Dead Men Flying

by Bill Patterson

  “Thank you all for coming,” said Roger. He was standing on a small platform made of iron-nickel rock and propped up on blocks of the same material. “Although, I am sure it wasn't too hard for you to travel to the meeting.”

  This met with good-natured laughter. The newly awakened were energetic, whereas the original awake crew looked cruelly aged by the constant work of the past four years. Roger stepped back to the microphone.

  “Right about now, we two hundred are at perihelion—we are the closest humans have ever come to the sun. Thanks to Chief Engineer Gatson, we're holding this meeting in shirtsleeves and not as a bunch of disembodied ions. A hand for Chief Gatson and Deputy Chief Acevedo.” Roger paused to let the crew acknowledge the men for their hard work.

  “There's a hell of a lot more that they deserve applause for, but time is growing short. Our course for the next few weeks will climb away from the sun. We will have to fire our rather unique engine, and slow down a bit. We will catch up to Venus and bend our course towards Earth. There will be another five months until we creep up on Earth. This is being done deliberately.

  “We're a ship powered by nuclear bombs. Earth has issues of its own, and has been out of contact with us for years. As far as they’re concerned, we're dead, lost out beyond Mars. It's something we could have resented, and I'm still a little ticked at the shortsighted nature of UNSOC. But those poor bastards are getting stoned, literally, by chunks of the Moon.

  “Speaking of—I have been in contact with McCrary on the Moon for quite some time. I know that it's a popular game to figure out what's going on with the Commanders and their encrypted communications. Commander Standish and I have concluded early on to wait to announce everything until we knew that all of the parts of this plan would work.

  “Just before we went into radio blackout, the Collins colony on the Moon tested The Tank, their answer to the Perseus. The Tank is a rather enormous ship made out of slabs of Lunar steel laser-welded together. While it is theoretically capable of reentry to Earth and surviving, it would have to do so by way of nuclear bombs, exactly like us. For obvious reasons, McCrary doesn’t want to do that.

  “Instead, they are going to rendezvous with us. We are going to host another two hundred very ill individuals.”

  Roger eased back from the microphone and waved Michael Standish to it. They paused while the low roar of conversation consumed their audience.

  “Gentlemen!” called Michael until the men were quiet once more. “The reason they are sick is because they are missing key micronutrients in their diet. We have those micronutrients here, in abundance,” he said, waving his arms to encompass the growing crops. “We also have years of concentrated supplements intended for our use on Mars. Between now and the time they dock, we're going to have to ramp up production of farmland to feed the extra people. I know a lot of you are tremendously overqualified for this kind of work, but frankly, we owe the Collins crew our lives.

  “Absolutely everything here is the direct result of something that some Moondog dug up, smelted, processed, and launched our way. Those bombs are the direct result of the refined thorium that they launched our way some three years ago. The seeds are our own, but the regolith is from the Moon. We'd have never found the comet nor even Perseus herself without the fantastic telescope and the scientists marooned on the Moon.

  “Earth was ready to write us off, and did. But the Moon never gave up. They had their own troubles, and could have easily ignored us. They did not need us for a damned thing, but they poured their blood and treasure into saving our bacon.

  “Now that they need us, we had better deliver. Right now, we have a ring of farmland all the way around Perseus, but it's only one hundred meters long, and most of it is neither planted nor fertilized. The Moondogs are coming, and they need our help. So, Commander Smithson and I will be getting down here and dirty along with the rest of you. Harel, you better get your shit together, in a manner of speaking, because we're about to go on a three-shift operation. By the time the 'dogs get here, I want every single bit of this land under cultivation. Hell, we might even extend the dirt a ways down towards the lake. What do you say, guys?”

  The cheers weren't resounding—nobody wanted to grub in the dirt—but they all knew how much they owed the crew of the Collins.

  ***

  “Why didn't we tell them?” asked Michael when he and Roger had a moment alone. “You didn't say anything, but I think we both pulled back from discussing going back down to Earth.”

