by Homer Hickam
::: TWENTY-EIGHT
Crater moved through the underground service tubes that housed the utilities of Armstrong City. It had taken a little time, but he’d mapped them all and could slip just about anywhere without detection. He popped out near the northern maintenance shed, kept his scarf up and his head down, and pushed open the hatch.
The shed was a cavernous bay filled with trucks, fastbugs, and mining machines under the care of dozens of mechanics and various other techies. Crater took a moment to savor the marvelous sound of busy machinery, the shouts of working men and women, and the sweet fragrance of grease and biofuel. He wished he could work there, only it was too visible. The guide business was perfect for someone on the run. The authorities didn’t pay much attention to guides, and Crater’s hideout in the maintenance tubes kept him mostly out of sight except when he needed to visit a client. After a quick look around to make certain no one was watching him, he walked to the appointed meeting place near the generator room. Two men and two women, the men in blue coveralls, the women in long gray skirts and white blouses, were waiting for him. Crater thought they looked like pictures he’d seen of the old American western pioneers of the nineteenth century—sturdy, strong, and plain. One of the men extended his hand. “I’m thinking you’re our guide. I’m Jake Barrows.”
“Crater Trueblood,” Crater said, taking Jake’s hand, which was calloused and strong.
“This is my wife, Trudelle,” Jake said, gesturing toward a young, plump woman with braided blond hair. Trudelle provided a cautious smile. “And here is Clarence Tolliver and his wife, Eliza.”
Clarence was a big fellow with a round, friendly face and mischievous gray eyes. “Pleased to meetcha!” he boomed.
Eliza was thin as a crack in a stone and her auburn hair was pulled back into an old-fashioned ponytail. “Been an age, seems like, since we left Earth,” she said. “It’ll be good to get to our new place.”
“You’re younger than the other guides,” Clarence observed.
“I began working on the scrapes when I was twelve,” Crater replied. “And I scouted a heel-3 convoy across the moon when I was sixteen. I am now nearly twenty. You will find me a competent guide.”
“How soon can we leave?” Jake asked.
“That depends. Where do you want to go?”
“The town of Endless Dust. Do you know it?”
“I’ve heard of it. It’s out west about three hundred miles from here. As I recall, it’s abandoned. I think General Nero owns it.”
“Right on all counts. We leased the place through General Nero’s holding company. He said the Helium-3 scrapes had a low yield but that don’t bother us. We’re after Thorium. A lot of folks on Earth are getting off the grid. Thorium packs in their garage are the big new thing.”
This bit of Earthly news surprised Crater. “What are Thorium packs?”
“Small reactors. Not much bigger than a refrigerator and safe as a turtle in its shell. According to the geological charts, there should be lots of Thorium around Endless Dust.”
“Do you know anything about moon mining?”
“Strip mining’s strip mining,” Clarence said. “Doze off the top, load the dust, shake it out, and ship it off. We mined coal before we got run off our land so we know what we’re doing.”
Jake explained, “We’re Appalachians, Crater. Maybe you’ve heard us called Apps. We’re descendants of the people who settled the Appalachian Mountains of North America. Our ancestors were farmers and miners and so are we. We’ve worked hard and dug in the dirt for generations, one way or the other.”
Crater searched his memory. “Wasn’t your land turned into a park or something?”
“They call it a park,” Eliza scoffed, “but what they turned it into is a playground for the elites!”
“The government passed a law,” Jake said, “then came in, rounded us up, and forced us into cities. Then they razed our towns, covered up our mines, and destroyed our farms, all in the name of putting the land back the way it was four hundred years ago. Only instead of letting it go entirely wild, they built resorts for government leaders and their families. Some of us sneaked back into our hills, but we were tracked down and either killed or put into internment camps. That’s when a lot of the Apps got together and decided to come here and build a new life. We saved up, borrowed from relatives, did whatever we could, and leased Endless Dust with an option to buy. There’s a hundred more waiting to come after we’ve made sure it has enough Thorium.”
