by Brian Smith
“Well, to make a long story short, someone started a war and I got recalled. . . . That’s what I’m doing here. I’m assigned to Scientific Development Squadron One—VXS-1—as a project officer. Yours, as it happens. Don’t worry, I know you’ve been getting the mushroom treatment, as in ‘kept in the dark and fed shit,’ but explanations are coming. One thing at a time, eh? Welcome to Ross Station, by the way,” he added with a nod to everyone else, and turned back to McClain. “Congratulations on your promotion.”
“You, too,” McClain replied, gesturing at the lieutenant’s bars on Ashburn’s uniform jumpsuit.
Ashburn shrugged, grinning easily. “At least you did something to earn yours. If you and your people will follow me, I’ll give you the dollar tour and show you to your quarters.”
Everyone followed Ashburn in the traditional bouncing, slow-motion lunar walk to the nearest tube station, where they stepped into a cylindrical tubecar. It whisked them rapidly from Ross Field to the station proper, which was built both within and beneath the western crater wall. When they stepped out of the tubecar, they found themselves in another tube station that accessed the main portion of the complex. The group ambled across the compartment, to the opposite hatch. The first thing they noticed was large sign posted over it:
CAUTION: Grav Field Boundary
Watch your step!
“What’s that all about?” Skate Hess asked, curious.
Ashburn looked back at her with a Cheshire-cat grin. “You probably wouldn’t believe me if I simply told you, but you’re about to experience it for yourself. Just follow me—nice and slow the first time. Here goes nothing,” he added, keying the hatch open and carefully stepping through. Once he was on the other side, Ashburn took a couple of “abnormally normal”– looking steps before turning around and gesturing for the others to follow. McClain went first, and his eyes widened in shock as he almost stumbled. A moment later he grinned a little crazily when he realized he was standing in a fully Earth-normal gravity field. He let fly with an amazed curse.
“That’s pretty much everyone’s standard reaction, the first time,” Ashburn said as the others passed over the hatch threshold in turn and expressed their amazement. “Ladies and gents, you are standing in mankind’s first no-shit artificially generated gravity field—proprietary tech brought to you by Federov-Kusaka Technologies and the Crandall Foundation.”
“How is it accomplished?” someone asked.
“That’s part of what you’re all going to be briefed on, because it’s also related to the work scheduled for your ships. Suffice it to say that folks like us will only ever understand the kindergarten version, but the book on physics and cosmology has undergone its latest revision. Everything you see here will be mainstream in a few years, but right now we’re trying to jump-start some of it so that we can use it to win the war.”
“Apparently we need all the help we can get,” McClain said darkly.
Ashburn looked pointedly at all of them. “No argument here. Look, given recent events, I understand this is the last place you all want to be right now. All I can say is, after you see what we’re about, you won’t want to be anywhere else.”
***
“Cernan’s Folly” was the name of the bar in Ross Station’s officer’s mess. The large rectangular space was enhanced by a clever lighting scheme, along with two impressive “green walls” of vegetation on either side; the latter was a common sight in off-Earth stations and habitats, lending a bit of terrestrial ambiance and helping with air quality.
The back wall was wallpapered with flimsiplast flatscreens that were keyed to the imagers from the control tower higher up in the crater wall; it offered an impressive panoramic view of Ross Crater as seen in real time and gave the illusion that Cernan’s Folly was protruding from the crater wall about five hundred meters above the crater floor, rather than being buried a good thirty meters beneath the base of the rim. Like most aviation-themed military bars, the remainder of unused wall space was heavily decorated with unit memorabilia.
After being shown around the facilities, McClain invited Ashburn down for a drink. Ashburn agreed, understanding that McClain was more interested in pumping him for information than in socializing, but that was okay. When the two men settled in with a round of beers, McClain commented again how odd it felt to be sitting in full gravity on the moon. “Feels a bit like Armstrong Station,” he said, “but without that subtle Coriolis sensation you always get in your inner ear, especially on the upper levels as you get closer to the center of spin. This field is rock steady—it’s like being on Earth.”
