Warfare was easy when the enemy never fired back. When the enemy never moved. Warfare was easy when you sat in a padded chair day after day and always got a full night’s sleep and three meals. Warfare was easy when, at the end of your shift, you got to place your fingers on the hand of the woman you loved and tell her what a great job she did.
When the alarm sounded, Jason didn’t know what it was at first. When the US3 Hamilton deviated course by 5%, he was overwhelmed with vertigo. Then, the training and drills kicked in, and he steadied himself to read and make sense of the values on his screen. An explosion had occurred on the surface of the moon. A mass totaling billions of kilograms had been ejected, with billions of kilograms of debris jettisoned out behind it. The force was set to fling the rock—half crystalized with patches of lunazoe—right out of the moon’s gravity well and uncomfortably close to Hamilton’s orbit.
Jason smashed on his keypad. He opened a direct line to navigation and another to Captain Hawley. As soon as he received authorization, he swept the maser radiation in circular patterns across the mass. Hawley opened a line to the other captains. US3 Barley, which was bringing up Hamiton’s rear, accelerated at 7 gees so that it could join the fray.
For three days, the cruisers circling the moon forewent their mission of irradiating the planet and instead focused all weaponry on the trail of dust that had exploded out from the lunar surface. The primary mass had been angled away from Earth collision, but all it took was a single particle reaching the surface to begin a potential mass extinction event.
3.
The first moon vision resulted in the immediate assembly of the Lunazoe Eradication Council, formed when the Pelagic institute received the first detailed moon whisper. This moon whisper differed from the previous by including a message along with the SOS. It read, “Requesting assistance at listed location.” The whisper included coordinates located just beyond the rim of the silver swamp, as well as the signing code for Sarah Coverman, deceased Pelagic institute employee from the P4 base. Final resting place: lunar soil.
“First thing I suppose we should ask is: Is it her?”
The president attended the meeting from his White House conference room. Coverman was an American citizen, and the moon was considered American soil, even if many of the other Earth nations disagreed. He promised to ensure the security of all citizens and their pursuits of liberty.
Nora Dobbs attended from the Pelagic lunar headquarters in orbit around the moon, her hair in a power bun and suit jacket recently pressed. “Impossible,” she replied. “For many convincing reasons. One, we have very gruesome footage of her death. Two, none of the Pelagic lunar bases were provisioned for so long. Even if Coverman were the only surviving member of P4, and if we hadn’t also seen P4 dissolve into sludge and sink to the bottom of the silver swamp, she could not have survived for 30 years. Third, the coordinates included in the moon whisper are of a barren hunk of land. If she were there, we’d see her. Lastly, we’ve been receiving whispers long enough to realize that the lunazoe is somehow manipulating our technology. This would be a step further in proving its intelligence.”
“Ma’am,” the president said, “I’d sure like to know how you managed to build a robot that was supposed to turn Waste into salt, but ended up sending us fraudulent distress signals.”
The president took a back seat for most of the rest of the discussion. Space Navy Admiral Camry Vogel, or Delta-V, as he was known, questioned Dobbs until she was hoarse from answering. Finally, he announced his verdict.
“It’s my job to consider every possibility, so that none may catch the free people of America or the greater United Space unawares,” the admiral began gravely. “After listening to the testimonies of men and women whom I am certain are far more intelligent than me and certainly more educated in matters of nanites and robotic chemistry, I believe there are four possibilities which we must consider as equally plausible.