“What kind of equipment do you have?” Crater asked.
“We were told there’s abandoned scrapers and loaders left over from the previous mining operations.”
“A seller will often tell a buyer what he wants to hear.”
“Well, we got ourselves a truck and a crusher,” Jake said, pointing at a dented truck and a rock crusher mounted on tracks.
“Why the crusher?” Crater asked.
“Thorium ain’t a gas like Helium-3,” Clarence said. “It’s in the rock. A crusher will let us get at it. Byproduct is Titanium, which is at its highest price ever.”
Trudelle spoke up. “Look, Mr. Trueblood, we’re 250,000 miles from home and don’t know anything about what we’re doing except we got this dream to start a new life. We’ve left our kids to come down here and see what’s what in Endless Dust. Will you help us do that?”
“That’s my job,” Crater said. “Three thousand johncredits is my standard price, one thousand up front, the rest payable upon arrival at Endless Dust.”
“Oh, bless you!” Trudelle cried, and both women moved in for a hug. Crater accepted it. The men settled for slapping him on the back. He accepted that too, along with the thousand johncredits, laboriously counted out from a money belt around Jake’s waist.
After saying good-bye and promising to get with them the first thing the next day, Crater headed for the exit. He did his best to keep to the back alleys, but there were plazas he couldn’t avoid crossing. At one of those, he was drawn to a store with a crowd in front of it. Signs were being held aloft and there was chanting. The name of the store was Helpers. He slipped into the crowd and found himself alongside a woman carrying a sign that read: No Helpers on Luna!
Curious, Crater asked, “What are Helpers?”
The woman looked at him through old-fashioned spectacles. “Are you completely ignorant? Helpers are enslaved humans.”
“Slavery! Slavery! Slavery!” a woman chanted. Others picked up the cry.
There was a rumbling sound and Crater turned to see the doors being lifted in front of the store. Some people went inside while others continued to march back and forth with their signs. Crater went inside to see what all the fuss was about.
The store was bright and painted in cheerful colors. On a stage stood three men and three women. They were dressed in blue tunics with white leggings and matching boots. Around their necks were signs with numbers on them. Crater was shocked to see the signs were price tags. Two hundred and fifty thousand johncredits was the cheapest, and that was for a stout, balding young man with pleasant features. A clerk came over. “Are you interested in this Helper, young sir?”
“I’m not sure what a Helper is,” Crater confessed.
“From the wayback, are you? Well, a Helper is just what the name implies. Whatever you want them to do for you, they will cheerfully do. That is to say, as long as it is within certain cognitive limitations. They are not for, ahem, any, ah, personal—shall we say?—needs. You see, they have no ability to enjoy, ahem, personal, um, relationships of, ahem, the flesh, so to speak.”
Crater thought about that for a second, then said, “Oh.”
“But”—the salesman brightened—“if you have need of help in your home or shop or perhaps doing simple chores in your place of business, a Helper is for you! Would you like to talk to one? Go ahead. They won’t bite.”
“May I help you, sir? Ask me anything,” the stout young man said.
“Where are you from?” Crater
asked, not able to think of anything else.
“I am from this store,” the man said. “Helpers of Armstrong City.”
“But where did you come from before being here?”
The man’s smile faded, then returned. “I don’t know. May I help you, sir?”
The salesman slithered up beside Crater. “What do you think?”
“I guess I don’t need a Helper,” Crater said. “Do you sell many of them?”
“We’ve sold but one so far,” the salesman confessed, “but we only opened last week. I anticipate we will sell quite a few more after people understand their value. Helpers are very popular on Earth. Say you have kids. A Helper can drive them to school, then pick them up at the appointed hour. Or perhaps you have an infirm parent. A Helper will happily cook and clean and generally nurse the sick or anyone unable to care for themselves.”
