OtherPlace
by
Michael D. Britton
* * * *
Copyright 2012 by Michael D. Britton / Intelligent Life Books
Avery Rush never believed any of the folklore about Doom Circle. But, for the six hundred tabs a day Captain Abraham Biggs paid him to serve as pilot aboard the Shifter, he’d pretend to believe anything.
He stared out the front window of the Shifter at the other vessels leaving moonport – several tiny streamlined skiffs leaping straight up before shooting off for the other side of Kennedy Territory, some big boxy cargo freighters headed back to Earth – probably carrying nickel, only to return burdened with produce and livestock – and a giant shiny cruise vessel bound for Mars, which was currently in perihelic opposition.
“Lunar vessel Shifter, you are clear for departure from Powderville Hub,” said a woman’s voice through the tinny speakers set in Rush’s smooth and glossy control console.
“Roger, Shifter departing,” said Avery, releasing the tethers with the slide of a chrome lever and gently fingering the touch controls with his other hand.
The Shifter groaned slightly under him as it broke free of moorings and rose to a meter above the ground, which looked like the flour-strewn counter top of a baker.
“Off to the Circle of Doom, we go,” he said to himself as his stomach gently lurched with the ascension.
The Circle was not unlike any other ancient crater on Earth’s moon – except for the fact that over the last century, at least thirty craft had disappeared in its vicinity.
Gone without a trace.
Just like the legendary Bermuda Triangle back on Earth.
Captain Biggs, always up for an adventure that could yield profit, was intent on finding and salvaging those lost vessels.
Avery looked down through the transparent floor under his seat as the Shifter speedily skimmed above the surface of the Sea of Tranquility, which, after a hundred and fifty years, finally bore honor to its name, containing billions of liters of water deposited by rains from the moon’s recently installed atmosphere generator.
The synthetic weather system had taken the better part of a decade to do its job, but Lunar citizens could now walk around without breathing apparatus. The pressure and climate was equivalent to about what you’d find in high-elevation cities like Denver on Earth, but gravity was one-sixth normal – and that wasn’t going to change.
Avery’s great-great-grandfather, Hunter Rush, had been one of the first settlers of the moon’s first civilian colony, and now, just four generations since their arrival, natives like Avery were already growing to an average of six foot four, and needed special equipment of their own to visit Earth’s much stronger gravity environment.
Avery brought the Shifter ashore and reduced speed slightly as he brought her up to about a hundred meters altitude, then banked northward toward the outer lands and accelerated to near top speed.
“Rush,” said Biggs, stepping into the pilot’s alcove. “What’s our ETA?”
“Uh, we are, um, two hours and twelve minutes out, Sir,” said Avery, taking a moment to check his gauges and plot the nav on the chartscreen.
Biggs was an aptly-named man, standing nearly seven feet tall and built like a wrestler. He was known for running a tight ship, and his clean, pressed, white uniform always set the standard for his crew’s attire and demeanor – though this mission was only staffed by Rush. A former ground fighter in the War for Lunar Independence, Biggs understood the importance of discipline and order. But from what Rush had seen of him in his “off” time (he was on vacation in Powderville the day they met and he hired Rush) – he was not averse to having a good time.
Biggs nodded. “I’m going to check on my niece, then I’ll be in my quarters.” He turned and left. As soon as he was out of sight, Rush tipped his chair back and put his feet up on the edge of the control panel, and laced his fingers behind his head.
Easy money.
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