Dead Men Flying

by Bill Patterson

  “We also got hit with some radiation, though not nearly as much as the Chaffee. We're going to be fine, we're not going to lose a hair. Commander Standish and I are concerned about the sleepers, though, but there's not much we can do about that right now.

  “The Lunar Colony Collins went off the air about twelve minutes after the impact when a shock wave from the impact rolled over their location. We have to assume that they all perished. There are still items in transit from them, and I can't tell you how odd that seems to be still getting packages from the dead, as it were.

  “So, here's the situation: The Collins and Chaffee are gone. UNSOC New York never came back on the air after it was shut down by the Director-General. We've been monitoring news items, and it seems unlikely that it will ever come back online. The Tracking and Data Relay Satellite network, like everything in Earth orbit, is being destroyed by Lunar debris. We are linked with JPL via one of the auxiliary Goldstone antennas, and the old NASA Deep Space Network is trying to allocate some time on its other antennas to give us round-the-clock coverage, but that's a low priority affair. After all, there's not really much going on here. We're just tooling along this groove to Mars.

  “Our mission, for the moment, is unchanged. We are still going to stop at Mars, land, perform science with our sleeping buddies, then load up and blast off back to Earth. Think about that for a minute.”

  Commander Standish took up the narrative after a long, uncomfortable pause. “Commander Smithson and I have held several discussions about this. We have three options. Continue the mission as is, land and try to form a colony, or something else. The first two options will entail certain death for us—the debris around Earth will still be there in five years, and we cannot hope to survive the barrage until reentry. Likewise, an all-male colony on Mars will eventually fail—we do not have the right kind of equipment to form a colony in the first place, and even if we did, there are no women to ensure descendants.

  “So, we’re looking for a third option. There must be some way for us to return to Earth, survive the debris barrage, and do it within the limitations of present consumables. We are asking everyone to put their best brains on it. We will also ask JPL for unofficial help, though I am uncertain how far they will go to help us if we decide to ditch our original mission.”

  Commander Smithson leaned into his microphone. “We have several months until we have to decide. We will be in the neighborhood of Mars in about twelve months. What I do not want is the formation of sides in this. The decision will be made by me and Commander Standish. Please direct your input to either one of us. Thank you for your time.”

  ***

  “We’re dead, you know,” Jeff Gatson, the Chief Engineer for the Mars Expedition, said over the intercom.

  “Yup,” Scott Acevedo, his counterpart on the Bradbury replied. “Unless we can find both a hat and a rabbit.”

  “Will a suit helmet do?”

  “Anything in a pinch.”

  Jeff settled back in his bunk. “So, what do you think?”

  “I think we don't land on Mars at all.”

  “And go where? I confess that we should consider landing, and instead of collecting rock samples, looking for bacterial fossils, and farming in Mars dust loaded with our own poop, we bust our asses making iron plates to weld over our ships for the ride back.”

  Scott made a small sound of disagreement. “Sounds nice in theory, but we'll never move the additional mass with the fuel and engines we have. Still, that's not a bad idea. If only Mars had water!”

  “It does, you know,” said Jeff. “Or at least those rovers found minerals that could only be formed in the presence of water. Some kind of hydrated magnetite or something like that. Didn't they find gypsum?”

  “I wouldn't know. Okay, so we get LOX and LH2. And tanks. The engines on the landers will only be able to lift so much, and I don't think UNSOC put in any extra thrust.”

  Jeff growled. “What about shuttling? Maybe we could do a couple of cargo-only trips.”

  “Then you're up against the longevity issue. The lander engines were planned to be used once. They would probably work two or three times, but imagine being on them for trip four and having the throat burn out on a combustion chamber. I don't know, Jeff. Still, it's better than nothing.”

  “Yeah. I'll drop it in the hopper for the Commanders to think about. You know they'll ask us to do some feasibility studies and whatnot. Tell you what, Scott, since you're the pessimistic one, why don't you tackle the engine longevity issue and I'll tackle the cargo question, which I think should be 'what can we pull out of Mars that will help us survive to Earth?' Sound good to you?”

