by Homer Hickam
When Crescent didn’t move, Crater sat down on the lip of the crater. “All right. I’ll stay and breathe my air down too.”
She looked at him. “You wouldn’t.”
“Let’s see who dies first. You say Legionnaires don’t use much air. We’ll find out.”
A minute passed, then another. Then Crescent stood up and walked to the jumpcar. “All right. I will go.”
“You first,” Crater said, nodding toward the ladder.
“You don’t trust me.”
“Trust but verify, a wise man once said.”
Crescent shrugged, then climbed the ladder and crawled through the hatch. Crater followed her. “Take the copilot’s seat.”
“I don’t know how to fly a jumpcar.”
“That’s okay. I do.”
Crater closed the hatch, then ran through the checklist with the puter. “Hang on,” he said, then punched the engines.
Crescent closed her eyes and gripped the armrests while Crater kept the nose pointed straight up until they’d reached an altitude of eighty miles. He nudged the nose to the southeast and allowed the jumpcar to fly in a ballistic arc toward the shimmering vertical rainbow of the lunar elevator and the bright glow of Armstrong City. On the down side of the arc, Crater spotted a heel-3 convoy trundling down the dustway. He swerved the nose toward it, flipped the jumpcar over, and backed it down.
“Spacecraft eight point nine miles east and descending, identify yourself.”
It was Armstrong City Flight Control. Crater ignored their call and landed the jumpcar, then keyed in a command. He unbuckled his seat belt. When Crescent didn’t move, he unbuckled her seat belt for her. Her eyes were wide and she had a tight grip on the armrests. “What’s wrong?” Crater demanded.
“I’m afraid of heights,” she squeaked.
“Are you afraid of being blown up? I programmed the jumpcar to take off and crash. We have about thirty seconds.”
Crescent blinked, then released the armrests and clambered out of the cockpit, Crater right behind her. Once on the ground, they ran. A few seconds later the jumpcar spurted its jets and took off. It roared south, then rotated until its nose was aimed straight down. When it struck the dust, it exploded in a fiery ball.
“We’ve got to catch that convoy,” Crater said.
Crescent stared at him. “Sometimes you act crazy.”
“It’s my secret weapon. Come on.”
The convoy was stopped, its drivers watching the flames from the crash. Crater and Crescent sneaked aboard the last truck, hiding themselves within a load of Helium-3 canisters.
::: TWENTY-FIVE
Message for you, Miss Medaris,” Jarvis said, handing her a puter memplug.
Maria flipped her reader open and touched the memplug to it. It contained a message from the Colonel who came on screen and explained the situation to her, ending with, “Crater is likely heading to Armstrong City, to either escape up the elevator to a Cycler or just disappear. If you see him, don’t let him near you. He’s dangerous. Just let me know where you saw him and I will take care of everything. Be safe, my dear. Your grandfather loves you.”
Maria closed the reader and sat back. After a while, she discovered she was smiling, and not a little thrilled. She had always hoped Crater would come to Armstrong City and make something of himself. But then her smile faded. Crater’s new occupation of outlaw was not what she had in mind.
I will find him, she said to herself. But . . . what will I do then?
She didn’t know. She rose from her desk. “I’ll be back in an hour,” she told Jarvis.
The secretary looked stricken. “You have a meeting with your CBO in twenty minutes.”
“Reschedule it,” Maria said and kept going. She needed to think and there was one place she thought best. She went outside and headed east. Streetlights lined the mooncrete sidewalk. It was the middle of the two-week dark phase, the so-called great shadow. Maria wasn’t afraid. She could handle any pickpocket or lowlife lout. She walked until she reached the factory entrance. A big sign proclaimed MEDARIS JUMPCAR PLANT #1. She went through the hatch. Inside, the assembly line was hopping, her employees and machines synchronized. Four jumpcars were in the line, each in various stages of assembly. A foreman came running. “Miss Medaris. Good to see you.”
Her practiced eye had already taken in the progress since her last visit. “Number three hasn’t moved much,” she observed.
