by Garon Whited
Captain Carl pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. He looked tired.
“I’m either going to go down in history as the man who saved the human race, complete with glorious music, or I’m going to be remembered as the harshest tyrant since Genghis Khan. I have a completely sealed environment, computer monitoring of every millimeter of it, and controls that would let me listen to a mouse chewing on baseboards, if we had mice or baseboards. I know for a fact that President Andrews is stirring up trouble.”
I shook my head. “Sir, I just don’t see a bunch of codgers attacking us with their walkers and canes and actually accomplishing anything. I mean, they don’t know the first thing about how to run the place, how to grow the food, how to manage the air—”
“Think again, Commander Hardy,” he interrupted. “You’re being rational. I’m talking about an emotional reaction guided by a rabble-rousing, tub-thumping welkin-ringer, not an appeal to reason. The people Andrews talks to don’t like the change in their nice, safe, secure little world. Many of them resent being put to work. They dislike being made to look stupid just because we don’t appreciate their oh-so-valuable years of experience—at trades we have no use for. I’ve had to stretch a bit to find occupations for everyone—some of them are simply make-work and step-and-fetch, and they know it.
“Andrews talks to people. He talks to everyone. That’s all he does; the man is a born politician. And I’ve seen indications that he doesn’t like being the only non-citizen of the Moon. He would try an armed power grab if he could, but, as you so cogently put it, he doesn’t know how this place works. All the technically-minded residents are smart enough to realize how fragile our new home really is—and they work like beavers to make it less fragile.
“But Andrews is dangerous, very much so, and I’m watching him. As soon as he does something more than run his mouth, I’ll have him locked up tighter than a bondage collar and with less breathing space. When the day comes that you get enough time to start making capsules, you’ll make a few extra—by then, I think I’ll have a few more names for the departure list.”
I didn’t like the idea of people fiddling with the controls of the base. Most of the life support is restricted from anyone not qualified, but still… one fumble-fingered fool could do unpleasant things. A squad of well-meaning button-pushers could do irreparable harm. And if Andrews was as much as a power-hungry moron as Captain Carl thought…
What sort of man works to get himself elected President of a dozen people?
“I don’t understand people too well, sir,” I admitted. “I guess I spend too much time with my head buried in the equipment.”
Captain Carl smiled slightly. “It’s to be expected, Maxwell. You have one of the busiest jobs in all of creation right now, and I try to let you focus on that. So let me do the worrying about what we should or should not do, and you just do what I tell you.”
I saluted. “Aye aye, Captain.” Then I grinned at him. “I’ve been doing it this long, haven’t I? I trust you, sir.”
He returned the salute with utter seriousness. “I will do my best to live up to that trust, Lieutenant Commander Hardy. That will be all.” As I turned to go he added, “Oh! Maxwell?”
“Yes, Sir?”
“Be careful how you handle Svetlana. She can be vicious when she feels she’s been wronged. She can also be quite depressed. She may have some psychological problems.”
“Yes, Sir.”
I headed out, wondering if there was anything he didn’t know.
Chapter Seventeen
“The first duty of a revolutionary is to get away with it.”
—Abbie Hoffman (1936-1989)
The Navy teaches that sleep is optional. Good thing, too, considering the schedule. The Luna was ready to go, complete with new engines, new guns, new fuel, and her own security detachment.
I still have trouble thinking of them as Marines. I’m not a Marine, and I could take any of them. I never felt that way about any Marine. Marines are dangerous. These guys were just armed.
Meanwhile, the road-paving ’bots were still working slowly along the fresh-graded stretch, melting and mixing lunar concrete. The end nearest Luna Base was the low-speed section; it was more of a runway, not a ramp. We’d see about adjusting the ramp angle once we took that notch out of the ringwall and our road was a little closer to it.
The revised construction plan called for us to blow a long notch out of the ringwall and use some of that material to help form the new, lower ramp. The ramp would rise from the crater floor to meet the lowest end of the notch. The floor of the notch would be cleared and graded into a continuation of that ramp. I discussed it over a computer model with Richard Moss, one of the latest additions to the Plumber’s Corps.
Back on Earth, Richard had supervised some serious construction jobs in the Seabees. After that, he hit the private sector and made enough money to retire. It took a while for him to get out of “retirement” mode and back into “get it done” mode, but he was finally in his groove. He didn’t look as old as most of the former residents; he could have been Captain Carl’s older brother.
“We bore holes all along here,” he said, touching a light-pen to the diagram. “That should be far enough away to keep from completely wrecking your orbital cannon. Might shake it up a bit, though. You’ll want to give the tunnel portion a good going-over before you try to fire it again.
“For blasting, we can get a tunnel robot to go all the way through the ringwall well above where the bottom of the notch should be,” he continued, drawing a line of light. “We put robots on top, along this line, to drill down with probe-sized bores, then to either side at an angle.”
“I don’t think so,” I said looking over his sketch. “Drilling straight down is okay, but at an angle, to that kind of depth? There may not be a lot of gravity, but there’s enough to drag a long bore off true and abrade it against the walls of the hole. They were designed to drill straight down.”