A man and a woman entered the store, and Crater recognized them as the man he’d seen with the woman pulling a cart. “This helper is too weak,” the man said to the clerk. “I need a stronger one.”
“Of course, sir. We are only too glad to exchange Helpers. You,” he said to the woman, “go in the back and report yourself to the exchange manager.”
“I did my best to help, sir,” the young woman said, her eyes downcast.
“Well, help me by going to the back.”
The clerk and the man went away, leaving the woman standing alone and staring at her feet. Before long, a man emerged from the rear of the store and roughly took her by the arm and led her off.
Crater exited the shop. Outside, the woman with the sign stopped him. “Well?” she demanded. “Doesn’t it make you sick?”
The woman didn’t wait for Crater to form an answer. She lowered her sign with a heavy sigh and said, “For centuries, scientists tried to create robots to do menial chores, but they never could build one that really worked. Who would have thought the best way to build a robot would be to turn a human into one?” She shook her head. “Call them what you will, explain them how you want, but they are still nothing but slaves. And when you are done with one—it gets too old or injured or whatever—then what do you do with it?”
When she raised her eyebrows in a questioning manner, Crater said, “I don’t know,” mainly because he didn’t know. He was still feeling sorry for the young woman.
“Exactly,” she replied, then raised her sign and went back to waving it around and Crater left, feeling troubled. Was the woman with the sign right or were the others right? He could certainly see why some people needed a Helper and the Helpers didn’t seem to mind. On the other hand, when he’d first encountered Crescent, she didn’t seem to mind being a bloodthirsty warrior, but now that she’d seen something of human kindness, she’d changed. At least, Crater thought she had. Crescent was hard to read, and it really wasn’t fair to compare her to a Helper.
Or was it? That was when he was reminded that Mends Your Britches thought Crescent was sick. What could be done with a sick crowhopper? Crater didn’t want to think about it. He instead thought of Endless Dust and wondered why it had really been abandoned. There had to be more to the story and he decided to find out what it was.
::: TWENTY-NINE
Armstrong City was still cloaked in the great shadow, and the weak streetlights of the Buzz Aldrin Dome provided only a blue-green phosphorescence to dispel the gloom. Crater, grateful for the dim light since that meant he could lower the scarf from his face, strolled along the street to the tailor’s shop. Before he could descend the stairs, a familiar voice—although one not heard for years—called out his name.
Crater turned in disbelief. There standing before him was Maria Medaris. She wore a hooded cloak but he knew it was her, not just by her voice, but by the way she stood and moved. It was as if everything about her had been permanently welded into his brain. She pushed back the hood of the cloak. Her eyes, blue and bright as the Earth even in the wan light, were steady and strong, just as he remembered them, and her lips, which he had kissed almost as if in a dream when she’d allowed it, were a lovely pink. Everything about her, including her cloak and her silver-threaded leggings, was exquisite. In contrast, Crater was dressed in a shabby brown tunic, threadbare leggings, and scuffed boots.
“You are a sight, Crater,” Maria said. “Have you considered visiting a clothing shop?”
“It’s difficult when you’re an outlaw to visit any shop,” he said. He looked around. “I hope the sheriff is not in the shadows.”
“I am alone,” she said.
“How did you find me?”
“You led some Russians to New St. Pete and a dustie saw you there. My detectives got wind of it. They’ve been looking for you.”
“Lots of people have been looking for me,” Crater answered. “But I never expected one of them was you.”
Maria held out a small, carved box. “Only because I wanted to give you something. Take it, please.”
Crater took the box and moved to where the light was better. He ran his fingers over the silver design on its lid. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“That’s because it’s made of wood from a real tree grown on Earth. It is mahogany—quite rare, Crater—and inlaid with platinum and silver. The design is my family crest, a shield with the Greek god Atlas carrying the world on his shoulders, only it isn’t the Earth, it’s the moon.”
Crater pondered the crest, then opened the lid of the box. Within it, on a soft purple cloth, was a clump of slime mold cells. “Is this my gillie?” he croaked.