“No, ma’am. We’re waiting for a batch of extruded aluminum. I was told it will be here tomorrow.”
“Coming from Australia, right? Let me know if it doesn’t arrive.”
“Yes, ma’am. Of course.”
Maria walked to where a welder was working, his spot flashing, a wisp of smoke rising from the weld. She waited until he’d finished and raised his helmet, then tapped him on the shoulder. “Let me take over, Jack. Do you mind?”
The welder stepped aside and handed Maria his helmet. She put it on with its visor up, tied on a leather apron, then checked the plans. She fired up the spot, flipped the helmet visor down, then got busy. Working with her hands always helped her think. She needed to figure out a way to keep Crater safe even while all the rest of the moon tried to kill him. Then she remembered what had always kept Crater safe. But was it possible? She stopped welding and raised the helmet visor. There was only one way to find out.
::: Part Two
ENDLESS DUST
Happiness is like a crystal,
Fair and exquisite and clear,
Broken in a million pieces,
Shattered, scattered far and near.
Now and then along life’s pathway,
Lo! Some shining fragments fall;
But there are so many pieces
No one ever finds them all.
–Priscilla Leonard
::: TWENTY-SIX
Check them out, gents,” Decan Flaubert said, flicking on the lights in the hangar deck to reveal eight spiderwalkers. “Clean out the packing grease and limber them up. We’re going into action soon.”
Absalom, Lucien, and Dion, carrying their boots in their arms, floated to their beasts along with the other five drivers. They’d been in space for so long, being weightless now seemed second nature, but to work on the walkers, they’d need their sticky boots. The feet of the walkers were already outfitted with sticky pads. Walking them around in zero-G conditions wouldn’t be perfect, but the pads would at least allow the drivers to test their machines.
The first job was to get the walkers out of their packing skeletons of aluminum and plywood. It was hot work, and soon the bodies of the drivers were steaming. It wasn’t long before they requested permission to strip off their armor and tunics. Flaubert nodded his approval.
“Check Carillon out,” Lucien said. “Not much room for another tat on that one.”
Carillon was a veteran of many battles and his tattoos reflected each one of them. There were rows of tombstones across his back, each representing an enemy he’d killed. Names of battles—New Bombay, Nashville, Brasilia—ran up and down his arms. Mottos—“My holy water is blood;” “Enemy, don’t run away, you’ll just die tired.”—crossed his chest. “What are you looking at, sprouts?” he demanded. “Ah, I see. You’re jealous of my war ink.” He walked over to Lucien, then waved Absalom and Dion in. He tapped on the hatch that held the spiderwalker’s puter. “You can modify this?”
“Of course,” Absalom said. “And I only need access to mine. I will tell it to feed its data to all the walkers. No one will be able to discover what I’ve done.”
“There will be a breakdown as soon as we land?”
“It will be intermittent. Very difficult to troubleshoot. I will come up with the fix after the battle is nearly over.”
Carillon looked over his shoulder. “If we’re found out, we’ll go before a firing squad.”
“We won’t be found out. Decan Flaubert is ignorant of walker software. Just like you.”
Carillon made the gap-toot
hed grimace that passed for his smile. “Then he must be truly ignorant!”
“You four!”
Decan Flaubert floated over to the four plotters, then swung his sticky boots to the deck. “Carillon, there is no reason for you to be anywhere other than with your walker.”
“I am giving these novices the benefit of my experience,” Carillon replied.
Flaubert balled up his fist and struck Carillon in the side of his head with such force it caused the veteran’s boots to come unstuck. He tumbled away. Flaubert turned on the trio of youthful Legionnaires. “Didn’t I tell you to stay away from Carillon?”
“Y-Yes, sir,” the three warbled.
“He is always plotting something. What is it this time? Tell me now and it will go easy on you. Keep it from me and when I find out—and I will find out—I will skin you alive, then toss you into space to let your blood boil.”
“He is asking us to loan him money, Decan,” Lucien said.