“It’s bona fide,” Ashburn agreed. “Like everything around here, it’s prototype technology—bulky and power hungry—but it works. It takes the power output of an entire fusion reactor to generate the field throughtout the station. You’ll start learning all about it tomorrow.”
McClain gestured with the neck of his beer bottle at the naval aviator wings embossed on Ashburn’s jumpsuit. “I thought you were more of a torchship driver these days,” he commented. “How’d you land here, of all places? You never mentioned going to test-pilot school.”
“That’s because I never went to test-pilot school,” Ashburn replied with a slight grimace. “Something my compadres around here make sure I never forget. Plus, I’m a full lieutenant rather than a warrant like most navy pilots, but one who never screened for squadron command, obviously. Plus, I’m a reservist. Strikes one, two, and three.”
“Well, don’t sweat it, Dakota. I’m guessing most of these guys don’t have a single green-ink entry in their logbooks, or a DFC like yours from the Ell-4 incident.”
“Yeah, but that’s all ancient history. My accomplishments in the civilian world don’t mean squat around here, and according to most of these guys, being overeducated and having a code-word-level security clearance aren’t real substitutes for surviving the grind of TPS. Most of the flak is good-natured, but there are a couple of a-holes I’d really like to airlock.”
“Same story everywhere you go,” McClain remarked.
“Testify. Anyway, the skipper of VXS-1 is an O-4, due to its staffing and special mission. He’s a good dude—you’ll get along fine with him. The whole reason I’m here instead of languishing on some cruiser is that I had a hand in delivering this technological windfall into the TOA’s lap. To make a long story short, the “Kusaka” in Federov-Kusaka is my best friend. We had a little adventure getting off Mars back when the balloon went up, and I’ve got hands-on experience with some of the tech you’re going to be training on. My job is mostly about getting folks like you up to speed on the modifications being made to your equipment, and the capabilities that will result. I’m also the liaison officer between Federov-Kusaka Technologies and the USN/TOA establishment. All things being equal, it’s a pretty good fit—I’ve got no complaints.”
“‘Federov-Kusaka Technologies,’” McClain repeated thoughtfully. “Never heard of ’em, even though they can produce magic gravity fields.”
“No, you wouldn’t have. It’s a new outfit,” Ashburn replied, somewhat cryptically.
Carter Drayson’s plan for handling Bill Campbell’s data cores was, in hindsight, well thought out and paying rich dividends. A behind-the-scenes arrangement and a little sleight-of-hand had gotten Kusaka Shiguro what he wanted while placing him squarely in the best possible position to aid the TOA and the overall war effort. What remained of Federov Propulsion, buttressed with military R&D funding and an influx of skilled personnel, had been reorganized under the logo of Federov-Kusaka Technologies. The new company was currently joined at the hip with the TOA military establishment, forming the R&D-and-applied-engineering arm at Ross Station.
Drayson had arranged a similar reprieve for Barsoom Traders: an influx of capital in the form of a wartime government contract had saved the company from going under. In return, the company was aiding the war effort directly. Drayson had then taken the balance of what was on the data cores and bartered it to the s
cientific community and the governments of Earth—not just to prove his loyalty and preserve his reputation and freedom, but to ensure the long-term survival of the Crandall Foundation itself. Four months after putting the plan into action, Ashburn could only imagine that Drayson was pretty pleased with the results.
“Have you been back stateside recently?” McClain asked guardedly.
“Not since the war started,” Ashburn replied. “You?”
“Negative. No leaves were granted when we rolled in from the outer system. Sounds like things are a mess down there. Is your family okay?” he added.
“They’re fine. My clan all hails from the Dakotas and Minnesota—I’ve got no people out west. We’re all mixed Sioux and paleface,” he added with a slight grin. “Yours?”
McClain shrugged, glancing down at the table. “I’m an unclaimed crèche baby from Pittsburgh. The Corps is my family,” he added with quiet intensity. “I knew a lot of people out on the West Coast, though, around San Diego, mostly. Pendleton. You know.”