  “Same reason I bet you used. Curing the Moondogs will be the most urgent job, not fighting over a lifeboat seat. Besides, did you look at the specs for The Tank?”

  “It's aptly named,” said Michael. “It could survive reentry without any heat shielding at all.”

  “I agree. It would have to come in backside first, though. That's the only way the aerodynamics would work. Think about their deorbit burn.”

  “Oh, damn,” said Michael. “Those nukes. Not only would they be going off in the atmosphere of Earth, the Tank would be radioactive as hell.”

  “Right,” said Roger. “And all of that crap is going to ablate into the upper atmosphere and filter down to Earth. They're having enough trouble with some of the lunar debris, or so I've heard from McCrary.”

  “I did some reading on some of the news that was sent up before they cut us off,” said Michael. “A lot of the lunar debris was radioactive. The labs said something like 'neutron activation', so I looked that up, too. Whatever that explosion on the Moon was, it was a nuclear event, accompanied apparently by vast clouds of neutrons, which slammed into the regolith and in turn, made it radioactive. All that stuff heading for Earth is like that.”

  “What, you mean the entire rock?”

  “No, just the surface. But so much has hit the Earth that their background radiation dose has more than doubled since before the Event.” Michael tapped his chin with his right forefinger. “The radioactivity on the back end of The Tank won't mean a damn thing—it's a drop in the ocean. It's symbolic, though.”

  Roger nodded. “Absolutely. Worse, what are they going to have onboard?”

  “Oh, they better not—all their nukes will have to be transferred to us.”

  “Bingo,” Roger said. “We'll get them in here, feed them until they get better, then figure out who to send down. In the meantime, we're going to be orbiting the Earth, and freaking out the normals. Gonna be an interesting time.”

  Easing Uphill

  Aboard Perseus, August 3 2086, 0651 GMT

  Two weeks after perihelion, they emerged from the blackout caused by solar interference and once again reestablished communications with the Moon. McCrary arranged a conference with the Commanders.

  “We're going to launch as soon as you give us the word. We're really hurting up here,” he said.

  Roger leaned forward. “You're going to have a warm welcome. We've got thirty-one hectares under cultivation, and looking to boost that to over one hundred by the time you get here. Plus, we've been planting a lot of stuff you've been missing for years. You've got to hand it to Earth. They've given us seeds for everything remotely useful. Almost anything that can grow in a year, we've got a field for it. Perfect yields, too—no bugs chewing our plants up.”

  “That's good to know.” McCrary sat back for a moment and let the fatigue overwhelm him. Roger and Michael were shocked at the change in the man. It was as if he deflated in front of their eyes. He seemed to shake himself and resume his gruff demeanor. The Commanders exchanged worried glances.

  “No, I'm okay,” said McCrary. “There are folks here a whole hell of a lot worse off. I'm worried about them.”

  They went over launch of The Tank, rendezvous procedures, and security.

  “After all, we on the Moon have been hearing rumors about how certain countries have been using the meteor bombardment to punish their enemies, so I will be exercising absolute control over the nukes the Tank will be using. I suspect you're going to want to hang ont
o them once we get there.”

  Roger agreed readily. “We're going to lock out our launch mechanisms immediately after final use. We'll just load your nukes into our magazines.”

  “Good. Don't get rid of them, of course. Might need to deflect a big inbound meteor. If it weren't for that, I'd say fire them all down into the Sun, or dissolve the bomb parts back into the thorium fuel, or something like that.”

  “Ah. Good idea, McCrary—turning them back into nuclear fuel. Keep a small stock for emergencies and destroy the rest.”

  “My thoughts exactly. Otherwise, we're a strategic target because we can threaten anyone on Earth. On to other things.”

  A half-hour later, they completed the urgent list. Roger finally grasped the nettle.

  “I'd say it's a slam dunk that you all want to get back to Earth. How are you planning to do that, McCrary?”

  “Tank's full of aluminum and silicon ingots,” he replied.