“First, and I’m sure you will disagree, Ms. Dobbs, is that Sarah Coverman is still alive. She was chosen for her position for her brilliance and ingenuity, lest you want to admit some fault in Pelagic’s hiring process. You claim that the supplies on P4 were not enough to sustain Coverman, and indeed, we saw P4 collapse over the course of some months. If Coverman were to survive, she would need to salvage supplies from the other Pelagic bases. The lunar quarantine was of personnel only. I signed the order, myself. With proper rationing, I believe someone could make due for as long as their natural lives let them. We know the coordinates she gave point to empty moonscape, but that is only what we can see. There are thousands of miles of lava tubes just beneath the lunar surface. She could very well be bunkered in one, and they could also have provided her access across the moon, making her theorized trips to the other bases for supplies much easier. As to why she didn’t use the other bases to contact us sooner, perhaps it was because she knew that she could never be rescued with the quarantine in effect, or at least not without risking the integrity of the quarantine. Perhaps she was sparing her loved ones the hope that they might see her again. We know well enough that a few of her former colleagues have taken their lives over the past three decades. Who can say if more would have done the same had they known she was stranded, the loneliest woman in the universe. While unlikely, it could have been that she has been continuing her research in solitude and now has made a breakthrough which she wishes to share. Considering this, I think the best case is to move forward with preliminary attacks on the lunazoe. We know where the message alleges her to be, so we will target branches away from her. If she’s survived this long, she can survive a little longer while we determine if the lunazoe can be destroyed with our current weapons.
“The second possibility, which I admit is fantastical, must also be considered. That is the possibility that Coverman did, in fact, die on those tapes, and that she is, in fact, now alive. That somehow her physical body had been broken down to a cellular level by the lunazoe, but that her DNA remained intact and allowed her to be reborn. I’ve heard a great deal of scientific lecture as to why this would be impossible, but I’m an old man and I’ve lived through a hundred things that men in suits like yours once said were impossible. The result is the same as the first option, but actually gives us more leeway. If she was magically reborn once, she can presumably be reborn again, putting her at less risk. There’s no reason to change the plan.
“The third option: the option that most of this council has believed for many years and which has Ms. Dobbs extremely convinced. The lunazoe is intelligent. It doesn’t so much as dissolve the Pelagic hardware as dissect it. It has been triggering the SOS beacons in an exploratory use of human technology, and now, through assumed study of communications records on the Pelagic systems which it has consumed, has found a way to advance its communication. Given this likelihood, we should target stretches of the lunazoe where other moon whispers are coming from. If the lunazoe DNA is destroyed by radiation, which our scientists believe to be very likely, we should see some sort of response. Whatever this response will be, I expect we can learn much from it. Aside from this, we will place restrictions on equipment that is sent down by the Pelagic researchers. If the lunazoe is learning from us, we should do our best not to teach it anything useful.
“Finally, we have a variation of the third possibility. And that is that the lunazoe has not been assimilating our technology, but that it in its consumption of Sarah Coverman and the other staff, it has also gained either their knowledge, their insight, their memories, or any combination of the three. This possibility assumes that the inclusion of Coverman’s signing code in the latest moon whisper came from Coverman, herself, and not from a data record. The ultimate risk in this scenario would be that the lunazoe might consume me or the president, thus giving it the ability to spoof military commands. I don’t intend for this to happen, but part of my job is doomsday preparation. Given that we already have a human quarantine around the moon, I don’t foresee us requiring any additional preparation
s for this possibility.”
Nora Dobbs and the Pelagic staff were disconnected, then there were some final confirmations. Within an hour, the US3 Hamilton and its sisters received their travel orders to begin the lunar bombardment.
The next emergency meeting, of course, was after the first moon plume. The president was sweating as Admiral Vogel detailed the slow progress of USSN logistics.
“I can walk out of my office and be in lunar orbit within four hours if I want,” the president roared. “Why in the hell does it take weeks to get us the cruisers we need? This is now a real war, Admiral. This is a real war with a real enemy firing upon the Earth. By God, I am not going to tell the people of this planet that their home is doomed because of some mechanical issues or a captain who was too hung over to make his flight window. We need to get this situation under control right now.”
Jason was summoned to Captain Hawley’s quarters two days after the first moon plume. He breathed in big gulps. The Hamilton crew had been working sixteen and twenty hour days since the event. He and Erin fought when they were not too busy running hardware scans. With no clear communication from command, it was anyone’s guess what was happening next, and it weighed on the nerves of every man and woman on the ship. Delta-V would have derided them as soft. Times were too peaceful. None of these soldiers had been through war and knew how to handle it. With a shaky finger, Jason tapped the door switch after Hawley’s assistant waved him through. The doors split open with a tiny zip.
