by Baen Books
"What are you going to do with it? You can't launch."
"See if I can scramble something from the code."
"I don't follow."
"Don't worry. Now get me a link to Cooper P mine. I need to talk to someone."
"The Australians?"
"You've got a minute and a half."
"All right."
Bertelli unrolled his palm screen and started deleting data. Geology. Temperature. Lux.
Gigabytes of stuff.
He hoped it made space for the remote console.
If that rover had been working he could have driven a few hundred miles in it. Maybe. If the battery held out.
That might have put him within walking distance of one of the bases.
With lunar gravity he could easily cover a hundred miles on foot. Probably more. Even with the suit.
Perhaps it was just as well the rover was frozen. It meant he didn't have to make that difficult choice of abandoning Johnston.
There were just thirty seconds left before silence when Suze came back.
"Colin?"
"Go."
"All right. I've got a link to the Aussies."
"Thanks. Who's there?"
"Colin Bertelli!" He recognized the voice right away. Brian Thorpe. One of the old-timers. He'd been at the south pole for years before Bertelli had even arrived.
"Brian. Can you-"
"So," Thorpe said. "What's the news? I hear you're still single. I-"
"Listen," Bertelli said. "I've got a situation here. I'm about to lose my contact."
"I'm listening."
"I'm at Schröedinger. Busted launch vehicle."
"Copy that. Got nothing can reach you."
"Yeah. Can you get something to..."
Static hissed at him. Faded.
Suze had gone over the horizon.
Bertelli cursed. He was on his own.
Once communications would have been continuous. Lunar excursions were just too routine now.
Bad luck for him.
He looked up at Surety again. Her white faceted cone glinted back at him. The sun's stark white light could be blinding.
At least that was something that was going to be reliable. With 360 hours of continuous daylight the moon was tough. Well-lit, but harsh.
He would be dead long before the intensity of light was a problem. He moved into the Surety's shadow anyway.
Taking out his slate display. He looked at the data Suze had sent. Reading through the download, he saw there was crucial information missing.
Her download was incomplete.
He had start and ignition sequences. Unlatching. Gyro and gimbal control. Load balance.
No attitude retros.
All this data was just a couple of meters away. Locked up inside Surety's computer. Inaccessible from here.
With what he had he could launch Surety and have a fair shot at keeping her upright. But without those retros--which were really only for docking maneuvering, not a launch at all--he would struggle.
Really struggle.
This was going to take a physical mod.
He looked up at Surety's external locker. Their stupid rover had been stored in there.
Quickly he got back up the ladder. The rover's locker had been designed to take return samples and some of the science packs that had arrived on the base.
Plenty of space for him to squeeze in and find the internal connections.
Or not plenty of space. He found that out as he attempted to get inside.
Too narrow.
The rover locker was never meant to accommodate an astronaut.
He was going to have to remove his backpack. Slim as it was, the life-support system added too much width.
Working fast, he sealed and uncoupled the main tube. The system was integrated into the suit. It took two people to get it off. But it did have an emergency release. Just in case one member of the crew had become incapacitated. Designed to be used inside the main cabin. Pressurized.
Not in the vacuum of the moon's surface.
Bertelli got it shucked off. The internal reservoir gave him about fifteen minutes. Enough time to get hooked up again.
He stuffed the pack into the locker. Right away he followed. It took some shimmying. He had to slide along into the space. His faceplate bumped against the top.
That would confuse them, he thought. If it cracked and he depressurized, the whole situation would confound the investigators.
He needed to concentrate. The suit was starting to stink of his own exhalations.
Getting the hoses back in place was tough. He had to work by feel. He was used to gloves. Thick, stiff. No feedback.
He got the oxygen tube in first.
Nothing flowed.
With his left arm crushing against his neck, he adjusted the connection. The electronics synced. His headset gave a quiet bleep.
Cool air washed in.
He still had red lights at the helmet rim. Disconnecting the pack had cost him radio and main telemetry.
Worry about that later. At least he had oxygen. He needed to focus on getting the ship out of here.
Just as well Suze was behind the moon. Nothing in the manuals sanctioned what he was about to do.
With the rock hammer he chipped at one of the aluminum joins. There wasn't much reach. He couldn't get anything like a good swing. It took about fifty blows.
The join split.
He wedged the chisel end in. Twisted.
The hammer vibrated in his hand as the aluminum tore.
Just as well he couldn't hear it.
Bertelli kept tearing. Wires and conduits inside. He caught a couple of cables with the hammer's tip and stopped.
What he needed was a USB port.
But that would be far too convenient.
He was just going to have to look for a data cable.
Taking care not to snag wires, he kept tearing. The aluminum folded out of the way.
Reaching in he felt around the wires. The internal hull was just inches away. He reminded himself to be real careful not to puncture that.
The whole reason to do this was to give Randy a chance. If he wasn't dead already.
