Tears of Selene

by Bill Patterson

  “Good attitude, Duane, m'boy,” said Bubba. “You're gonna love the Moon.”

  Duane drifted towards a convenient piece of structure, grabbing hold to stop his slow float across the Tank. “I can't wait,” he grumbled.

  Scott clapped his hands together, which produced no sound in the vacuum aboard the Tank, but the altered air pressure inside his spacesuit made a chuffing sound in the radio channel.

  “All right, folks. First item on the agenda—inspect the blast plate and estimate its thickness.”

  Duane was past astonishment. Eleven weeks ago, a three-meter-thick piece of lunar steel faced the fury of a nuclear weapon exploding a mere twenty meters away. Now, this lunatic was asking them to go over the radioactive surface of the plate and measure how much steel boiled off of it.

  “Don' worry none, m'boy,” said Bubba. “I already took readings, and the plate's almost cold.”

  “Wait…you can't tell me that you fire off ten nukes in front of that thing, and it just shrugs it off like they were firecrackers. What about neutron activation?”

  “That's not just a big old hunk of steel,” said Bubba. “Thanks to precision ratios, we know exactly what it's made of. Iron and carbon. That's it.”

  “Iron has to absorb four neutrons before it becomes radioactive,” said Duane. “Hey! Carbon-14! That's radioactive!”

  Scott double-clicked his microphone to break into the conversation. “Hey, Duane, what the hell? You sound like those nuts wandering around power plants, protesting all things nuclear. You're an operator—you should know this stuff!”

  Bubba broke in. “Don' ride him, chief. Took me a spell to cozy up to the idea m'self. Look, Duane, C14 takes forever to decay, so there's not a lot of energy given off, ‘kay? It spits out an electron, no gamma rays, and your suit can handle electrons jes fine.”

  Duane shook himself. “Sorry, boss. You get fed the idea that a nuclear detonation is instant destruction from, like, birth. Weirds me out to know that we can blast this plate with ten nukes and it's only lightly scorched.”

  Scott looked at Bubba, who raised both hands, and turned one into a thumbs up.

  “Okay, enough hand-holding. We have a mission to plan. Bubba, Duane, I need that plate inspected an hour ago. Get to it.”

  ###

  Travis dropped his controller in shock. “How in the hell did you do that?” he asked.

  Freddy Howlett chuckled. “They don't call him 'Cool Hand Luke' for nothing. It's a shame they're not going to let you pilot the ERV back, Alex.”

  Alexander was mock-polishing his fingernails on his chest, after soundly trouncing Travis in his favorite game: Lunar Lander. They had just run a tournament where each pilot would be suddenly dumped into a random landing situation—speed, angle, fuel, and engine thrust were all randomized—and required to land the ship safely. Alex had won, eight outright to Travis's two. Travis had never been beaten, but then again, very few of the old Collins crew ever played Lunar Lander.

  “Let's go. Another ten,” he challenged.

  “Another time, perhaps. You go ahead, though, you need the practice,” said Alex, a bit maliciously.

  “Asswipe,” growled Travis, motioning for someone else to take Alex's controller.

  “Catch you next week,” said Alex as he exited the rec tent.

  He walked into the brightly lit inner shell of the Perseus. Alex was working the kinks out of his fingers while his eyes took in the never-dull image of fields of green arching up and over his head, encircling his entire field of view in green, growing things. About ninety degrees up the arch, two very short people chased each other around the fields. Tyler and Eva, the two kids. Alex smiled. It was amazing how those two lit up life inside the Perseus. He looked around and spotted the two mothers, Lisa and Ashley, nearby. It must purely suck, he thought, to be the only two kids with four hundred parents. We better get back to Earth, and quick, before they get old enough to get into real mischief.

  A touch on his arm surprised him.

  “Chief Gatson, I wish you wouldn't do that, sneaking up on me.”

  “Sorry, Alex. Call me Jeff. Going anywhere?”

  “I was thinking of turning in, actually. I was in the potato patches all day.”

  Jeff snorted. “I was in Idaho as a teen. A 'patch' was usually tens of kilometers on a side. Biggest potatoes I ever saw.” He looked around. “Walk with me, please.”