  Roger and Michael looked at each other. Michael burst out laughing.

  “I get it. Good move, McCrary.”

  Roger grimaced. “What?”

  “McCrary's going to make reentry vehicles on the Perseus in the same way he helped Lisa Daniels finish off the ERVs for the Chaffee. Aluminum ingots for the body, silicon becomes silicon dioxide, and foamed to become reentry tiles. I bet he's got sets of controls and a hold full of little thrusters too.”

  “Take that cup off your backside, we can build a little Flinger in your aft section, don't have to have any reentry rockets. Use it in reverse, we can send stuff to the Perseus from the ground,” said McCrary.

  “Uh, about that,” said Roger. “We're not talking about that with our men yet.”

  “Better hurry. We'll be there in about seven months.”

  Roger looked at Michael, then slowly back at the camera. “We were thinking that we get you guys well first, then work out who goes home.”

  “Bad idea,” said McCrary. “We're going to stay there just long enough to build our own ERVs. Design's got room for about one hundred per ERV. We've got materials for four. We're not going to hang around until everyone's recovered. Sure, you've got every edible plant known to man, but that might not be the answer either, and I don't want to dither another couple of months in orbit when the cure is a thousand miles further down. Besides, the kids are about five years old now—time they were going to school. Besides, they're super tall—they should be living under Earth gravity.”

  Michael turned to Roger. “Man's got some valid points.”

  Roger looked from right to left, involuntarily. “Looks like I'm boxed in. All right, let us get past the Venus flyby and we'll start breaking the news to the men.”

  “Do that. They deserve time to figure out what their best course is.”

  ***

  The flyby of Venus was remarkably like the one for Mars, three years previously. Using the gravity assist from Venus, Perseus warped its trajectory from the previous parabola around the sun to a path that would approach the Earth from behind it in its orbit.

  “Benjamin, give me a number!” called Roger.

  Benjamin sweated buckets at the astrogation station. “Three minutes more, sir,” he said.

  “Use it!” said Roger.

  Benjamin looked at Ivan, and pumped his fist emphatically. The rate of detonations imperceptibly sped up, each one tapping on the hull of the Perseus like the clapper on a bell. Jeff hung over his Engineering console like a drowning man with a piece of driftwood. His eyes flickered constantly between the windows on the monitor. Water flow, strain gauges, temperature of the cup, even a device on the backside of the floor of the cup that used ultrasound to measure the amount of iron remaining from each bomb blast.

  “Engineering, stable,” he called. “Usually the last thing the pilot says before the airplane falls apart,” he said under his breath.

  “Coming up on the final sequence, people,” advised Benjamin. “Five more detonations. Four. Three. Two. Last one. Shut down the launchers. Precess Perseus to point Earthwards.”

  As Jeff applied the thrusters at the nose and tail to alter the attitude of the Perseus, he looked at the monitor to see the bright double spot of the Earth and the Moon peeking over the blinding limb of Venus.

  “Earth and the Moon in sight,” said Ragesh. “Signal from the Moon.”

  Roger looked down at his command panel, saw the 'Encrypted' light on, and pulled out a set of headphones.

  “Roger here, in the Control Room.”

  “Of course you are,” said McCrary. “Mike around?”

  “Here, same conditions.”

  “All right, then listen. We've got you figured for a seventy-day stern chase to Earth. We're sending you some specs right now for laser cannons. Please make as many as possible, and target the lunar debris below you in orbit. You have to do this, or we're going to get holed the first time our reentry vehicles get slung out of the hatch.”

  “Will do, McCrary. I'm guessing the raw materials are along in here somewhere.”

  “KREEP terranes for the rare earths. Just look for the stuff from Roque Zacarías—he's the genius behind all of this. We even sent you some servo motors and some sensors. The Tank will be loaded with more.”

  “We'll get right on it,” said Roger. “Now, get some rest.”

  McCrary's snort was easily heard. “Rest? I forgot what that was. I can rest in about four months.”