Bertelli reminded himself that Suze had seen Randy's bio telemetry. He'd been alive twenty minutes ago.
If he could just find something useful, Bertelli knew might be able to get them both out of here.
Back in training they'd been over the whole schematic. Theoretically he'd seen every part of Surety diagrammed out. Every connection, every switch.
He knew there was something somewhere here.
He kept on tearing.
The suit bleeped again. Oxygen level.
Breathing too hard. Too fast.
Sweating too.
If their situations had been reversed he was sure Randy would have had some Zen calming technique to extend out his air. To focus on the task.
Bertelli was far too practical for that. He wondered if Randy would have ripped holes in a spacecraft looking for a way to override the system.
Bertelli laughed.
Sweat dripped into his eyes.
"Valerie," he said. "Sorry. I tried."
The suit bleeped again.
"I really tried."
He blinked, but more sweat just came. Spacesuits weren't designed for horizontal work.
All he needed to do was wipe his forehead. Too bad about the faceplate.
There. He saw a data cable.
A black plastic sheath. Thicker than the others.
He grabbed it.
Quickly he traced it through the maze of others.
Followed it all the way to its plug.
Not compatible with his slate. Well, he hadn't expected that, but he could wire it up. At least he knew the order of the pins.
When he pulled the plug it didn't budge.
He twisted around, tried again.
The suit gave a double bleep. He needed to replace his tanks.
Soon.
/> Another go at yanking the plug.
"Valerie," he whispered. He needed some kind of motivation.
Sticking the hammer's chisel in against the plug he wrenched.
Nothing.
Great, he thought, something with a quality build. Kind of reassuring really.
Too bad the landing struts hadn't had the same kind of attention.
Three bleeps.
He flipped the hammer around and hit the plug with the striking face.
The hammer bounced back.
With a grunt he hit it again.
He was going to die here. Ignominious. Stuck on his back in the rover locker.
Better to die out on the surface. Kicking at the regolith. Stamping his boot prints into the dust. Looking up at the stars.
That was how.
He slithered out a foot.
With a smile he thought he could write Valerie's name in the dust. She knew anyway, but then she would really know.
Valerie.
She was the reason he couldn't get out and do that. He owed it to her to try everything. Not just Valerie, he thought. He owed it to Randy as well.
Twisting, he swung at the plug again.
It shattered. Plastic shards shot around the space.
The cable dropped down.
Bertelli grinned. Great workmanship succumbs to geology hammer.
He grabbed the cable.
The plug had completely shattered. The pins were bent and twisted. Some had sheared off entirely.
This was going to take some work.
Holding the slate beside his faceplate he prized the casing open. The bezel flapped away.
Don't crack the screen, he told himself.
He slipped the multitool from the belt and opened the pliers. With a squeeze the cable gave up its sheathing. He splayed the wires out.
Guesswork, he thought.
And years of experience jury-rigging equipment in the mines.
Using the corner tip of the hammer's chisel again, he eased some wires out from the docking jack.
That was easier.
The suit's bleeping had become continuous now. He tried to shut it out.
Fifteen wires.
Four connections in the slate's socket.
Almost like a lottery. He hoped he didn't fry everything on his first attempt.
It was tough work. His heavy gloves were okay for working with wrenches and hammers. Not so great for delicate electronics.
Using the pliers he got the first connection made. Twisted them together.
Second connection. Third.
When he got the fourth connection in the first one came apart.
Cursing, he tried again.
When he got it back on again he tried the slate. The de-framed screen came on all right. No sign of the external connection.
He pulled one wire and connected the next.
This was no way to fly a spacecraft.
Still nothing.
Breaking and making new connections, the screen stayed blank. He wondered how many possible combinations there were.
Something like thirty thousand possible connection variations?
"Really a lottery," he said.
The air stank now. Hot and humid.
What he was counting on was that the systems were more fluid than that. So long as one connection was right, he hoped, the whole thing would work.
He pulled off one wire, connected the next.
Rinse and repeat.
On his twelfth try the Surety's system came up on the slate. He would have whooped but the air was like treacle.
Careful not the damage his connections he worked through the access levels. He found the launch controls quickly.
Very limited.
Nothing like the helm inside.
With this he had no gimbal control. No retro rocket control. No throttle.
Ignition. Shut-down.
That was it.
"Just one break," he told the ship.
Bertelli knew the ship would manage its own gimbals. It was programmed to fly upright. Assuming they made it clear of the lander, the Surety would swing its way upright and aim for space.
The problem was, if she did that her fuel reserves might deplete much too fast. And she would know. The ship would fly an abort course and attempt a soft-landing. She was flat-based enough to probably stay upright. Her center of gravity was lower than the landing stack, the framework was strong enough to hold.
It was an emergency protocol only. It assumed that all other options were exhausted. Land with a reasonable degree of safety. Sit tight and wait for rescue.
