Tears of Selene

by Bill Patterson

“Someone forgot that during the last part of rendezvous with Perseus, the Tank was braked by the Baby Flinger in the aft chamber. They disassembled it, and there's no time to get it reassembled in time. You've got to pilot the rendezvous. You should refamiliarize yourself with the Tank's retro capabilities.”

  Lima was glad to escape off the control deck.

  ###

  “It's all my fault, sir,” said McCrary. “I was too invested with the airlocks between the chambers. I authorized Jeff to take apart the Baby Flinger. Neither one of us remembered Tank, and when we did, Baby Flinger was too dismantled to put back together before rendezvous.”

  Commander Smithson looked at the man holding himself at rigid attention. He thought about the situation. Here he was, inside an asteroid that had been brought down from the Belt by detonating nuclear weapons inside a huge cup wended onto a slab of iron fifty meters thick. Under his command, men inflated the fore chamber with steam. The soil beneath his feet was created by grinding the rocky components of this asteroid into dust then mixing it with the excrement of astronauts.

  Everything had to go just right for them to save the Mars Expedition at all. The man standing in front of him was a major reason that they had such a haven. Now, he was ready to fall on his sword because he mis-sequenced a checklist.

  “Anybody in any danger?” Smithson asked.

  “No sir. At least, not yet.”

  “What is the highest probability risk?” he asked McCrary.

  “Miscalculation of orbital parameters and forces. They would drift away, far from our ability to rescue them.”

  “What is the most dangerous risk?”

  “That they rendezvous at too high a speed, crash against the septum wall, and rupture it. Everyone would die.”

  “That's pretty serious,” said Smithson.

  McCrary frowned. “Sir.”

  “Don't play games, eh?” Smithson asked.

  “I am short on time, sir.”

  “Then you better get back to work. What's the plan?” he asked.

  “Not sure yet, sir. One thing is certain, we must evacuate the aft chamber immediately, and remove everything that cannot be replaced. It is likely that Tank will hit one or more walls when docking.”

  “You have a low opinion of the pilot,” said Smithson.

  “So does the pilot,” said McCrary. “Not for lack of effort, either. The rockets on Tank are MoonCan rockets. They weren’t designed for the work we're putting them through. We never did get the Works back to full production, so all of the rocket-equipped MoonCans were the ones we had on reserve around the Collins. So, not a lot of them.

  “Every single one on the Tank has been fired at full thrust at least once, and probably more. We just don't have a full log of which MoonCan has been fired and for what. Nearly every flight of the Lunar Disco featured at least one rocket failure. Sometimes, they explosively disassemble. Imagine an enormous dumpster with model rocket engines glued all over it, coming at you at ten meters a second. Oh, and the engines have been hand-loaded recently, and some of them have been fired over a dozen times.”

  Smithson gulped. “I see what you mean. How can we mitigate the problem?”

  “You're going to hate this, sir. I know I do. Water. Foamy, frothy water, quick frozen in space, and filling the interior of the entire aft chamber.”

  Smithson gaped for a moment, then burst out laughing. He pushed back from his desk, but his chair caught on an irregularity, and he went over backwards onto the floor, still laughing.

  “Gimme, gimmie, ah-ha ha ha ha,” said Smithson, his hand appearing over his desk while the man lay helpless with mirth.

  McCrary, completely mystified, came around the side of the desk and caught the man's hand, hauling him upward. Smithson stood over his desk, hands spread on it, trying to control his reaction. Every time he looked at McCrary and his dead-serious face, he launched back into laughter.

  Eventually, he saw that McCrary was quite red in the face, and he mastered his emotions.

  “Oh, McCrary, you must forgive me. It was the most unexpected thing. You see, I have a private pilot's license. I was quite serious about it—multiple engines, instrument-rated, the whole thing.

  “One time, I was up with a friend in a restored historic aircraft—a DC-5. What a horse! Anyway, we blew a seal on one engine and began nursing it back to the airport, trailing smoke. The second engine started acting a little hinky, so we pulled that old pilot trick—climb as high as we could, gain gliding distance. Good thing, too, since about ten kilometers out, the second engine quit, too. My friend was more afraid for the aircraft than our lives. He was on the radio, begging for them to foam the runway. They did, we did a perfect three-point landing, and the only thing damaged were the engines.

  “But we had to get out of the aircraft and wade through the foam. I'll never get the sight out of my head. That's what I was laughing about—McCrary wading through the 'foam' in the aft chamber to the Tank.”

  McCrary smiled at the image, but only briefly. “Permission to foam the aft compartment, sir.”

  “Permission granted, McCrary.”

