The Last Dance

by Martin L Shoemaker

  “Thank you, Chief. Reporter, summon a forensic data team to take custody of Chief Gale’s comp until we can make a verified backup of all its contents.” I returned to the screen. “This office finds the Admiralty to be financially responsible for all costs related to damage to the I Ring and related structures, repair thereto, loss of matèriel, loss of air, medical costs, and lost time, as well as insurance and survivor’s benefits. These costs, to the extent appropriate, shall be credited to the accounts of the Free City of Aldrin. That should make a significant dent in your debts, Mr. Carver.”

  “Thank you, Inspector,” Carver answered.

  I clasped my hands behind my back. “There are hundreds of lesser issues to resolve, but this office believes that this settlement resolves the major issues and establishes a framework for the rest. Admiral Reed, do you have any observations?”

  And then we sat, for seventy-four long seconds, as my question and Reed’s answer traveled the distance between the ship and Earth. During that time everyone was silent, save for Knapp, who drummed his fingers feverishly upon his thigh.

  The time stretched out, and I wondered if something was delaying Reed; but the desk showed precisely seventy-three seconds when he answered, “Only this: Knapp, if you try to fight this, I will knock you down so low you’ll need a ladder to climb out of the hole. Go along with this, keep your mouth shut, and maybe we can find a way for you to resign your commission without embarrassment.”

  “Thank you, Admiral Reed.” I looked around the room. “These are the findings and summary judgment of this office in the matter of The System Initiative v. Captain Nicolau Aames under Standard Space Mission Protocols, revised, chapter 12, section 1: Plenary Power. Admiral Knapp, we have your objections in the official record. Do you wish to add to them?”

  Knapp shook his head, his eyes never leaving Reed’s. “No. Inspector.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Mr. Carver, you have agreed to this judgment. Captain Aames, your agreement is irrelevant. This decision will be made without you. So that brings us to Chief Gale. Chief, if you have any objections either as an officer in the Admiralty or as a representative of the Space Professionals, please state them for the record now.”

  Gale slowly swiveled the mediskeleton to face Carver. Their eyes met, and Gale said, “No, Inspector. No objections. You made a wise choice.”

  “Only time will tell, but I hope so. I fear Captain Aames is right, and it may be twenty years before we know for certain.” I sighed. “But wise or not, the choice is made. This summary judgment is hereby issued. Reporter, stop recording. Gentlemen, you’re dismissed. You, too, Lieutenant.” I paused as first Gale and then the rest rose to leave. Then I added, “But not Captain Aames.”

  Aames raised an eyebrow, and he sat back down as the others filed out. When everyone else had left, and the door had slid shut behind them, he said, “It’s still ‘Captain’ Aames, is it?”

  I pulled my chair over from by the window, folded down the desk screen, and sat. “Until we process your discharge papers, yes, it is. I’ll need your signature on that, and on the summary judgment, certifying that you understand and accept the terms.”

  Aames pulled his chair up to the desk. “Why wouldn’t I accept them? Gale was right for once: you made a good choice.”

  I looked across at him. “Of course I did. It was the only choice you left me—the choice you expected me to take.”

  “Oh?”

  “Oh, come off it, Aames. You think I don’t know that you manipulated me into this? You set it up so perfectly. I could side with the admirals, even though they were clearly in the wrong, because it would be so difficult to prove them wrong—months and months of effort, with command fighting me every step of the way. Or I could side with you, who I knew was in the right; but siding with you would’ve torn up half the Initiative.

  “But then you did everything you could to make sure that I saw Anson Carver as the sensible alternative to yourself. The one reasonable man in this entire affair. The one person everyone respects, everyone likes. He was the obvious choice. Even Knapp will accept him eventually.”

  “And you think I set all this up to lead you to this conclusion?”

  “Captain, if anyone can be that manipulative, you can.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” Aames said. “But as long as I’m on a roll, I have one more term before I’ll sign your paperwork.”

  I was shocked. “You think you’re in a position to dictate terms?”

  “Just one, but I must insist: clear Admiral Morais. Give her back her command.”

  “I’m sorry, Captain, I can’t do that.”

  Aames leaned back from the desk. “Then I can’t sign your paperwork, and you can go to hell.”

  I shook my head. “You don’t understand, Captain: I can’t do that. It’s too late.”

  “What do you mean, it’s too late?”

  I explained, “There’s one flaw in my plan: I’m not sure the blanket immunity for your crew will hold up. There are a lot of regulations where Knapp might try to trip them up; and if he insists on investigating them one at a time, each as a separate action under this investigation, he can drag this out for almost a decade.”

  Aames nodded. “And until the last case against the last crewmember closes, this case can’t be closed.”

  I nodded back. “And the Aldrin’s charter as a free city can’t be finalized. Plus if Knapp shops around, he might eventually find an inspector general who’s more pliable.”

  “I see the problem,” Aames agreed. “How did you resolve it?”