  ***

  The Perseus lacked The Works and the highly automated machinery that Moonbase Collins relied on, but it had one major advantage that the Collins lacked: a free-fall zone in high vacuum.

  High-Q crystals of pure Ytterbium-doped Yttrium Aluminum Garnet grew under the gentle ministrations of Harlan Slaght. Building the casings for the lasers was child's play. Lima Donnelly shaved off some of the rough patches in the walls of the aft cavern, heated the shavings in an electric crucible, and hot-rolled the billets into sheet nickel-iron of adequate strength.

  Meanwhile, the newly awakened men were anxious to be helpful in any way possible. Jeff Gatson had more jobs than he had hands available. Everything possible needed to be done. The cup had to be dismounted from inside the aft cavern, and the ullage dampening mechanism had to be drained, disconnected, and swung aside. A series of quadruple airlocks of heroic size were built down the centerline of the asteroid, penetrating the fifty-meter-thick wall between the fore and aft chambers. Nuclear weapons had to be secured and the launchers locked to prevent any weapon from being loosed from the Perseus.

  Meanwhile, the balance of men was put to work getting fertile dirt created, fields laid out and planted, and a series of huts built.

  Roger huddled with Michael in one of the rare times when they were both near the Control Room.

  “Look at this place,” he said, waving his arm around the interior of the fore cavern. “It's a pigsty. We've got the men crashing wherever there's a soft spot. First thing we've got to do is do a little building project.”

  “With what?” asked Michael. “Gonna put the men in iron-chipping detail just for a place to sleep? They're gonna give you the finger and keep sleeping all over the place.”

  “What else do we have?” growled Roger. “This place looks like a flying hobo jungle. Call me vain, but I certainly don't want this to be the first impression McCrary has of us.”

  Michael looked around. “I see your point. I'll have to see what we've got around.”

  “Don't overlook anything. Aluminum for bed frames might seem like a win, but we'll probably need it for more trusses. On the other hand, waste rock can probably be vitrified by the electric crucible, then foamed like cotton candy to become woven fiberglass.” Roger was punching his commpad. “The awake crew deserves a rest—see if we've got any specialists among the sleepers.”

  Michael twisted his mouth for a bit. “All right, let's do a division of labor here, okay? How about you take everything from the central airlock and out, and I'll take the fore cavern? Oh, the space lasers are yours, too.”<
br />
  “Perfect,” said Roger. “But only if we both agree that this inside has to get cleaned up, and provisions for McCrary's folks are made. Remember, they've got some pretty serious cases, comas and such.”

  “Agreed. Now get out of my hair, I have work to do. And so do you.”

  ***

  The men got the hint quickly. The main computers in the Bradbury were dedicated to fore cavern tasks, and the Burroughs for tasks from the airlocks aft. Commanders and department heads posted goals, and various crew signed up for them rather than get drafted for something potentially worse. Specialists put in their ideas, and the Commander in charge of that space prioritized the work. Work commenced and grew more frantic as the deadline for Earth orbit insertion approached.

  By common consent, everyone waited until bunk space had been designated and built, then moved their various camps to that location. The interior of the fore cavern was thoroughly cleaned, walkways laid, and provisions made for the incoming refugees from the Collins.

  ***

  “First light!” called Jeff into his helmet mic.

  “Meaning what?” asked Roger, as he floated in the center of the aft cavern. His spacesuit was scuffed and marred from over three years of use, but remained unmistakable as one of two powder blue colored ones.

  Jeff, wearing his engineer red suit with two white bars encircling each arm and leg, leaned against the wall, watching out of a maintenance hatch as one of the new debris vaporizing lasers went through a test sequence.

  “We have an operational laser here,” said Jeff, patting the side of the meter-long housing. “Aft laser 90-A just passed the arming and firing tests with flying colors, Roger. I got positive fluorescence on a target we fired out into space three hours ago. Radar found it, passed the coordinates to 90-A, and she lit it up like a Christmas tree. We're in business!”