Absalom backed him up. “That is all, Decan.”
Dion added, “It’s the truth. I swear!”
Flaubert frowned. “All three of you, come to attention.”
When they did, Flaubert struck each of them in turn. Blood ran from Dion’s nose, from Lucien’s ears, and from Absalom’s mouth, forming scarlet droplets that drifted away. The other spiderwalker drivers pretended not to notice, their heads down.
“I have my eyes on you,” Flaubert said. “Carillon!”
Carillon was back on his feet. He came to attention. “Yes, Decan! Would you like to crush my face with your fist again?”
“The only thing that keeps me from chucking you into space,” Flaubert growled, “is I would be short a walker driver.”
“Yes, Decan. For you and the glory of the Legion, I would gladly chuck myself into space!”
Flaubert looked doubtful but waved them back to work.
When he was sure he wasn’t being watched, Lucien swung open the hatch to his walker’s puter and tapped in the necessary commands. Afterward, when he caught their eye, he winked to his partners in crime and survival that everything was going according to plan.
In the control room beside the hangar, Flaubert, monitoring a hidden surveillance camera, took note of the winks. The three lads and Carillon were up to something, but what it was, he wasn’t certain. He only knew if they spoiled the upcoming fight, they were not likely to survive, mainly because he would kill them himself.
::: TWENTY-SEVEN
Deep in the utilities tubes, Crater plugged into the city power grid puter and called up his announcement on the Armstrong City do4u book under Guide Services:
Guide Across the Wayback to Anywhere You Want to Go.
Price Negotiable.
Serious Inquiries Only.
Contact do4u #9532
The do4u number belonged to an Umlap woman, a tailor by trade, named Mends Your Britches. For her trouble, and because she’d also agreed to take a certain party on as an apprentice tailor, the guide provided Mends Your Britches five percent of any income he made as a result of the ad.
It was a fair trade.
The Umlap woman was an excellent judge of callers and could sense if they were serious or not. During Crater’s short career as a guide, he had guided three groups: prisoners to the Australian mining town of New Woomera in the far eastern Smythe’s Sea, a collection of rowdy Russian miners north to New St. Petersburg (they had yet to pay him), and the representatives of a Japanese mining company sent to inspect the crowhopper-destroyed town of Nekko. What they found—bodies heaped in a mound, the mining equipment destroyed, the tubes desecrated—had so nauseated and disgusted them, they had decided to leave Nekko permanently closed.
There was only one message on the server. Come see me. It was from Mends Your Britches. Crater slipped through the tubes to an outside hatch beneath the Buzz Aldrin Dome. After checking to make sure he wasn’t observed, he pulled his scarf over his nose and, cap pulled down, made his way along the dark, tree-lined street lit by dim street lamps. People passed by, all of whom seemed busy and purposeful. Armstrong City was home to nearly four thousand people. New tubes were being buried every day, and small and medium-sized domes containing parks, farms, and vineyards were being constructed at an astonishing pace. Peace seemed to be in the air. The UCW and the allied countries against it were talking. Scramjet ferries up to the Lunar Cyclers were booked for months. Four new Cyclers were being constructed. War followed by peace was always good for business.
A man approached. He was accompanied by a young woman pulling a cart laden high with boxes. Crater studied them. The man looked healthy, yet the woman was doing all the work. When the wheel of the cart caught the corner of a building, one of the boxes was knocked off. “Mouse!” the man yelled. “If anything is broken in that box, you’ll find your ration cut.”
“My strident apologies, sir,” the woman answered, bobbing her head obediently as she placed the box back, then took up the yoke of the cart. “I mean only to help, sir.”
“Come along, then,” he said and walked ahead while she strained to keep up, leaving the guide to wonder what he’d just seen.
Crater reached the shop of the Umlap tailor. It was in a basement that led to an old-fashioned tube. He descended down the steps and entered the hatch. Although buildings beneath the domes had no need of airlocks, they were still built into most buildings as safety devices. In the Umlap’s shop, the hatch was original equipment.