  “I didn’t.” The puzzled look on Aames’s face gave me a moment of guilty pleasure—guilty because I knew I was about to cause him pain. “Admiral Morais did, but I’ll need you to back her up on it.” I pulled open Morais’s confession and started reading: “‘I, Admiral Rosalia Morais, do affirm and testify that on 7 March I issued orders to the crew of IPV Aldrin to the effect that they were to disregard any subsequent orders regarding reassignments or personnel transfers to and from the Aldrin, as well as any orders transferring control of the Aldrin to a new commander. They were to consider all such orders to be unlawful, null, and void. I further ordered them that my orders were not to be countermanded, whether by Captain Aames or any other officer, without my personal authorization. I confess to sole responsibility for this order, and for all consequences arising therefrom. Any charges against the crew resulting from this order must be summarily dismissed, as to the best of their knowledge, they were operating on orders from the Admiralty. Therefore I also take sole responsibility for any infraction, accident, injury, or incident arising from their actions, and any charges resulting from this order must be directed at myself. Since this was an order I was not authorized to give, I also acknowledge that this is a violation of my oath of service. I know that the consequences for such a sweeping, unauthorized order are dismissal, dishonorable discharge, and loss of pension and benefits. I accept these consequences under this, my confession to all infractions described above. Signed, former Admiral Rosalia Morais.’”

  Aames leaned forward. “That whole thing’s a lie!”

  I nodded. “Yes, it is, Captain. Sign it.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t lie on a formal report like this. It’s a complete fabrication.”

  “Captain, I’ve spoken to your crew.” I paused for emphasis. “To your friends. They all tell stories where you’ve shaded the truth for a good cause.”

  Aames looked down. “Sometimes you have to withhold facts. But never . . . never lie about them.”

  “Aames, sign it. For the good of your crew, for the good of the Aldrin, for the good of Mars. Even of Earth, they need this trade too. Sign it.”

  “But . . .” I couldn’t believe it. Were his eyes welling up? “But she’ll be ruined.”

  “Aames, she made her leap, and you can’t catch her. She’ll land on her feet or she’ll stumble, but she’ll do it on her own. You can’t save her this time. This ti
me she’s saving you. And it’s already done.”

  “What?”

  “She turned in this confession and resignation last night, and copies have been filed with the Initiative. It’s done. I’m sorry, all you can do is go along with it. If you refuse to cooperate now, she’ll still be ruined, but for nothing.”

  Aames still looked torn, so I tried another tack. “Mr. Carver deserves to run his city without the threat of Initiative action hanging over his head. She has given him that. Don’t take that away from him. Sign the paperwork.”

  Aames stared at me. For several seconds he said nothing. I realized he was trembling. At last he found his voice. “But it’s wrong.”

  I looked on him with pity. In order for him to get the result he had worked so hard for, he had to give up his obsession with truth. He had to accept and endorse a wrong answer. I could see how this was tearing him apart, and I felt horrid for putting him through this ordeal; but like him, I had no choice. So I spoke very softly. “It’s all right, Aames. Sometimes it’s all right to be wrong. For the right reason.”

  Still trembling, Aames reached out his right hand. I handed him a stylus, and I pushed my judgment file to him. He bent over the desk and signed his name with a shaky hand.

  I took a risk. I reached my left hand across the desk and placed it on his shoulder, hoping to comfort him. But he pulled away and stood.

  I stood as well. When Aames turned toward São Paulo, I stammered, “Wait. Salute.”

  Aames turned back, and already he had collected himself. The trembling was gone, the eyebrow was raised, the stress wisped away, and he looked as much in control as ever. “Inspector, that file I just signed says I don’t have to salute you, or Knapp, or anyone anymore. I’m a civilian now.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I . . .” I snapped a salute.

  At that, Aames almost grinned. “And you don’t salute me either. I’m nobody special. But next time you see him, make sure you shake hands with Governor Carver.”

  EPILOGUE

  Nick stood alone in his room, at peace at last. The simulated beach was dark, the “sun” having “set” somewhere behind him. Far out on the waves he saw the lights of a cruise ship. The big diesel horn sounded, far away, barely as loud as the call of the gulls.

  Carver was a good man, better than Nick. He had everything under control. The Free City of Aldrin was in the best of hands, exactly as Nick had planned.

  Well, almost exactly.

  Now Nick had only one problem: how to occupy his time, how to stay out of Carver’s hair. How to not mess up everything Nick had so carefully arranged.

  Nick was at peace now, but he would soon get restless. What would he do with himself? He honestly had no answer. For the first time in decades, he had no plan at all.

  Then he heard a soft footstep behind him. Music started: “Brigas Nunca Mais.”

  Nick Aames turned around. And smiled.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Someday I will learn to make better notes of all the people who help shape my stories. But for today, I must rely on my faulty memory to recall all the people who deserve my thanks for their inspiration and assistance in this book. No doubt there are some I have forgotten, so let me thank them in spirit first.

