Omega Sol

by Scott Mackay

  ‘‘For now,’’ said Pittman. ‘‘But I always knew they were just an enemy waiting to happen.’’

  He keyed in the appropriate command on his wristpad and checked his life-support stats. With refill capability from Moonstone 32 no longer available, only nine hours of personal air remained. They were one hundred and three kilometers from Gettysburg. If they had to walk, they would never make it.

  ‘‘Looks like we’re in a bit of trouble, Gunther.’’

  ‘‘What kind of trouble, sir?’’

  ‘‘With our life support.’’

  Haydn assessed his own readouts. ‘‘Oh.’’

  ‘‘Exactly.’’

  Pittman tried to raise a number of Moonstones again, but all he got was scrambled, panicked snippets. About the only bright spot was a mechanical and systems green light with the Moonstone that Hawker and Callison commanded; but while the vehicle seemed to be intact, that didn’t necessarily guarantee that the two soldiers were still alive. He radioed them but couldn’t raise them. He checked the field reports coming in over his visor screen. ‘‘I’m losing one Moonstone after another, Gunther. About the only one still operational is the one Hawker and Callison are commanding, but I can’t raise them, nor is Greenhow letting me plot exactly where they are because of all the haywire radiation. So that essentially means no Moonstones. And without the Moonstones, no one’s going to have enough air to get back to Gettysburg.’’

  ‘‘What about the twelve reserve rescue vehicles back at Gettysburg? They can come and get us.’’

  ‘‘Only I can’t get through to Gettysburg either, so have no idea of the status back at base. We don’t know if the attack included those twelve reserve vehicles.’’

  ‘‘Yes, but maybe they’re already on their way. Maybe Greenhow transmitted data about the attacks.’’

  ‘‘Gunther, didn’t you hear what I just said? Greenhow is up against major interference.’’

  ‘‘Yes, but, sir, if the reserve commands think something is wrong, they should be on their way.’’

  ‘‘We can’t count on that, Gunther. Too many battles have been lost in the history of warfare by the front line assuming their rear echelon is intact. Gettysburg could be destroyed, and frankly, it’s the only safe tactical assumption we can make. Which means we’re on our own. And that’s bad, because someone’s got to make it back to Gettysburg to continue this mission. The strategic system is bunkered, and will still be intact, no matter what. Hawker and Callison are closest, but it seems they have their Moonstone running on automatic systems, which means they could be dead, and we can’t count on them making it back safely. We can’t raise anybody else. So that means it’s up to us.’’

  ‘‘But, sir, how can we make it back if we don’t have enough air?’’

  ‘‘If we pool our oxygen, maybe one of us can make it back. And one is all we need. We need to retract the sinkholed strategic system and have one more go at Alpha Vehicle before it’s too late. But it poses us with a bit of a problem, doesn’t it, Lieutenant? Which one of us is to give up his oxygen for the other? Which one of us is to make the ultimate sacrifice? Say you were the president, and you had to make this decision? Say you had to decide which one of us was expendable. Would you choose the commanding officer of Moonstone? Or would you choose his lieutenant?’’

  Haydn grew still. ‘‘Sir, I don’t want to die.’’

  ‘‘I know you don’t, son. But for the sake of your country, I think you might have to.’’

  ‘‘But I’m only twenty-seven, sir.’’

  ‘‘That wouldn’t be a factor in any decision the president would make about our situation. You see, son, what I’m worried about is this growing radio communications problem. We’re becoming increasingly cut off. It might come to the point where we might actually have to make our own decisions unilaterally about Operation Moonstone. You see that, don’t you? And from an operational standpoint you simply don’t have the experience to make the kinds of decisions that might have to be made about the Builders, particularly if it comes down to the nuclear option.’’

  Haydn looked up at him, alarmed. ‘‘You might use the nuclear option, sir?’’

  ‘‘That’s what I mean when I say we have to retract the strategic system from its bunker.’’

  ‘‘Yes, but, sir, maybe we can both make it back. Or maybe if we put out a hail to Hawker and Callison.’’

  ‘‘Son, we’re getting nothing personally from Hawker and Callison, even though we’re getting a read on their vehicle, just barely.’’