  Scott chuckled. “I was going to ask for the 'con' side of your proposal. Look, Jeff, we're all in this together. I don't want to shoot down your proposal—it sounds pretty good, actually—but I don't want to be halfway to orbit when the engine bell falls off, either.”

  “Yeah, I understand, and no hard feelings if it can't be done. One thing's for sure, we can't homestead on Mars, and we can't go back to Earth like this. There's got to be a way to come out of this alive.”

  Scott grumbled. “The universe doesn't owe us a living. There doesn't have to be a way out. But I'm with you, I'd really like to find one.”

  ***

  The controller at JPL was apologetic. “I'd really like to help you guys, but I just got the word. Anything that varies from the established mission parameters will not receive assistance.”

  Roger growled deep in his throat. He took a moment to gather his thoughts. He certainly didn't want to cut off his only communications with Earth. “I understand. The people of Earth paid out the nose to send this expedition in the first place, and they deserve a load of science in return. It would be nice if a couple of hundred spacemen came back alive, too.” He let go of the transmit button and turned to Harel Mazzo, a Life Science tech standing watch. “Sounds like we're talking to Subby all over again.”

  “I wouldn't know, Commander. I never met the man in my life.”

  “Count yourself lucky,” said Roger, his eye on the clock. The speed-of-light delay was now up to eight-five seconds. Forty-five to go. “He was the ultimate micromanager. He was also as corrupt as a three-week-old corpse. I wonder how many bribes he pocketed while building these ships?”

  “Burroughs, this is JPL. Understand last message. We will evaluate any proposal you send, so long as the science program is not disrupted.”

  “JPL, roger. When we have something solid, we'll send it your way. In the meantime, I've sent you a list of specifications for critical systems on board we believe will be used past normal mission requirements. Please send back engineering analyses when they are available.”

  “We have received your list, Burroughs, and will process it. JPL, listening, out.”

  Roger secured the microphone. “And that, it appears, is that. Uh, keep this under your hat, Harel. I'd rather break the news to everyone at once instead of quashing rumors. My take? JPL will assist us, but only on the margins, like sending full specs and engineering analyses. But if we ditch the science mission, I assume we're going to be cut off. So, they're still helping us, but with an implied threat.”

  Harel gave the Commander a thumbs up. “Don't worry about me, sir, I've got a ton of work to do in Life Sciences. I don't have time to gossip with the other five.”

  “Bull, and you know it, Harel. Just hold off for another day or so, please.”

  “You got it, sir.”

  Bad Seed

  Northern Georgia, USA, November 3 2082, 1341 EST

  John Hodges heard a hard craaack behind him but, with the experience of several months, looked out ahead of him. The long, luminous stream of fire traced by a meteor briefly caused a second shadow to trace around his legs as he watched the burning fragment disappear over the horizon. He shrugged and went back to his yardwork. The meteor was too high in the sky to pose a problem to anyone on the ground nearby, although someone was bound to get a thumping. B
ut it wouldn't be him.

  “John!” called a woman from inside the house. “How does it look?”

  John smiled. Three months since his divorce became final, and he still couldn’t believe he was playing house with Celine Greenfield.

  “Went over the horizon, Cee,” he said.

  “Fragments?” she asked.

  “Not that I could tell. Seemed to be a single bolide, at least until it passed over us.”

  “Never can tell, though, can you? Might have calved off a chunk before we heard it.”

  John walked up to the house. He really disliked this shouting out the windows. True, they were in a nice rural area of Northern Georgia, and could hardly be disturbing the neighbor about a kilometer up the road. Still, it was the principle of the thing.

  He walked into the kitchen, then checked himself. Kitchen was where his ex-wife used to hang out. Before he could move, Celine walked in, a sly smile on her face. “Figured I'd find you here,” she said. “Don't worry. I don't expect you to unlearn the habits built up over twenty years. “

  “I'm sorry, Celine,” he said.