“I told him, ‘We’ll hold you to the fire. We’re supporting your bid for this reason only, and if you let us down, you’ll wish you hadn’t.’”
“Takes some balls to threaten a president,” Hawley replied. He was at his desk, talking to a man whose back was to Jason. Jason could only see the short brown hair and shoulders of a royal blue jacket.
“Well, he wasn’t president, yet,” the man corrected. “But we were only threatening to revoke our support. He knew that he could have lied to me to get our backing and that he would have won. But he needed to know that he’d never be reelected again if he didn’t live up to his end of the bargain. He needed to know that we’d sooner sell ourselves into slavery than let him betray us without consequence. But anyway, it worked. I was in his office when he signed the bill. Standing right behind his left shoulder. He was a leftie, you know. They say left-handed people are natural born leaders. Sounds like astrology, to me. After he signed, he gave me this pen.”
Captain Hawley nodded: It was an appreciated story. Then, he acknowledged Jason and waved him in. “Reidberg, we’ve received some unorthodox reinforcements. Thomas Belew is from a private security firm. Zettafleet, they call themselves.”
Belew stood and turned to greet Jason. Jason held out his hand to shake with Belew, then started at the sight of Belew’s arm hanging from the little hook looped over a silver button. The sleeve belied none of the mass hidden within, but Jason stared as though his vision could penetrate the leather. He saw the tendons pulled tight across discolored skin. He saw the lumps of muscle bunched up under the flesh like snapped elastic inside of a waistband. He saw the brittle bone half-shattered like a dried branch in a footprint. Hawley noticed the change of demeanor immediately.
“Something wrong, soldier?” he asked in that officer’s tone, his back ramrod straight in his chair.
Jason broke the spell. He glanced at his captain, then made eye contact with Belew. “You’re a mercenary.”
“Private security,” Belew corrected.
“You ever steal any Waste vaccine?”
“You’re out of line, soldier,” Hawley interjected. He had stood without Jason hearing or seeing. “You better put your ass in that chair before you find it on the wrong side of an airlock.”
“It’s quite all right,” Belew said. “I did whatever my employers wanted me to do. More often, it was protecting those transports when the Spacy Navy couldn’t spare an escort. We’ve taken contracts on over thirty different planets. Of course they don’t all have the same values and perspectives as Earth. We should be thankful there’s enough space for all ideals. We’ve taken contracts for the USSN before, too, which is why I’m so fortunate enough to be here now.”
“Soldier, you have about one picosecond to correct your attitude. If you don’t remember, we were attacked two days ago. We don’t yet know how the lunazoe was able to fire on us and we don’t know when it will happen again. Now, you did a fantastic job dealing with an uncertain situation, which is why you’re here right now. The USSN is too slow in providing us more cruisers, so Zettafleet is joining us effective immediately. Belew will shadow you over your next three shifts. You’ll teach him everything you know about masering the lunar surface and how to respond if the lunazoe launches another mass. Now go show him around.”
Jason and Belew strolled down the halls of the Hamilton. Jason showed him the facilities, the cafeteria, the gym. He showed him the drive bay, the particle accelerators, the fusion reactor. Finally, he showed him his room.
“You know,” Belew pondered just before he closed the door to his cabin, “you and I had a run in of types. And no, it wasn’t during some piracy raid.”
Jason stopped and looked at Belew. He waited for the mercenary to continue.
“Your captain spoke very highly of you,” Belew assured. “He told me a bit about your history. I need to know who I’m working with, you understand. He told me you were on the US3 Bishop before you were transferred here.”
Jason nodded. “That’s right.”
“And I knew that name sounded familiar. So I checked the public flight records for the Bishop, and as it turns out, you were there when I lost the easiest money I had ever made.”