  He peered through Haydn’s yellow visor at the young man’s face. Never was there a clearer picture of distress, with the corners of his lips drawn back, his eyes wide, and his nostrils flared. Pittman couldn’t blame him. He was distressed himself. All those units down. His options nearly gone. And all those fine young men dead. But he was seasoned. He understood combat. Meanwhile, Haydn began to hyperventilate. As much as Pittman hated to make soldiers lay down their lives, there were certain inalterable equations when it came to war, and one of them was to sacrifice the troops at the expense of maintaining viable leadership, for without viable leadership, they all went down.

  ‘‘I was hoping I’d get home for Christmas.’’

  ‘‘I’ll make sure you receive full honors, Gunther.’’

  ‘‘But I don’t want to die, sir.’’

  ‘‘None of us does, son. But sometimes we’re called upon to make that sacrifice. You have enough morphine in your automatic med-pak to go out peacefully. I’ll make a nice marker for you. I’ll personally travel to Blossburg and tell your parents how brave you were. You have an opportunity to be a major hero in this war, Gunther. When the historians come to write about Earth’s first intergalactic conflict, your name will be synonymous with noble sacrifice.’’

  ‘‘But, sir, I’ve got a girl back home.’’

  ‘‘Do you have a message for her? I’ll make sure she gets it.’’

  Haydn was growing more and more restless, moving from side to side, as unsettled as could be. ‘‘I guess you could tell her that . . . I love her . . . and that I was planning to marry her . . . and that I had my eye on a little white house on Vine, just near where the bridge is.’’ He became even more agitated. ‘‘And I guess you could tell my parents that I love them as well, and that I thank them for raising me, and that I—’’ His restlessness now reached fevered levels, and before he said anything else he was up and out of the small crater and running toward the far rise.

  Pittman sighed. He reached for his sidearm and took careful aim, right at the man’s back. He didn’t want to do this. But military expedience made it necessary. He didn’t blame Haydn for running, yet was somewhat disappointed that the man didn’t have a little more courage. He then did what a scorpion did best. He stung, squeezing the trigger ever so gently. The ordnance penetrated Gunther’s suit, and the man went down, arms outstretched, falling face-first into the loose regolith of the Moon, skidding a bit in the weak gravity before he came to a rest. Pittman surveyed the scene: dead soldier in a space suit at the bottom of a treeless sun-blasted rise that stopped ruler-straight at the perpetually black sky twenty meters up. So be it. He felt sad. But also as if he had accomplished something. When he went to tell Gunther’s parents, he would rewrite things, at least a bit. For Gunther had still made a sacrifice, and though his fear had gotten the better of him at the last minute, Pittman would always consider him a brave young man.

  The StopGap sputtered green and sticky into the suit’s breach, stopping catastrophic oxygen loss. Pittman got up and went over. He disengaged Haydn’s oxygen supply, then turned the soldier over. Gunther was dead, his face a faint blue. Pittman raised his hand in a salute. It was a sublime moment. For nothing was more inspirational in fighting an enemy than the death of a fellow officer, and it gave him further determination to stop the Builders using whatever means necessary, even if he had to unilaterally drop a nuclear bomb on Alpha Vehicle.

  19

&n
bsp; Pittman thought he might bury Haydn, but then decided the extra exertion would tax his already limited oxygen supply, now timed to a combined twelve hours and twenty-five minutes. So instead he drew a cross in the dirt above Haydn’s head, knowing that a memorial scratched in lunar soil was more permanent than any marker on Earth, wrote the Marine’s name, the date, and the words Semper Fidelis below his feet.

  He then set off over the airless surface.

  He wondered if in the annals of lunar history such a hike had ever been attempted. He found the darkness a bit much. He tried to get in touch with Gettysburg as well as his Moonstones, but the Moonstones weren’t responding, and because Gettysburg was still so far away, radiation from the destabilized sun interrupted his signal.

  He got hungry three hours later, so ate some nutrition paste. His guide lights picked out dirt, pebbles, and rock. He felt he was walking on top of hard-packed snow. He hated the treelessness of the place, the lack of any vegetation anywhere, because even the desert back home had vegetation—creosote, sagebrush, cacti, and various tough grasses.