The Umlap woman was at her sewing machine. The “certain party,” a crowhopper girl, was busy in the kitchen. The Umlap looked up. “Well, Crater,” she said with a smile that meant she was unhappy. “It is about time you visited us.”
Crescent turned from the stove and worked her lips into a smile. “I am most glad to see your face,” she said.
“And I your face, Crescent,” Crater said. “Hello, Ike.”
Ike was the Umlap’s dog. He thumped his tail against the deck.
“Sit down,” Mends Your Britches directed, pointing at a hard mooncrete chair. “I have work for you. His name is Jake Barrows and says he will pay in cash if you will be his guide.”
“Cash is always good,” Crater said.
The Umlap looked around sharply when Crescent began whacking joyfully with a big knife on the cutting board. “Crescent, you’re supposed to be slicing those carrots, not destroying them!”
“Sorry, Missus!” Crescent brayed, though she didn’t appear to be sorry at all and kept merrily chopping.
Mends Your Britches rolled her eyes and lowered her voice. “She gets it in her head to do a thing a particular way, it’s hard to turn her around. Crescent! For goodness’ sake. Slice, not chop!”
“Yes, Missus!” The chopping slowed.
“Is she doing okay otherwise?”
The tailor shrugged. “Well enough. She’s smart and she’s got very good mechanical ability. She can take a sewing machine apart and put it back together in ten minutes. Her biggest drawbacks are her fingers. They’re thick and not made for fine handwork. Still, I wouldn’t trade her for a brace of thin-fingered Earth girls. She’s honest to a fault. And she adores Ike, who equally adores her. She brushes him faithfully and takes him for walks in the park and cleans up after him. Sometimes I find his head on her feet sound asleep. Dogs are a good judge of character. Of course, I had to tell her to kindly stop choking a customer the other day who complained about a pair of leggings I’d mended. True, he was obnoxious and was refusing to pay, but Crescent still shouldn’t have jumped over the counter and grabbed his throat.”
“He paid, didn’t he?” Crescent declared from the kitchen.
The Umlap smiled unhappily. “Yes, he did, dear, but I fear he will not be a repeat customer.” She turned to Crater. “You’ll find Jake Barrows in the northern maintenance shed. He said there are four in his party.”
“Even better. Small parties are the easiest. What else do you know about them?”
“Not much, but I can guess. Chased off Earth by p
eople who didn’t like their religion or their beliefs or just the way they look.”
“Where do they want to go?”
“He wouldn’t say, only that he would discuss that with you when you came by.”
“A group that won’t say where they’re going sounds like trouble.”
Mends Your Britches smiled again. “Did you know, perchance, that your fee for Crescent’s rent is overdue?”
Crater got the message. “I will talk to Barrows. I’m sure we can work something out.”
Mends Your Britches frowned deeply. “Splendid! Crescent, dear, set another plate for Crater, won’t you?”
“I will, Missus!”
“And go into the pantry. Fetch me the special hot sauce I made last weekend.”
“Yes, Missus!”
Mends Your Britches waited until Crescent was out of the room and then inclined her head toward Crater. “I fear for her,” she said. “Sometimes I notice she is in pain. It’s subtle, but I can see it in the way her eyes narrow and her lips go tight. She should visit a doctor.”
“She’s a crowhopper,” Crater said. “Any doctor in Armstrong City would turn her in.”
“Yet she needs help. Of this, I am certain.”
“She hasn’t complained?”
“She never complains about anything. She is a special girl.”
Crescent returned to the kitchen. “I have the hot sauce, Missus!”
“Thank you, dear,” Mends Your Britches said, then gave Crater a significant look that included a raised eyebrow.
Crater sat back and watched Crescent bustle around the kitchen. She didn’t look sick at all. He thought probably the old woman was imagining things and, before long, had put the entire conversation out of his head. It was the new clients he needed to worry about. He would visit them on the morrow, then get an advance payment and head out on the dust.