  “Sure. What's up?”

  “Exactly where we're going.” Jeff worked the mechanism of the open cage elevator. “Grab some pads and hop in.”

  Alex shrugged, grabbed about ten Helix pads, and climbed aboard. The floor was a slab of iron; the sides were fiberglass rope strung between the uprights. The elevator engaged smoothly and slid upward with surprisingly little sound or vibration. It gradually slowed down and docked with the central axis; the final twitch of docking was enough to loft the Helix pads into the air.

  Alex grabbed a handhold and a handful. All hands, senior or not, helped return the burlap pads to the Helix entrances. No pads, no fun on the Helix. Everyone benefited.

  “OK, we're here. Why so mysterious?” said Alex.

  “You're pretty good with Lunar Lander,” said Jeff. “Ever think of doing it for real?”

  “No. It's like saying, 'I am the best Flight Sim guy ever, now gimme a jet.' Nobody's that dumb.”

  “Pilots fly in simulators all the time,” said Jeff. “In fact, they have to fly one every year. Or is it every six months?”

  “I have no idea. I'm not even a private pilot,” said Alex. “That's why I'm not flying an ERV. I just goof around on a very simple game, Chief. I have no delusions about my competence in real situations.”

  “I see. Someone wants to see you in the Burroughs.” They both floated into the moored spacecraft.

  “Commander Smithson!”

  “Hello, Mr. Short. I have a proposition…”

  ###

  One by one, the return expedition was manned, and the selectees were asked to keep the matter quiet.

  “The crew community is very fragile right now,” said Commander Smithson as he gave each selectee their orders. “If they found out that we were going back to the Moon and there would be more delays before the flight back to Earth, there might be dangerous overreactions. Better that the commanders tell them all at once rather than the rumor mill go nuts.”

  Each selectee promised to keep the secret. The Commanders still fretted. Things were going too well.

  ###

  Garth was packed and ready to go. The robot freighter—he never did find out its name—had slowed to a crawl for two hours while the local pilot of the harbor came out in a launch to take control. Garth didn't dare try to tap into the ship's systems now that there were actual people on board. He knew that the single pilot and skeleton engineer crew could radio for the shore patrol or local polizei in an instant.

  He had removed all traces of his presence from the ship the day before, which consisted of emptying the solar still and returning it to its hiding place, ready for the next hitcher who would need it, and dumping and washing the chamber pots, a thoroughly disgusting business. He topped up his water bottles and dressed in the garb of a harbor inspector. All he had to do was stay out of sight until the ship came to rest at the port.

  Until then, he would wait for people to swarm the vessel. At a proper time, he would ease out of his bunk, swing the small pack over his shoulder like he was carrying a laptop, and exit the ship. A quick visit to the Sanchez gang contact at the docks and he would be armed, documented, and ready to take on UNSOC.

  He could hardly wait.

  Disorder

  Aboard Perseus, High Earth Orbit, May 26 2087, 0916 GMT

  “Commander! Object inbound! Radar gives speed at four kps, and the size, ten meters. Impact, three hours. Lasers firing, but I don't think it's going to make a damned bit of difference!”

  Mike Standish tapped the screen, switching it to the radar mode, and whistled through his teeth
at the readout.

  “How did we miss this?” he asked.

  “No idea, sir. We've had a continuous watch. We need a nuke.”

  “Who's on the radio?” Mike asked.

  “Ragesh here, sir. I have the script right in front of me. Do you want me to send?”

  “Go. We don't have time to ask UNSOC permission. If we survive, we might be able to beg for forgiveness.” Ever since the Collins crew blinded a substantial number of people with a unannounced nuclear explosion when they were in similar circumstances, the peoples of Earth had been reluctant to look up in the sky. There were still a number who had to, though. Astronomers, of course, but also military and civilian pilots, weather forecasters, and anyone else who was often outdoors.

  UNSOC evolved an elaborate protocol for warning people when the Debris Response Center was about to explode a nuclear weapon to deflect an incoming chunk of the Moon. It involved smartphones, of course, but also a timed pulsation of all lighting circuits, inside and out, to alert the citizens. Even so, every detonation resulted in hundreds of cases of flash blindness, mostly temporary, but dozens still had permanent damage to their eyes from staring at the fireball.