  He thought of powdered cement. It was as if a cement company had come to the Moon and made the whole place its dumping yard. The darkness— especially with that black sky all the time—was like the impenetrable murk of a graveyard at night. Not for the first time he felt something supernaturally horrifying about the Moon’s darkness. And all this emptiness, as with the desert back home, made him think—and thinking was often like a slow poison to him.

  He thought of Haydn. Was it right to sacrifice the Marine? At the time it had made perfect military sense, but now he couldn’t help second-guessing himself.

  After he got done thinking about Haydn, he thought of his ex-wife and children.

  His ex-wife, Sheila, who had never got the hang of military life, couldn’t understand it was a culture unto its own, that sacrifices had to be made, and attitude adjustments rigorously maintained. He loved her, but hated her, yet loved her, and regretted that the PRNC War had finally driven them apart.

  He thought of his daughter, Becky, who had turned thirteen just before he got the call from Blunt to fight the North Chinese, goddamn their souls to hell. Becky, shy, silent, and loving, but so horrified that her father had to go to war.

  And Tom. Ten years old at the outbreak of PRNC hostilities. An oops child, but who, in a way, had become his best friend, his hope and inspiration, so much like his father, good at sports, competitive, wanting to win at any cost.

  He fretted over his family for the next three hours. He knew he shouldn’t let the acid mind-blowing regret of losing his family hurt him this way, but he couldn’t help it. And he grieved for Haydn. He thought of Haydn’s parents, who lived in Blossburg, Pennsylvania, not far from Philadelphia, where he had made his home with Sheila and the kids for the longest time. When he got back to the desert he would drive up to Pennsylvania, make a point of visiting not only Blossburg but also Philadelphia. It was about time he saw his kids.

  He stopped. He looked around. The Moon was now brown in his twin guide lights, like powdered cocoa. Standing here in this immense blackness all by himself, he had a terrifying notion of just how insignificant he was.

  He saw the Earth, little more than half-full, a blue and white balloon. He wanted the sight to somehow change him, transform him, because even the earliest Moon explorers had recounted transformative experiences when viewing the Earth from the Moon. But the Earth just made Pittman feel sad, and caused him to think of Haydn again, and how Haydn wouldn’t be going home for Christmas.

  He turned away from the Earth and continued walking.

  Over the next two hours he tried, via the Greenhow System, to contact Orbops Command in Arlington. He wanted to urge them to exercise the nuclear option after all, didn’t want to take the definitive step by himself if he didn’t have to. But the immense amounts of radiation coming from the sun made communication impossible. He couldn’t get through. So he finally decided that he was going to have to go solo. Make a command decision. Because whatever came to pass, he wasn’t going to let Alpha Vehicle win, not after what it had done to all his Moonstone soldiers. Not after Haydn’s sacrifice.

  An hour later, he switched to Haydn’s oxygen. On Earth he could make out the dim brown continent of North America, the eastern half in morning daylight, the western half still in shadow.

  Five hours later, wanting to keep marching but now beginning to realize that even with Haydn’s extra oxygen he wasn’t going to reach Gettysburg, he stopped. He was in the middle of a large crater, not as large as Crater Cavalet, but still at least two football fields across, not particularly deep, but flat. He felt like he was standing in the middle of a gigantic pie crust.

  He bounce-walked until he was as close to dead center as he could get. A good place to die. He radioed Gettysburg and discovered he was now close enough to get through all the radiation.

  ‘‘Gettysburg responding, it’s good to hear your voice, Colonel.’’ Lamar Bruxner sounded tired but deeply relieved.

  ‘‘Mr. Brunxer, we’ve been attacked. Send immediate rescue.’’

  ‘‘Rescue?’’ said the support chief, sounding confused. ‘‘Rescue in what?’’

  ‘‘The twelve reserve Moonstones at Gettysburg.’’

  ‘‘But they’ve all been destroyed, Colonel. They . . . all melted. It was the oddest thing I’d ever seen.’’

  ‘‘And the men inside?’’

  ‘‘Dead.’’

  Pittman momentarily grieved for his fallen soldiers and even for the destroyed vehicles. ‘‘What about Gettysburg? Has it been attacked?’’

  ‘‘No. I’ve been trying to raise you for the longest time.’’

  ‘‘Have Hawker and Callison returned to base?’’ Because he still hoped Hawker and Callison might make it back to Gettysburg. ‘‘Have you heard from them?’’