“So we set more drills up on top, to either side, and those drill straight down to lesser depth and use point charges instead of lines. We’ll need to use all of the robots with drilling heads to make your schedule, maybe make a few more.”
“Right. Go on.”
“We pump the holes full of explosives—the bores, not the main tunnel—and set ’em all off. Afterward, the main tunnel gets a series of charges along its length that go off, once we have the upper area weakened. With the right timing, the tunnel blows the rubble from the previous blasts out of the notch, making cleanup easier. That far away, we might not even feel it on base. But I guarantee those lightweight rocks are going to get out of the way.”
“Sounds like a good plan,” I agreed. “It’s a pity.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I hate to be a killjoy, but we don’t have any explosives.”
He stared at me for a moment. “You make rocket fuel by the ton and you think we don’t have explosives?”
“Oh.” I never thought of rocket fuel as an explosive. At least, not if used properly. Deliberately setting it off hadn’t occurred to me. “How much will you need?”
“I dunno, boss. I’ll have to kick the tires a couple of times and light a couple of fires.”
“Excuse me?” I asked. He sighed.
“I will have to drill some holes first, and set off a couple of sample charges to check the power of our improvised boom-boom. Okay?”
“Gotcha.”
“When can we go out and blow some stuff up?”
“How long do you think it’ll take?”
“A few hours. Got to drill holes, take measurements, then do it all again. Several times, if you want a good idea on how it’s gonna work. I may have to revise the plan if your go-juice turns out to be wimpy.”
“We’ll need a radiation shack,” I said, thinking about the sunlight. “I’ll get some construction ’bots on it out by the ringwall.”
“Not too close; we can use it for a forward post during
the blasting. Setting up for blasting ain’t a remote-control job; you have to keep a close eye on it.”
“Okay.”
“So when do we make with the thunder juice?”
“I’ll call the Captain and tell him we need a field trip. Go get a suit on.”
He hesitated. “Uh… actually, I’m not all that clear on how to use the things.”
“Ah. Right. Sorry. My fault. I forgot.”
He smiled at me and nodded. “Thanks.”
“I mean it. I truly forgot.”
“And I mean it. Thanks for forgetting.”
Suddenly, I saw what he meant. I’d forgotten he wasn’t a professional spacer.
“I’ll meet you in the dressing room.”
* * *
Richard learned the practical aspects of space suits in nothing flat. Theory wasn’t important, but what connects where and how do I make it work? These he learned in a hurry. We drove out to the ringwall to look the place over and I did my best to stay out of the sunlight; I’ve had enough solar radiation for this month. About two kilometers away, I saw dust flying up. A ’bot was digging a square tunnel down at the steepest angle they could manage—about thirty degrees. Once it reached six meters down, it would take a big, circular bite out of the underground rock. A bunch of smaller, earth-moving ’bots would follow it down to scoop out crushed rock and dust.
Richard got a drill-equipped robot over on manual control and made a few holes, made some measurements, poured in some carefully-monitored amounts of our new go-go juice, and used a robot’s laser welder to set it off from a safe distance.
We only used one liter, but it made a hell of a bang. I felt it through the soles of my boots, heard it rumble through the ground. Once things fell back to the surface, he measured a lot more. Then he did it again, and again, until I was checking my watch and starting to worry.
He came back into the shade and climbed aboard the rover with me. He looked up at the ringwall and was thoughtful for a long time. I finally keyed my helmet mike.
“Well?” I asked.
“How far down do you want that notch?” he replied.
“How far down can you take it?”
“I can make it a hole in the ground, if that’s what you want. But if you’re going to build a ramp, how about I stop somewhere above ground level?”
“I like that plan.”
“After the blast, you want a clear space for a landing run, right? A graded roadbed—that’s it?”
“At first, yes.”
“Right. We come back and build a ramp, then pave it over. The catapult gets built into the decking, right?”
“You got it.”
“No problem. A few days to drill, another day to pump in a couple thousand liters of thunder juice, a few seconds to blast, and—with all that road-grading equipment we have—maybe another day or so to clear the big chunks out of the way. You can fly your spaceship through the gap, at least. You won’t have the ramp for another month or two, but you just want a shallow glide path, right?”
“Yep.”
“Okay. This is doable. I’ll have better estimates once I finish the math.”
I nodded. Very professional. I can appreciate that.
“Right. Let’s get back home. We can drill by remote and I’ll get some fuel tanks built, filled, and hauled out for you.”
“Okay. But I’m gonna need to see what I’m doing. This remote control stuff is fine for you eggheads, but I have to have a feel for the job.”
Hmm.
“We’ll check with Anne and see what she says. There’s a limit to how much radiation exposure you’re allowed to get, and you’re close to the limit already.” I put the rover in gear and sent us hurtling across the plain.
“So?”
“So?” I echoed. “You could wind up with damaged kids or cancer.”