“Yeah. The whole country is hurting. It’s a tough deal for everyone,” Ashburn replied tightly.
Mars had attempted three kinetic strikes against Earth so far; only one had gotten through and hit the planet. Coming in hard and fast from somewhere in the asteroid belt, the projectile had been a smaller but very dense asteroid comprised mostly of tungsten—the same material used in kinetic lances and railgun rounds. Small and difficult to detect, it would not have amounted to an extinction-level strike. However, in that it was aimed at the center of North America, it would have ended the United States rather decisively had it hit where intended.
As it was, the asteroid hadn’t been spotted until it was almost too late to do anything about it. A series of eleventh-hour strikes managed to split the rock into two pieces and alter their trajectories. One had “gone shallow” and skipped harmlessly off Earth’s atmosphere, while the other came down violently in the Pacific Ocean, between Isla Guadalupe and the Channel Islands. The result was a powerful tsunami that struck shorelines from the Baja Peninsula all the way up to Santa Barbara.
Casualty figures were over three and a half million dead between Santa Barbara and Santa Rosalita, with millions more wounded, missing, and displaced. The property loss and infrastructure damage were unprecedented, and most of the lower West Coast remained a blacked-out, ruined disaster area a month after the event. Worse, the power stations and desalination plants feeding the freshwater pipelines to the newly formed “oasis” regions of Nevada, Arizona, and New Mexico were all out of action, precipitating a water crisis much farther inland. It was indisputably the worst disaster ever faced by the U.S. in its long history. Dealing with it, even with the aid of allies, was going to tax national resources and the American people to the limit.
“What do you make of the PEA’s bullshit official line?” Ashburn asked. “We defeated the strike on Europe—why are they denying it even happened?”
McClain shrugged. “They’re trying to keep a lid on the panic. Understandable, I guess. I don’t think they’re fooling anyone. The Chinese did it right—they caught the rock headed for them plenty early and got it deflected so that it missed by a country mile. None of the home folks even heard about it. Three strikes so far: one each aimed at the heart of the PEA, the TOA, and the CFR. Think the MIM is trying to send us a message?” he asked sarcastically.
Ashburn shrugged. “They’re nutters. I guess they don’t realize there’s nothing stopping us from sending teams to the asteroid belt and dropping big rocks on Mars. There’s a whole lot fewer places we need to hit, and those domes are entirely vulnerable.”
“And you can’t cyberhack a rock,” McClain added darkly, thinking about Operation Ares.
“Amen,” Ashburn replied. But when he thought of friends like Colin Harper, or Jack and Donelle Crawford serving up their delicious chicken at Lucky’s, or Kusaka’s big, close-knit family out there at Kasei Echigo, it all made him feel just sick to his stomach. Predictably, the terrified, vengeful calls from Earth to scour Mars clean of human habitation had already begun. Make it a desert and call it peace, some were saying, quoting an ancient Roman saying. The attitude was positively medieval, driven by fear.
McClain sighed. “This is a bad business, Mike—it might even be the end of us all. What you guys are cooking up out here, . . . is it going to make any real difference?”
Ashburn thought about it for a moment, then nodded slowly. “God Almighty, I hope so.”
Armstrong Naval Station, Lunar L1 Point
The surviving members of Reuben James’s crew stood to attention on the parade field under a simulated sunny blue sky as the Chief of Naval Operations herself read the Presidential Unit Citation being awarded to the ship. After recent defeats and national tragedies, the navy had gone out of its way to celebrate this win. While the crew would have preferred a less public ceremony on the hangar deck of their own frigate, there wasn’t enough room for those on the guest list, the press, and the band, too. Besides, when medals and accolades were handed out by the fistful, they looked a lot better being pinned to traditional dress uniforms rather than being handed in a box to the recipient.
Newly promoted LCDR James Ford, standing at the head of his crew, received his second Silver Star and the Purple Heart that went with the decoration he’d earned for 5111 Omega. Those medals, along with the others awarded, and the PUC itself, told the world that not only had Reuben James been in this fight from the very start, her record was one of victory.