Jason rubbed one temple. The dark spots under his eyes shined in the clinical lighting of the ship. He yearned for his little mattress as though were the plush feather-stuffed luxury of a grand hotel room. He tried not to let his irritation seep into his voice. “And where was that?”
“At the Sunshine Pill Webgate,” Belew answered. “When the Owens Exploratory Division found the Pill, we charged them eight times our normal rate for protection. Fair rate, I have to add, considering we had no idea what kind of threat it posed at the time. Then the USSN showed up and the Owens folks termed our contract. Why pay us if bigger and better ships were protecting them for free, right? I remember when we departed the Pill system, we passed a Space Navy cruiser and I said, ‘There’s the guys that took our jobs!’ And sure enough, it was the US3 Bishop. Looking back now, it’s been fifteen years and nothing ever happened with the Pill. I hate to dwell on could-have-beens, but I like to imagine how rich I’d be had I been making eight times my rate—around the clock—for the past fifteen years.”
The hanging arm had drawn Jason’s eyes while Belew had been talking with the same effectiveness ample cleavage had on a drunk man’s gaze. He jerked his eyes back towards Belew’s when he realized the man had finished talking. “And what rate are you charging the USSN?”
Belew smiled. “A lot more.”
Michael Everet ignored Erin Zeiger’s email for almost a week. She had verified her USSN rank easily enough, but she was a conspiracy theorist who wanted more information from Michael than she gave him. Clearly, she didn’t understand the role of anonymous source very well. Her messages came every few days, warning of vague agendas and demanding proof of her conjectures. Lunazoe was a big story, but frankly Michael had found it tiring.
Waste had come for Michael not long after the first moon whisper. He had missed his vaccine regiment that month. It was May: the month of his birth. Either there had been a shortage at the factory or the package had been stolen before it ever reached him. It didn’t much matter to Michael either way. His career as a field reporter came to an end. He begged his employers to pull some strings to get him treatment, but they claimed they hadn’t the ability.
On his left side, the Waste started at his quadriceps. His thigh rapidly shrunk to half its size by the knee, where the rest of
his leg twisted up in pretzels like the knot of a balloon. Michael had to wash the knot of limb with his showerhead nightly, lest a buildup of dead skin lead to a fatal infection. His other leg had remained more intact, with Waste starting closer to his calf. He thought his shin had the consistency of beef jerky, now. It was half the length it used to be, with a shriveled foot hanging like the foot of a plastic baby doll that had been found half-buried in the woods, stained with spots of mold that would never wash off. No, Michael couldn’t do much work onsite when he couldn’t walk.
Instead, Michael turned to investigative reporting. He leaned on the network of contacts he had made and began an independent publication. In reality, he blogged about political machinations of the far ends of the Webgate, but he could still break a story twice a year or so, even if they were about mining laws pertaining to asteroids in some or another solar system.
The moon plume shook the world. Observatory footage played nonstop beside speculating talking heads. Experts were consulted. Laypeople were consulted. Celebrities were consulted. Everybody wanted to weigh in, and, of course, the opinion that got the least amount of airtime was the USSN’s official explanation, which was that a buildup of gasses beneath the lunar crust had led to an explosion. With the moon’s low gravity, even the smallest of bangs could launch debris into interstellar space.
Though unrelated, Pelagic wouldn’t confirm this theory for three months, when sonar and seismic tests confirmed that the surface radiation was pushing the lunazoe to expand underground. Rifts wedged dozens of miles into the moon’s crust were making the body tectonically active again. As slabs of rock whose weight had to be formatted in scientific notion shifted, mighty plumes like stone geysers erupted, and the Zettafleet joined the USSN in their disinfection efforts. Also unrelated: this revelation led directly to the discontinuation of Zettafleet’s contract months later—with the Space Navy reaching orbital saturation, they no longer needed external assistance dealing with “attacks” that were now proven to have been completely random, at least not when they occurred with frequency less than one event per month.
Moon Panic Page 3