  “Now, don't mope.” She reached a soft white hand to cup his dark chin and turn it toward her. She stretched upward and gave him a long but chaste kiss on his lips. That's all you get until you finish that drainage ditch around the garden.”

  John grinned and tried to grab her for another kiss, but she gave a small shriek and danced out of his grasp. Temporarily defeated, he headed back outside. “I'll be back!” he roared.

  “Not 'til you finish the ditch!” she replied, heading back to her studio.

  John took the stairs in a rapid staccato of drumming feet to end up striding quickly out to the garden area, just behind the garage. He had a spring to his step that surprised him. It had to be Celine.

  He rounded the corner of the garage to meet the hard swing of a shovel in his face.

  ***

  Some premonition caused him to duck his head, taking most of the blow on the crown and forehead, leaving the rest of his face relatively unscathed. He came to quickly. Screams came from the house.

  John dove into the garage, pulled the handle he never wanted to pull, and grabbed the rifle from its hidden niche between the studs and the wallboard. He slapped a magazine into the receiver and jacked a round into the chamber. Leaving the garage, he missed a step and landed hard on his knees. He instinctively cradled the rifle to prevent it from firing, but his abused face ground against the lawn. He got to his feet with difficulty, his kneecaps flaming agony.

  The screams had devolved into whimpers, but a man's voice was shouting.

  “You think you can just walk out of my life like that, bitch? Huh? Who's that black guy? Did he fuck you? Did he?” The ugly sound of a hard slap to a face only spurred John on.

  John blessed the day that he insisted on new construction. Not a single floorboard creaked as he made his way over to Celine's studio. He couldn't do anything about the sound his shoulder made, riding along the wall. His left knee wouldn't support his weight, and his right one was swelling up so much that bending it was getting increasingly difficult. He could see the man's shadow on the wall, and angled to avoid being seen.

  “Oh, how cozy we are, how domestic!” said the man. John heard a ripping sound. Was that canvas or Celine's blouse? A shout of outraged pain from the man was followed by the thud of Celine's body against the wall.

  John thought furiously. How can I take him on when I can barely stand?

  “And you're painting. Art! The only art you need to know is the art of making me happy, got it?” A meaty thud cut off Celine's whimpering.

  John had the man's position pretty well scoped out, but he waited an extra beat, paying attention to the shadow on the wall. Okay, I can probably slide into the doorway. Keep the left shoulder on the hinge side and roll around it. The man stopped, listening, even though John stood completely still. Celine made some movement, drawing his attention.

  “I didn't tell you to move!” he said.

  “What are you going to do, kill me?” she said, in a flat tone.

  Oh, shit, she's gone back into that place. John considered. She doesn't really care if she lives or not. I better end this.

  The shadow stretched out an arm, one that clearly held a pistol. “I could, you know. Then go out and shoot that monkey in the garden, put you beside him—murder/suicide. The sheriff around these parts won't care.”

  The arm pointed the pistol at the ceiling. “Nah. You've still got a lot of miles left. Monkey boy, though, is going to have a little chainsaw accident. Nothing too horrible, just some jugular veins severed. So sad. Then you and I can go party.”

  John swung into the room, rifle aimed at the man's lower abdomen.

  “I thought I told you never to bother her again, Garth.”

  “Oooh,” taunted Garth. “Little man with a big gun. Maybe not so much of a man. I hear all of you had to get snipped.” Garth held up his other hand, making scissoring motions. “Celine doesn't want to mess with a gelding, do you, sweetie?”

  “Screw you, Garth,” she said, with some heat.

  John's eyes crinkled. It had been so long since he had made a woman happy by just being there, much less rescuing her from a maniac. He held the rifle on Garth. Oh, yeah, please make a move.