When the ceremony wound down and the band was packing up its instruments, a stone-faced Jim Ford thought he saw an apparition walking toward him; his jaw dropped. It wasn’t until her face lit up in a bright smile that he realized she was real flesh and blood.
“Cheryl Ayers!” he blurted out.
Ayers drew up in front of him and gave a salute, which he reflexively returned.
“Welcome back, XO,” she said. “Actually, I guess it’s ‘captain’ now, isn’t it? Or is it? Damn, you guys all look good,” she added, admiring the contrast of Ford’s African complexion against his uniform. Dress whites were rarely worn these days, but the CNO decided it looked better for the press this way. The folks back home needed a strong dose of good morale, and part of the reason for this whole dog-and-pony show was to give them one.
Ford in turn regarded Ayers, alive and well in smartly pressed service dress blues, sporting the new rank of CW5—a two-grade bump from the last time he’d seen her, and as high as one could rise as a warrant officer.
“How is it that you’re alive?” he asked.
Ayers swallowed, wondering how to answer that one. Diane Hutton’s involvement in her story was bound to make it a sensitive topic. Ayers figured Ford had already read the MIM’s claims about the maglev line on Mars. She had been involved in the effort to try to verify those claims and had in the process come to the devastating conclusion that Hutton was probably dead. Her guess now was that Ford had reached the same conclusion; it was the only reason she could think of that he looked so personally devastated, unless it was because he had close friends or family in coastal California.
“I was on Mars when Halsey Station was hit,” Ayers allowed, leaving it at that for the time being. The rest could wait until they weren’t so public. She cocked an eyebrow at him, going for a quick change of subject. “If all of you are here, who’s manning the James?”
“She’s shut down, parked in lunar orbit,” Ford replied. “It’s all very hush-hush, apparently. I’ve got orders to report tomorrow to some lunar sinkhole I’ve never heard of, where I’m supposed to be briefed on her repair schedule. Ross Station—ever heard of it?”
Ayers nodded. “Yes, sir, and it’ll make perfect sense when you get there. Don’t ask me anything else about it around here, please,” she added seriously. “Loose lips sink ships, and all that.”
“Gotcha,” Ford replied, intrigued. “It’s funny, you know,” he added wistfully. “We’re a little short on fresh torchships
right now, but the boss offered me any Cat III–level command I wanted. I think that was the biggest compliment of all.” He shrugged. “I told her I wanted the James. Am I crazy? The ship’s all shot to hell. If we weren’t so short of hulls right now, they’d part her out and scrap her.”
“I think you’d be crazy to leave her,” Ayers replied sincerely, and not just because she knew things he currently didn’t. “You’re part of each other, now. Besides,” she added, “the navy’s going to fix her up like new and get you back in the fight soonest. You wait and see.”
“What about you?”
“I’m with ONI now—Special Assistant to the Director of Naval Intelligence.”
“Deputy CNO’s office for information warfare, huh? Not bad!”
“Once you’ve been down to Ross and your upgraded security clearance comes through, we’ll be able to have a real conversation about all of this. For now, let’s just say that the past few months have been interesting and leave it at that.”
“Fair enough. Got plans for chow? Most of the crew is headed Earth-side for leave.” Ashburn’s face darkened. “Some of them are from SoCal, too. As if they haven’t been through enough.”
“It’s been a very bad month, between Operation Ares and having the L.A.–to–San Diego metroplex washed off the map. You aren’t going to see too many happy faces around here right now, skipper. Let’s go eat,” she added, biting back a grim sigh. “There are some things we need to talk about.”
U.S. Naval Aerospace Station Ross Crater
Ross Crater, Luna
The transfer boat from Armstrong Station received landing clearance from Ross tower, and the coxswain brought her in on an expertly plotted ballistic track, to set her down easily on one of the tarmac’s marked landing pads. On the edge of the tarmac, a hard-dock umbilical extended out from a small surface building and connected itself to the exterior of the boat’s main airlock. Once sealed together, four sets of hatches cycled opened together: the inners and outers of both boat and umbilical.