“Yes. It was found near the wreckage of the crowhopper jumpcar it destroyed.”
“I was certain it was also destroyed.”
“Gillies can regenerate if enough cells remain,” she explained. “I was told this by a gillie expert on Earth and that caused me to spare no expense to find yours. I had four teams out there looking. It was a miracle they found it because it was under the dust. When they did, I flew out there to see it. It was amazing, Crater. I’m glad I could find it for you.”
“I don’t know what else to say except thank you. Otherwise, I’m a little stunned.”
She smiled. “Good. I like both reactions.”
Crater gently touched the gillie. It didn’t move.
“It’s alive,” Maria said. “I flew in the gillie expert from Earth to make certain of that. Give it time, he said. It’s still regenerating.”
He looked at her. “Why did you do this?”
Maria bit her lip hesitantly, then said, “I thought you would like it.”
“I love it! But your letter . . .”
“I was sick when I wrote that. I’m healthy now and can see things more clearly. My injury was not your fault, Crater, although I blamed you for it at first. As to why you never came to see me, or made any attempt to communicate with me, I’m sure you had your reasons. But let me be clear. I am pleased to return your gillie to you as an act of past friendship, nothing more. Let me also add this warning. If I found out where you are, my grandfather will too. For all I know, he already has. You must leave Armstrong City.”
“What about Crescent?”
“Your creature? Leave her. What is she to you?”
“She’s my friend.”
Maria inclined her head, a gesture of profundity. “Crater, if you had shown half the loyalty to me as you have to that creature, who knows what might have happened?” She sighed. “But if she means that much to you, I suppose I could arrange to smuggle her back to Earth.”
“Would you really do that?”
“You don’t trust me? Well, whether you do or not doesn’t matter. Grandfather is extremely angry with you because of your various crimes.”
“My crimes are light compared to his,” Crater replied, “and Crescent has committed no crime at all. The sheriff killed the dictator Warto and I’m certain the Colonel ordered it.”
“I won’t argue with you. Nobody will believe you, in any case. Grandfather hates that little crowhopper and will have her dead—an
d you with it, if necessary.”
“I just don’t understand why he hates her so much.”
Maria shook her head. “You really don’t know? Crowhoppers killed my Uncle Willy. He was the Colonel’s youngest son. They flayed off his skin. The Colonel found him screaming and begging to die. It’s not just your crowhopper, Crater. He detests them all.”
Crater searched for something to say but nothing came. He understood now, but the situation remained the same.
“He also knew about the pack you placed at the bridge,” she said. “The sheriff read your note while you were writing it. There are security cams in the dispatcher’s office, Crater! They didn’t care. They were sure your creature would die before you could get to it.”
“But then . . .” Crater raised his eyebrows.
“But then it lived longer than they thought and you hit upon the idea of flying the jumpcar over here. Now I think the Colonel means to truly hurt you. You must run.”
Crater closed the box with the dormant gillie inside and placed it on the ground. He took Maria by her hands, then kissed her lips. Surprised, she pushed him away. “Crater,” she gasped, “what are you doing?”
Crater took her in his arms and kissed her again. This time they both allowed the kiss to linger. When they broke apart, Maria’s eyes were wide, her lips parted, a tendril of hair loose and dangling across her forehead. Crater picked up the box. “Thank you for the gillie,” he said. “And don’t worry. I have a place to go where I can hide for a while.”
“Will I ever see you again?”
“Well,” he said, “we’ll always have Armstrong City.”
“Casablanca,” she said, understanding the reference. “But this is hardly Paris. Look. I’ve got another idea. Come to my office. I will protect you. Together, we’ll fight the Colonel.”
“Not unless I can bring Crescent and you fight for her too.”
Maria shook her head. “I can’t do that. I can fight him for you, but he’ll never change his mind about that crowhopper.”
“Then I guess I need to get going.”
“You’re choosing that . . . thing over me?”