  “Later, dear, later. After I finish with the nut-less here.” Garth pulled the hammer back on the pistol, the mechanical clack sounding like thunder in the studio.

  Then real thunder sounded.

  Garth caved in towards his lower abdomen as blood drizzled out of the blackened hole just below his belt. Garth shook his head. “You can’t have her,” he said. Taking deliberate aim at John's forehead, he took one step forward. John raised the rifle again, watching Garth's trigger finger carefully.

  Garth's shoe skidded on his own blood. With a scream so high and loud it was almost feminine, Garth fell uncontrollably into a forward split. His scrotum smacked into the floorboards, the meaty splat almost drowned out by the high-pitched keening from the drastically wounded man.

  Garth threw his arm out for balance, the pistol flying out of his hand. John looked frantically around for the weapon. Celine caught his eye and toed the weapon with her foot. John nodded, and she shoved it under a cabinet.

  “What did you do?” she asked.

  “Shot him in the sacrum,” John said, looking at the keening man on the floor, still in the same position he landed in. “Last four vertebrae in the spine. They fuse and hold the hipbones together. Break it, and the hips come apart. He can't help but fall into a split. He can't get up from it, either. Better call 911, dear, and I'll get in touch with the sheriff.”

  John looked at the wounded man. “That's the only warning you're going to get. Next time, it's for keeps.”

  ***

  The sheriff was not quite as racist as Garth would have hoped. Surveillance cameras recorded the entire incident, and it was a clear case of a homeowner defending his house and family. The doctors wired Garth's sacrum together, and eventually, the whole hip mended, but the soft tissues the bullet passed near never quite recovered. The rectum was wrecked, and the large intestine required multiple surgeries to avoid a permanent ostomy, but it was the prostate that absorbed the last of the momentum as the bullet tumbled around the abdomen. Garth ended up worse than gelded—he was never going to have an erection again.

  The trial was a slam-dunk, and Garth received seven years for assault with a deadly weapon and left John with an intractable ticklish problem.

  ###

  They had ordered chicken and gravy at the diner across the street from the courthouse. Their plates were empty, but neither John nor Celine could quite remember the taste of their early dinner.

  “He's never going to give up,” Celine said woodenly. “I've seen this time and again. He'll keep coming after us until either he's dead or we are.”

  John held her while she cried. I wish I could take away her pain.

  “Why couldn't you have
just killed him, John? It was justifiable. He had a pistol. He had me hostage. You could have plugged him in the forehead without even raising a sweat.”

  “Think of its effect on me,” began John, but Celine stopped him cold.

  “No, John. Think of me! That bastard's been chasing me for four years now. The only peace I got was up on Chaffee—and I spent most of my time fending off horndogs! Why can't I, just once, have a nice, simple life without men ruining it?”

  John loosened his arms, offering her escape. He knew that to caress her would confirm in her mind that he was only placating her. To say almost anything would be wrong. But he had to say something.

  “Men are assholes, Celine. Including me. I won't lie—I want to cover you with kisses right now so you can forget that man. But you never really can forget him, can you?”

  Wiping away angry tears, Celine shook her head.

  “I know that I can never make it up to you, to undo the damage he’s done. Sometimes, I feel you shutting down when we're intimate, and I know it's because of Garth.”

  “You don't deserve this,” she said miserably.

  “No, but you don't deserve it either.” John looked around. “How much does this house mean to you?”

  Celine looked at the studio, her works, both finished and unfinished. “Everything.”

  “Then we cannot move. No, here, we make a stand. I'll wire this place up six ways from Sunday so we can never be surprised again. I want you to feel safe here, Celine.”

  She sniffed. “When we got out of the hospital after all the radiation damage, you told me that you had 'this little place' down in Georgia.” She laughed, a short bark. “Fifteen acres if it's a postage stamp. Big-assed house. Water well, septic, solar cells on the roof and a windmill over the ridge. This place is completely self-sufficient, off the grid, and Garth still managed to find us. No, I'm tired of running.”