  Bruxner was surprised. ‘‘You’re the only one to call in yet, Colonel. Radio interference has been getting worse and worse. I was lucky to get a last call to Earth. They’re sending a rescue vehicle. For the support staff only, though. I thought all of you were dead. They’ll be taking six returnees only.’’

  ‘‘Listen to me, Bruxner. Our mission has failed. Which means we go to our fallback. It’s up to you now.’’

  ‘‘Up to me?’’

  ‘‘We have to destroy Alpha Vehicle. I want you to retract the strategic attack system from its sinkhole beneath the tower hub, access the military command software, and commence targeting procedures with our nuclear asset. We have one warhead orbiting the Moon, and this warhead is Earth’s last chance.’’ He paused. His words sounded bizarrely grandiloquent. Ten years ago, stationed in Germany, Sheila insisted he accompany her to a performance of Wagner’s Götterdämmerung. His words were like that, Wagnerian, operatic in the grand-gesture and larger-than-life sense of the word; and standing in the middle of this shallow crater he indeed had the sense that he was on a stage, and that he was about to perform this one last heroic act before succumbing to his death. ‘‘Here are the codes. I’m transmitting now.’’

  What wrecked it was the way Bruxner argued with him, saying that he didn’t want to be responsible for a nuclear launch against the Builders, that he was just chief of support at Gettysburg.

  ‘‘Bruxner, listen to me. If you don’t do this—if you don’t get a grip on yourself—then everybody on Earth dies. I tried to make it back, but I don’t have the oxygen. I thought Hawker and Callison might make it back, but they haven’t. So it all comes down to you. You can go down in history as the man who saved the world. Or you can be remembered as the world’s biggest coward.’’

  It seemed as if Bruxner didn’t understand the meaning of the word glory, at least not in the way Pittman did, and Pittman had to argue with him for many minutes until Bruxner finally revealed he had a young family in Cleveland.

  ‘‘Do you want them all to die, Bruxner? The oceans are going to boil. That means the atmosphere is going to fill with superheated ste
am. Now picture your family scalded alive in this steam. Is that something you want?’’

  When he had only twenty-five minutes of oxygen left, he finally convinced Bruxner to go through with it.

  At the twenty-minute mark, he saw a bright flash on the western horizon. It filled him with such joy, he sank to his knees, because he knew Alpha Vehicle must have taken a direct nuclear strike.

  At the seventeen-minute mark, he stiffened in terror because another bright flash came from the western horizon, this one substantially closer, and seconds later it rained rocks. Gettysburg? A nuclear strike from Alpha Vehicle in retaliation?

  At the ten-minute mark, he looked up at Earth, and saw six tiny flashes sparkle over the eastern United States. With an overwhelming sense of dread he realized that maybe he hadn’t taken out Alpha Vehicle after all, and that, as such, he might have precipitated a nuclear exchange. Had one of those sparkles been Philadelphia? From his knees, he sank to the seat of his pants, and his operatic sense of the moment disappeared.

  At the five-minute mark, he was getting ready to make peace with a med-pak overdose when, over the rim of his nameless-piecrust-of-crater, a Moonstone appeared, the big knobby tires out front crunching through the dusty apex of the crater’s rim, the tracks to the rear forcing the vehicle forward so that the heavy hard-vac mobile gunning unit wheelied into the flat pit and charged toward him.

  He got back to his knees.

  Three minutes of oxygen left, and he got to his feet, stood to attention, and saluted. Above, Earth simmered in what had to be nuclear fallout. He heard Hawker’s broken and static-fractured voice penetrate all the rampant radiation. ‘‘Sir—we’ve got—and we—Gettysburg is—’’ The vehicle swung up beside him. He walked toward it. The air-lock light flashed. He focused on the light. Allowed himself a moment of rage. Lifted a stone and smashed the light.

  Got himself under control.

  And made himself ready to be a colonel again.

  20

  The generator gave out three hours later, and the temperature in the cellar plummeted. Cam pushed the blanket away and got to his feet. Lesha looked at him, shivering from her spot on the floor. He lifted the flashlight and shone it toward the steps. The ice had melted. As he walked to the table, his feet squelched through two centimeters of water. The cellar smelled of earth, and he saw a pill bug, like a little armored tank, walking along the wall.