  My friends and fellow authors William Ledbetter and Michelle Muenzler run the annual Jim Baen Memorial Short Story Award, a writing contest for short science fiction that will inspire the next generation of rocket scientists and space explorers. I’ve never won—yet!—but in 2012 my story “Not Far Enough” (the tale of the first Bradbury expedition, referenced in this book) took second place. The first-place winner, R. P. L. Johnson, couldn’t make the trip from Australia to accept his award at the International Space Development Conference; so he asked if I would attend in his place and read his speech. I eagerly accepted, of course. That is how I found myself having lunch with a number of professionals in the space business, including Apollo 11 astronaut Buzz Aldrin. I managed not to embarrass myself during lunch, and later I went to Colonel Aldrin’s talk about his unique plan for Mars exploration. I still remember the brief story note I wrote that day: “Something aboard a Mars cycler.”

  So without Bill and Michelle and the Baen Memorial and Rich Johnson, and especially without Buzz Aldrin, this book would not exist. Thank you all.

  It took a couple of months for the first Aldrin Express story to form in my head. As I started trying to understand my main character, Nick Aames, I did what I often do for feedback: I turned to Facebook for suggestions. I received a number of good comments, but the clearest and most on point were from my friend and fellow Ann Arbor duelist Robert Chavez. He discussed the history of smart, difficult characters like Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Gregory House, and helped me to see that Nick’s friendship with Carver was the key to helping the reader understand and like Nick. So to Robert Chavez, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and David Shore (creator of House M.D.), thank you for the character insights.

  Thank you to Stanley Schmidt, Trevor Quachri, and Emily Alta Hockaday, the editorial team at Analog who bought that first Carver and Aames story and brought it to the world in the pages of Analog Science Fiction and Fact, and to the Analog readers who responded so well to it. In particular, thank you to my brainmate, fellow author Tina Smith (writing as Tina Gower), who convinced me that Nick Aames was a character who needed to return.

  And thanks also to the other part of my brain, fellow author Kary English, and my usual crowd of first readers. Bill Emerson provided valuable feedback, as he always does. My mom and fellow author Stewart Baker both argued to keep the novel as close to my original vision as possible, and I thank them for that moral support.

  My brother-in-law Mark “Buck” Buckowing is one of the most avid readers I have ever met, and also a chemist. His chemistry assistance provided the vital clue that tied that first Aldrin story together. His support, and that of all my family, is something I truly prize as an author.

  Jack McDevitt had kind things to say about many of the stories that went into this novel, and has been unflagging in his encouragement for my career. Thank you, Jack. “The Adventure of the Martian Tomb” is coming, I promise.

  Besides writing an excellent foreword, my friend Marianne J. Dyson has reviewed this book and helped me to improve the science. (She is a professional rocket scientist, after all, as well as a great writer of both science and science fiction.) Any errors that remain are despite her help, not because of it, and entirely my fault.

  My agent, David Fugate, has once again helped me to connect with a great publisher in 47North. My editor Jason Kirk and the entire 47North team have been a joy to work with. They set a high bar. In particular, copyeditor Elisabeth Rinaldi and proofreader Ariel Anderson showed attention to detail in their fact-checking and proofing that would impress Nick Aames, and my book is the better for them. Thanks to them and David and Jason and the rest of the team.

  Many years ago, my mother-in-law, Bonnie Penar (RIP), got me a Barnes & Noble gift certificate for my birthday. To my surprise, I did not buy a book with it. Rather, I was entranced by the music playing in the store: “Brazilian Lounge” from Putumayo Music. That led to my fascination with Brazilian music, and thus it became Nick Aames’s favorite music. The Brazilian elements of this novel started there, courtesy of Putumayo and Mom Penar. My thanks to them.

  A year ago today as I write this, I had an infected sebaceous cyst that was turning septic, though I didn’t know it at the time. I ignored it, hoping it would improve. My friend, nurse and fellow writer Emily Godhand, demanded that I go to the hospital if my temperature increased. Tina Smith warned me of the dangers of sepsis. So when my temperature started to climb, my brother Joe rushed me to the hospital. They were able to halt the infection, but only because I got there in time. They also diagnosed me with diabetes as a contributing factor to the infection, and taught me how to control it and to manage my weight and fitness. I am alive today to see this book—and seventy pounds lighter!—because of Emily, Tina, Joe, a
nd the staff of Metro Hospital. I’m not done thanking them for that.

  And to my wife Sandy: Brigas nunca mais.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2018 Joel Shoemaker Photography

  Martin L. Shoemaker is a writer and programmer. As a kid, he told stories to imaginary friends. He couldn’t imagine any career but writing fiction until his algebra teacher said, “This is a program. You should write one of these.” Fast-forward through thirty years of programming, writing, and teaching. He wrote, but he never submitted anything until his brother-in-law read a chapter and said, “That’s not a chapter. That’s a story. Send it in.” It was a runner-up for the Jim Baen Memorial Short Story Award and earned him a lunch with Buzz Aldrin. Programming never did that!

  Shoemaker hasn’t stopped writing since. His novella Murder on the Aldrin Express was reprinted in The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Thirty-First Annual Collection and in The Year’s Top Short SF Novels 4. He received the Washington Science Fiction Association’s Small Press Award for his Clarkesworld story “Today I Am Paul,” which continues in Today I Am Carey, published in March 2019. Learn more at http://Shoemaker.Space.