, “It's a very pleasant evening."

  "Very pleasant,” he agreed.

  My bench was near a busy avenue, and sometimes I would study one of the sleek little cars rushing past.

  "The end of a wonderful day,” he continued.

  I looked again at his sof
t face, committing none of it to memory. But I kept smiling, and, with a tone that was nothing but polite, I remarked, “The sun's setting earlier now. Isn't it?"

  The banal recognition of a season's progression—that was my only intent. But the face colored, and then with a stiff, easy anger, the man said, “What does it matter to you? It's always the same day, after all."

  Hardly. Yet I said nothing.

  He eventually grew tired of my silence and wandered off. With a memory as selective as it is graceful, I tried to forget him. But since I'm talking about him now, I plainly didn't succeed. And looking back on the incident, I have to admit that the stranger perhaps had some little role in what happened next.

  I planned nothing.

  But a keen little anger grabbed me, and I rose up from the bench, and, like every pedestrian before me, I followed the path to the edge of the avenue. Later, I was told that I looked like someone lost in deep thought, and I suppose I was. Yet I have no memory of the moment. According to witnesses, I took a long look up the road before stepping forward with my right foot. The traffic AI stabbed my eyes with its brightest beam, shouting, “Go back!” But I stepped forward again, without hesitation, plunging directly into the oncoming traffic.

  A little pink Cheetah slammed on its brakes. But it was an old car with worn pads—a little detail that couldn't have found its way into my calculations—and despite the heroic efforts of its AI pilot, the car was still moving at better than eighty kilometers an hour when it shattered my hip and threw my limp body across the hood, my chest and then my astonished face slamming into the windshield's flexing glass.

  Again, I tumbled.

  Then I found myself sprawled in a heap on the hot pavement.

  For a thousand years, I lay alone. Then a single face appeared, scared and sorry and pale and beautiful. Gazing down through the mayhem, she said, “Oh, God. Oh, shit!"

  With my battered mouth, I said, “Hello."

  Leaking a sloppy laugh, I told her, “No, really, I'll be fine."

  Then I asked, “What's your name?"

  "Careless,” she said. “Stupid,” she said. And then she said, “Or Bonnie. Take your pick."

  * * * *

  I picked Bonnie.

  A beautiful young woman, she had short dark hair arranged in a fetching fish-scale pattern and a sweet face made with bright brown eyes and skin that looked too smooth and clear to be skin. On most occasions, her smile came easily, but it could be a crooked smile, laced with weariness and a gentle sadness. There was a girlish lightness to her voice, but in difficult circumstances, that voice and the pretty face were capable of surprising strength. “What should I do?” she asked the crumpled figure at her feet. “What do you need?"

  "Help,” I muttered, answering both questions.

  Others had gathered on the curb, observing the two of us. Yet she noticed nothing but me, kneeling beside me, grasping a hand without a second thought. “Do you need a hospital? Should I call somebody—?"

  "There's a clinic up the road,” I mentioned.

  "An ambulance,” one of our spectators recommended.

  "Just help me to your car and take me there,” I suggested. Then I made a joke, promising, “I won't bleed on your seat."

  Bless her, she recognized my humor and flashed a little smile. Realizing that my shattered legs couldn't hold themselves upright, much less carry the wreckage on top of them, Bonnie grabbed me under the arms and pulled. But I was too heavy, and after a few hard tugs, she carefully set me down again, asking our audience, “Could somebody lend a hand?"

  A pair of finished people stood among the others. But it was a teenage boy, big and raw, who leaped forward. He seemed thrilled by the chance to drag me across the pavement, practically throwing me into the waiting vehicle. Then with a cleansing brush of the hands, he asked, “Anything hurt?"

  "Everything hurts,” I admitted.

  He didn't believe me. He laughed and stared at the beautiful woman, relishing the chance to be part of this little drama. I was nothing now. I was a sack of dislocated parts and bottled memories, and he thoroughly ignored me, asking the only one who mattered, “Do you need me to ride along?"

  But Bonnie had already climbed inside, telling her car, “Now. Hurry."

  The ride took just long enough for me to thank her once more and absorb a few more apologies. Then as we pulled up in front of the nondescript clinic, I offered my name. She repeated, “Justin,” and dabbed at a tear. Once again, I told her, “Thank you.” Then I said, “Bonnie,” for the first time, and she seemed to notice the emotions wrapped inside my sloppy voice.

  Her AI must have called ahead; an attendant had already rolled out into the parking lot to wait for us.

  "I'll pay for everything,” Bonnie told the machine.

  She couldn't afford the first two minutes. Her old car proved that she was a person of modest means.