  The crew of Perseus and Collins learned of these protocols after they used nuclear detonations to ease into orbit. The Commanders of both ships had, through foresight and a bit of luck, been able to detonate their nuclear weapons when over deserted stretches of Earth, where almost nobody was affected.

  The Commanders swore that they would abide by the UNSOC protocols, which required them to pass along all detonation plans to UNSOC-DRC in Bavaria for dissemination to the rest of the Earth. Ragesh was working that angle right now.

  “UNSOC, UNSOC, UNSOC. Emergency priority. We have a detonation solution for approximately one hundred and fifty minutes from present. Explosion will occur one hundred kilometers from our orbital location, then Moonward. Coordinates of target on the sideband. Over.”

  He waited, watching the chronometer. He figured…six hundred kilometers from the Earth, forty thousand kilometers circumference, divide by two, analog to digital conversion, switching nodes on the 'net, and a lot of those damaged through impacts, call it three seconds, minimum, from transmission to reception at the German kaserne where UNSOC-DRC lived. Two seconds to react, five to choose a response…eight, nine, now!

  “Perseus, this is UNSOC-DRC, we have your data. We will put out the word. Thank you for the early warning. Emergency priority not required, use regular priority. Keep us informed with updates every ten minutes until T-20 minutes, then switch to every five minutes until T-5, then every thirty seconds until detonation. Notice: recommend two birds. Our radar indicates that this is a large impactor within a swarm of smaller ones. Over.”

  “Roger, UNSOC,” replied Ragesh, blowing out a sigh of relief. “Update schedule copied, wilco on updates. Will relay backup detonation to Command Authority. Over.”

  “Perseus, UNSOC,” said the voice from the ground. “Given numerous impactors, will treat comm silence as damage to your transmitters. Continue detonation plan even if you go off the air. Verbal Order of Daniels, Chief, UNSOC. Over.”

  “Roger, UNSOC. Will continue detonation plan, VOCO Daniels. Will relay to Command Authority, and thanks. Perseus out.” Ragesh got on the intercom to pass along the good news.

  ###

  “Ya, ich sprechen English,” said the Hitler Youth in tight leather coveralls, a brown shirt, and a cloth cap with an indecipherable red pin at the center. “What want you?”

  Garth had a momentary flashback to the South Carolina jail where he had so badly damaged Rogers. This was a different kind of Nazi, though. Here, on the continent, the neo-Nazis had a far greater support base than the play-thugs in the U.S. It would be a good thing to keep one's cool here.

  “I am looking for Vasquez,” he said carefully. He was ready to bolt for the open door, not more than a step away.

  The Nazi spat in the corner. “Ficken Yerd. He's around. I should send you on what call they a Mystery Magical Tour. How much, the Yerd?”

  Yerd? Oh, Spanierd. “How about no trip to Herr Doktor?”

  The Nazi bristled and grabbed a length of reinforcing steel bar. “How about your head I crush?”

  “How about he talks to the Yerd?” Both men whirled to see a slight Spaniard in the doorway, his hand inside his shirt. “Raus, Adolf, unless you want to talk with my friends again. Or have the stitches come out yet?”

  The Nazi growled, but gave ground. “You around again, your kopf I bash in, ja!” The Nazi spat on the ground again and walked out, head held high.

  “Muy loca,” said Vasquez. “I have been waiting for you to show for a few hours. What kept you?”

  “Safety. Didn't think running out as soon as we docked would be the smartest thing in the world.”

  Vasquez nodded. “I was hoping you weren't trying to sneak onto the pilot tug. Muy dificil to get anyone on that crew. Bueno, you are here. Que necesita? What do you need?”

  “A handgun would be nice. I don't think dragging a rifle around for a few hundred kilometers is a good idea.”

  Vasquez frowned. “Si. Problemo. The last shipment confiscated at the border. Everyone's being very careful. Polizei and the Grepo are everywhere.”

  “So, you don't have any handguns.”

  “Que lastima, this is true.”

  Garth sighed. “Do you have a printer?”

  “You want some paper printed? I can do better.”