The protocol assumed that the crew were safely on board.
There were sufficient supplies to wait it out. Rescue might take a couple of days. Might take a week.
Only he wasn't in the crew compartment. He couldn't access any of that. Life support. Food. Water.
He was stuck here in this little compartment, hacking his way into her.
With next to no air.
He was tempted to try another combination of wires. Maybe if he got it right he could access the whole system and override those contingencies. Actually fly the thing.
He sighed. He could feel his vision blurring. His breathing rate increasing.
Sure he could fly it like this. Lying on his back in an eighteen inch high gap. With a slate spliced into Surety with twisted wires.
And if he did nothing, at least Randy might survive. The air circulation in the cabin would continue. Someone might get to him in a day or so.
Bertelli looked at the slate.
Ignition. Shut-down.
Or, he thought, ignore.
That's it. Good luck Randy.
Good luck Valerie.
"I'll miss you," he whispered. He felt sleepy.
As he went to pull out the wires, Bertelli remembered the maps. His old mining set. Back from the south pole.
Those were the days.
Roughnecking and being real makeshift.
The guys would be proud of his attempt here. He hoped someone told them.
The maps. Something about the maps.
Almost unconsciously he opened up the set.
The south pole. Schröedinger. Aitken. Zeeman. Such a beautiful landscape.
That's right, he thought. He didn't want to die stuck inside the can like this. He wanted to look up at the stars.
Staring at the map, he felt his concentration going.
The south pole was only five hundred kilometers away.
Lunar escape velocity was 2400 meters per second. He wasn't going to get that out of her.
But what if he didn't try to escape?
Ignition. Shut-down.
He tapped back up two menus. Found navigation.
Destination.
Locked out. It only wanted to get to orbit.
"I'll fix you," he said. His voice sounded like a wheeze.
He pulled up the map overlays and some old mining data.
Bertelli grinned.
The old systems didn't have the formal niceties of NASA.
Worth a shot.
With a couple of taps the map loaded through the destination system. Surety didn't like it, but she accepted the data.
Destination: south pole.
This was, he thought, the last time anyone would ever be able to do that. NASA would plug that software hole with fifteen hundred lines of code. And cover that with another fifteen hundred lines.
As he felt himself blacking out, he squinted at the slate.
Destination: south pole.
Ignition. Shut-down.
His finger wavered. He felt punch-drunk. This is what it's like to die, he thought.
He tapped Ignition.
Surety shuddered. Light blazed around him and he thought of Valerie.
Smiling. Laughing.
"Valerie," he said. "I did my best."
The light faded. He wasn't sure if it was from lifting off or from dying.
Probably dying.
He didn't feel heavy at all. He felt light.
Airless or weightless.
The world shimmered around him. He hoped Randy made it.
He hoped Valerie did okay.
Haze.
Black.
Haze.
That was surprising.
He could feel the shuddering again. But it wasn't Surety.
There were lights overhead.
The air felt cool and crisp. He smelled pineapples. Weird.
Someone speaking.
"Got him," they said.
Male. An Australian accent.
Bertelli blinked. He wasn't in his suit any more. But he was still lying on his back. Moving. They were carrying him. More voices, jabbering and yelling. Something about cutting into the capsule.
His vision felt constricted, like he was looking through a dark tube. He bent his head up and someone pushed it back down.
Taking another breath of the sweet air, he let them. After a moment they set him down. He was in a small room with a poster of the Sydney Opera House and SuperSpire on the wall.
Aussies.
Someone looked down at him. Brian Thorpe. "Sheesh. Did you come screaming in at us?"
"You look older," Bertelli said.
"Back at you." Thorpe grinned. Toothy.
"Thanks. How's Randy?"
"Alive. We're getting him out, don't worry. Put a bubble over the hatch and we'll get a helmet on him. Are you going to tell me how and why you pulled that?"
Bertelli blinked. "Pulled what?"
Thorpe shook his head. His raggedy blonde hair shivered. "So. Here's what I know. You called me up. Some problem. So I start figuring your location. You were close but not that close. Comms went down, but I knew you had a busted ship. We were going to send Scooter over in a wagon but then you took off. The monitors tracked you coming in. You'll want to see the footage."
"Footage?" Bertelli was only half-listening. He was glad it had worked. Glad he would see Valerie again.
"Video," Thorpe said. "You came in fast. On a low arc. Not even trying for orbit. And you swung the ship around somehow. Landed on her engines. Like she was always built to do that."
"How about that?" Bertelli said.
"And we found you in the sample locker. Gutsy. NASA's been on the horn to us. I think they're going to give you a medal and fire you."
Bertelli laughed. "Did you talk to Suze?"
"Sure. She wants to punch you then take you out for a drink."
"Well," he said. "I'll let her hit me, but I've already got someone who might take me out for a drink." A drink and a meal and a walk on the beach. In the moonlight.