  "This was my fault entirely,” I confessed. Then I lied, claiming, “Besides, my insurance covers everything imaginable."

  "Are you sure?” she asked.

  "Dinner,” I said. “If you want, buy me a little dinner."

  The attendant was carrying me through the clinic door, an army of fingers already assessing the damage.

  Bonnie repeated, “Dinner,” before asking, “When?"

  "Tonight,” I suggested.

  Then I asked, “Have you eaten?"

  She shook her head. “No."

  To the machines gathering around me, I asked, “How long will this take?"

  The damage was severe but ordinary. Nothing too exceptional had to be fabricated. Thirty-five minutes was the verdict, and, with an intentionally pitiful voice, I asked, “Will you wait for me?"

  As the door closed, Bonnie rubbed her hands together, tilted her head to one side and smiled in her sad, sweet fashion. “I guess I am waiting,” she muttered. “Yes."

  * * * *

  Men instantly took notice of Bonnie. Perhaps her body was too meaty to belong to a model, but that was no failure. She was taller than most females, and she had an inviting walk that any man younger than ninety would notice from the Moon. Twice I saw wives or girlfriends chastising their men for gawking, and a pair of women sitting in the front of the restaurant mouthed the word, “Sweet,” as my date innocently passed by their table.

  I was feeling happy and sick, and very wicked, and I felt a little awful for what I had done, and a little thrilled by what I dreamed of doing.

  "I've never been here,” she confessed, watching the robot staff skitter from table to table, serving people like myself. “This seems like a nice place."

  "It is nice,” I promised. “And thank you for joining me."

  Of course, I'd given her no choice. But during that thirty-five minute wait, Bonnie had driven home and changed clothes, returning to the clinic smelling of perfume and youth. She let me pat the top of a hand, just for a moment, and then, before either one of us could gauge her response, I pulled my hand back again. And smiled. And, with a quiet but thoroughly fascinated voice, I invited her to tell me about herself.

  Some details were memorable. Others slipped from my grasp before I could decide whether or not to keep them. But who doesn't experience the world in such a sloppily selective way? Even with a precious someone, not every facet can be embraced inside a single evening.

  What I learned was that Bonnie worked at the university as a technician, in a DNA paleontologist's lab. She had been married once, briefly. Then she lived with the wrong man for several years; that relationship mercifully had ended the previous winter. She was raised Christian, but I don't remember which species. Plainly, she wasn't swayed by the recent reactionary noise against people like me. Watching my eyes, she touched my hand, admitting, “I'm going to be thirty in another three months."

  "Thirty,” I repeated.

  "That can be an ominous age,” I said.

  Her hand withdrew as she nodded in agreement.

  Our meals came and were consumed, and the bill arrived
along with a pair of sweet mints. The final tally took her by surprise. But one of us had left the table a few minutes ago, and, of course, I had purged myself, putting my food back into the restaurant's common pot, the lamb and buttery potatoes destined to be knitted back together again, the next shepherd's pie indistinguishable from the last.

  Bonnie paid for her meal and for renting my food, and then graciously allowed me to tip the restaurant's owner. A finished woman, as it happened.

  "Good night, you two kittens,” the woman told us as we left.

  Bonnie drove me to my house.

  I knew she didn't want to come inside. For a multitude of fine reasons—old heartaches, her Christian upbringing, and my own odd nature—Bonnie pulled away while we sat on my long driveway.

  There were several ways to attack the moment.

  What I decided to do, and what worked better than I hoped: I turned to my new friend, mentioning, “You haven't asked about me."

  She seemed embarrassed.

  "Anything,” I said. “Ask anything."

  Bonnie was wearing the sort of clinging blouse and slacks that a modern woman wears on a first date. Everything was revealed, yet nothing was. While a hand nervously played with an old-fashioned button, she asked, “How long ago ... did you do it...?"

  "Ten years and two months, approximately."

  The early days of this business, in other words.

  "Okay,” she whispered. Then, “How old were you—?"

  "Forty-nine years, eleven months."

  She couldn't decide what bothered her more, my being finished or my apparent age. “So you're twenty years older than me,” she muttered, speaking mostly to herself. “Or thirty, including the last ten. I don't think I've ever gone out with anyone quite that—"

  "Why?” I said, interrupting her.

  She fell silent, nervous for every reason.

  Looking into the wide brown eyes, I said, “That's what you want to know. Why did I do it? So find the breath and ask me."

  "Why did you?"

  I intended to tell the story, but the intuition of a middle-aged man took hold. The better course was to take her hand and lift it to my mouth, kissing a warm knuckle and then the knuckle beside it, and, with my tongue, tasting the salty heat between those two trembling fingers.