  “I meant a 3D printer. I have some gun designs we can print.”

  Vazquez smiled. “Yes, I have one. Uses metal powder, too, so your gun won't blow your hand off when you fire.”

  “That's a good thing to have in a gun. How long?”

  Vasquez's eyes rolled up to the roof. “Yesterday. What's the hurry?”

  “No hurry. I just want to know how long I have to steal some ammo. You can't print ammo.”

  “Inteligente. I have locations of some ammo spots. But most of them are muy dificil to break in. Alarms. Polizei.”

  Garth grinned until his canines showed. “Oh, I have ways to get ammo from places like that. You leave the places alone. You wait for the people to bring the ammo to you.”

  Vasquez stared at him. Garth laughed. “I'll be back in four hours. I'll tell you how I did it then.”

  ###

  The guns were ready when Garth returned.

  “Que grande. How did you do it?” asked Vasquez when Garth reluctantly admitted that he did indeed have ammunition that would fit the printed guns. “You are leaving, we have to live here. We need to know who and where to avoid.”

  “I looked over your list. Lots of shooting ranges on them. But a lot of those had cop cars in the parking lot. Found a couple that didn't, but the buildings were small, so I figured air rifles or dinky .22 guns. Those kinds of toys will get me killed.

  “Then I saw the perfect score. Far enough away from big towns with gun-happy cops, large layout, seemed perfect.”

  “I'll need the name of the place. So, you walk in, ask to buy ammo,” said Vasquez.

  “Who's telling this story? Besides, that would be stupid. All those people with loaded weapons, all the kraut behind the counter has to do is raise a fuss and I'm in kraut jail.” Garth shook his head. “With brains like that, how have you stayed out of kraut jail?”

  “Who says I have?” asked Vasquez. “Lo siento, I sorry. Go on with your story.”

  Garth growled low in his throat as he worked the action on the printed guns. “Waited in the lot. Guy comes out with a long bag, I figure rifle, and a small sack, looked heavy. Rectangle bulges. I wait until he loads the bag into the trunk, then whack him in the back of the head with a rock. He goes down like a bag of crap, I take the ammo. Nothing to it.”

  Vasquez nodded. “Simple, direct, I like it. How do you like the guns?”

  “They'll do okay. Thanks, and tell Sanchez thanks from me.”

  Garth was soon headed north, two printed guns hidden on his pers
on, along with plenty of ammo.

  ###

  Perseus Operations manually reprogramed their lasers to concentrate fire on everything except the central impactor. The lasers soon made short work of the cloud of debris accompanying the ten meter chunk of rock. At the peak of activity, the vapor clouds boiling from the rubble gleamed with the absolutely straight lines drawn by incoming laser fire.

  “T minus five minutes, UNSOC. Deactivating lasers,” said Ragesh. He nodded to the controller next to him, who turned the Master Arm switch on the laser panel to 'off.' “Lasers deactivated. Four minutes, thirty to impact.”

  The lights dimmed momentarily, and a subliminal thrumming sound permeated the bubble of iron. “Nuclear package away. Course nominal. Arming sequence to start at impact minus three minutes. Secondary nuclear package loaded on launcher.”

  “Roger, Perseus,” said UNSOC. “Good luck.”

  The four minutes passed excruciatingly slowly. Ragesh read off status every thirty seconds, as required. Soon, it was thirty seconds to go, and events sped up rapidly.

  “Deuterium and tritium gas injecting into the weapon core now. Twenty-five seconds.”

  “PAL unlocked. Urchin released into the core, armed for impact minus 500 milliseconds. Eighteen seconds. Capacitors charging, fifty percent and rising, fifteen seconds. Capacitors at max charge. Final safeties unlocked. Distance, forty klicks, course nominal. Five, four, three, two, one, detonation!”

  The speaker erupted with static as the electromagnetic pulse from the nuclear fireball crashed into the electronics of the Perseus. Blue streamers of lightning crawled down the single brace to the central axis, then along both of the remaining braces to equalize charge along the entire hull. As soon as the lightning died out, the speaker quieted.

  “Damn. I wish we could figure out a way to stop that,” muttered Mike Standish. “Or store the juice. How's ranging?”