“I don’t plan on kids, youngster, not at my age,” he chuckled. “As for cancer… so? You don’t always just do your best. Sometimes you do what you have to.” He turned in his suit to face me and smiled grimly. “Sometimes that means not lettin’ go when someone’s drowning. Sometimes that means losing a hand because the other guy’ll die if you don’t. Sometimes it means you don’t come back, but your shipmates do. Didn’t they teach you nothing in that fancy officer school of yours?”
I felt my face growing warm again.
“Yes. They did. And you’re right, Richard. Thank you for reminding me.”
“You’re a good kid, sir, but you’re too nice a guy,” he said, seriously, and settled back into his seat. “You see a lot of good around you, and that’s important, yeah. You need to look at the world and see the meanness in it, too. You have to take ’em both, or you’re kidding yourself.”
I didn’t have a good answer for that. I hate it when cynics start making sense.
* * *
Kathy was delayed at dinner; Anne had her in the infirmary for some sort of examination, and I didn’t ask too many questions. It’s a woman thing. If I need to know, they’ll tell me.
I seated myself at the usual table to eat—Kathy would catch up, or we’d make it up by staying awake a little longer after lights-out. I barely got started before I had company.
Svetlana and Andrews slid over to the table.
“Hello, Max. May we join you?”
“Sure.” I didn’t know what to think about the two of them. Svetlana I needed to treat at least a little nicely—besides, darn it all, I liked Svetlana!—but Andrews was apparently a slightly-more-than-potential traitor. The two of them together was a bad thing. I hated to think Andrews was trying to gain Svetlana’s support in anything. Svetlana wasn’t really a bad person; she just wanted what she couldn’t have.
Come to think of it, that’s all that was wrong with Andrews, too. But what Andrews wanted threatened to upset our whole pressurized world. Svetlana only risked her own neck.
They sat down and settled in to eating. There was a conversational silence that I might refer to as “pregnant,” but I have a nicer feeling about pregnancies, these days. Let’s call it “tense,” or a “self-conscious” silence.
“Max?” Svetlana asked. I knew someone was going to start it.
“Mmm?” I replied, mouth full.
“Are you really going to build a parachute to send President Andrews back to Earth?”
I swallowed and nodded.
“It’s not exactly a parachute, though you could say a sort-of parachute is part of it,” I said.
“But he’ll never survive,” she pointed out.
“Sure he will. Nothing about the trip will exceed three gravities. Even the landing should be no worse than a normal parachute jump.”
“I meant that he won’t survive on Earth.”
“Oh. Well, that’s his problem. The Captain wants him off the Moon.”
“Max! How can you say such a thing?” she demanded, sounding hurt. “He’s a human being.”
I glanced at Andrews. He pretended to be absorbed in his meal.
“Svetlana, I don’t know what he’s said to you or what you think I can do for him, but it’s not my decision to make. He’s proven himself to be unreliable, untrustworthy, power-hungry, and good at making trouble. I think he’s lucky the Captain doesn’t have him shot.”
Svetlana smiled at me.
“I see. Well, I’m sorry to have wasted your time, Max. I hope I haven’t spoiled your dinner.”
“Nope.”
“Then I shall trouble you no more. Mister President, if you would come with me, please?”
They both got up and moved their trays to another table to join a couple of other people. I could see them in a quiet, intense discussion and I wondered what it was about. Normally, I try to see the best in people, but my recent talk with Richard had me wondering if Andrews was stirring up trouble.
About then, Kathy slid into the messhall and I started to enjoy dinner. She joined me at the table once she had her tray and we played footsie for a bit while she caught up on calori
es.
“How are the innards?” I asked.
“Pretty good. No more combat missions after this, though; I find I’m learning how to be nervous for someone else.”
“See? I told you. You’re human.”
“You have a disgusting habit of being right, and I plan to punish you for your arrogance later.”
“How? By making me beg for mercy?”
“Sort of,” she replied, and leered at me. I grinned back.
“So, do you know when you go wheels-up?”
She swallowed a bite of the lemon chicken—she once told me, “If it’s going to taste like chicken, I ought to at least be eating chicken!”—and shook her head.
“The Captain tells me we’ll get a briefing at oh-five-thirty.”
I felt my eyebrows climbing.
“Really? A briefing? We’re not having a meeting?”
“Affirmative, sweetheart. After that report you gave on the ringwall, he’s got a plan.”
“He always does. That’s why he’s in charge, thank God.”
“I would, if I were prone to bouts of religious zeal.”
I chuckled. “By the way, what’s up with Svetlana and Andrews?” I nodded at the table; they had four others with them, all former residents, but I couldn’t put a name to any of them. Kathy casually flipped her hair back and glanced over at them in the process.
“No idea. Maybe she’s collecting political figures, now.”
“Just so she can say she did the last President?”
Kathy shrugged, not really caring. I could see it in her expression. If she could have made Svetlana not exist by simply ignoring her, Svetlana wouldn’t have been there. That was probably better than actively hunting her down to stuff her in a recycling unit.
“I don’t understand her,” Kathy said, quietly. “There’s a lot I don’t understand about people. I like the military because it’s easier—more structured. I know where I stand with an airman, warrant officer, or captain. Svetlana… she’s one of those social animals that makes me glad I’m not entirely human.”