  ###

  The Perseus swarmed with people like a hive stirred with a stick. Everyone knew that this was IT—a failure on this mission could easily mean their deaths.

  The central airlock was packed with gear, cycled, and the gear hauled down the winches or, if it was small enough, put on the burlap mats and let fly down the nearest Helix.

  Two days. Two days and the Tank would be on its way to rendezvous with the Perseus.

  On board the Tank, the crew conducted mock launch drills, with everything up to a full power launch tested, just to ensure that the loads were secured well. A shifting load during launch could result in a bad vector, causing the Tank to end up far off course.

  Laverne Roberts was worn to a frazzle. “Come on, people, we've been doing this over and over, and you somehow forgot to turn off the debris lasers? What's wrong with you?”

  Scott Acevedo checked in with the Perseus. They were experiencing the same number and kind of small accidents. He got McCrary on an encrypted line.

  “Thirty-six hours to launch. How's it going down there?”

  “It's going. What do you want?”

  Scott was familiar with a fatigued McCrary and did not take it personally. “I know you have two weeks of work and a day and a half to do it in. But ask yourself—are people being just a bit too clumsy? Up here, we've got folks forgetting basic safety things. I want to give them a four-hour break. What say you?”

  McCrary hummed for a second. “Valid. You can do it all at once, we have too much to do. Half-shifts for the next four hours. Good idea. Out.”

  Scott listened to the static of the spheres for a second. Then he switched channels to the all-hands frequency. “Listen up, people. We're making too many errors. Everyone will cease work, find a spot, and get four hours sleep. This includes me. Maricella, since you don't have a defined job during launch, could you come over here and spell Laverne?”

  Four hours sleep on the Moon was the equivalent of eight full hours on Earth. The Tank crew woke up refreshed and alert. The crew of the Perseus took eight hours to rest everyone, but they, too, were in far better shape after the rest break.

  McCrary called Scott back. “Thanks for the reminder. See you in twenty-eight hours.”

  ###

  Lisa was distantly aware of the problems on the Perseus, but she was far more interested in the affairs of her people on the ground. The contact in the tunnel had finally maneuvered to the 'entrance' as she thought of it, directly underneath the border of the kaserne, and disappeared. She set a timer, and waited for John to report the contact's arrival at the lift station.

  The minutes crept by slowly. The man was headed downhill, but that didn't mean it was any easier. Slipping and falling was not something funny in the deadly tunnels. Nor was sliding downhill on the slime in the center of the floor. You could easily build up a fatal speed.

&nbs
p; Lisa settled herself down for a long wait. In this, she was lucky. All she had to do was be alert for a call from John. John, on the other hand, had to watch an unchanging video for movement, a task that required concentration, as the motion sensing elements of the video software had been disabled.

  ###

  John knew, roughly, how long it would take to walk down from the kaserne, particularly when one had to negotiate the treacherous lift stations. After an hour of idly watching the screen for movement, he sat up, rubbed his hands over his face, and looked closer at the images.

  Garth opened the door, glanced at the glass over the motion sensor, and walked into the station. He idly looked at the controls. John didn't think he understood what he was reading, but you never knew with the man. Most likely, he was killing time.

  On the monitor, Garth whipped his head around and moved quickly to the entrance to the tunnel, opening it and stepping back. A very disgusting looking creature entered the room and moved to the hose-down area. Garth played a stream of water from a hose on him, washing away the filth and mess. The floor drain took it all back to the tunnel and the lift pump. The man took off the scuba tank carrier and Garth washed it clean. The man moved the carrier towards a sink. He unclipped the regulator from his mouth, and spat it into the sink, where it hung, trailing the airhose to the backpack with a single tank.

  Something about that tank, thought John, triggering a flag for that part of the video stream. The man backed towards the camera while Garth let the water play all over him. He took off all kinds of gear—rubberized workboots, gloves, hip waders like a fisherman would use. When Garth tired of hosing down the front of the man, he made a spinning gesture with his finger. The man turned around.

  You've got to be kidding me.

  ###

  Lisa had been in dangerous spots before. The evacuation of the Chaffee was one of them. Debris was already banging off the shields as they shoved away from the doomed space station and began their last reentry to Earth.

  But this was the first time that she had been under threat by a human. Nature tried to kill you, but it was indiscriminate—it tried to kill everyone. That, she understood. It went hand-in-hand with space exploration. But this was something different.

  “There can be no doubt,” said Sir Rodney. “Subraman is here because he must want you dead. In his eyes, you destroyed his life and stole his living from him.”

  “That's crap, and you know it,” she replied. “I had to get my people home before the debris battered the station apart.”

  “In Subraman's mind, you were threatening his livelihood and had to be stopped,” he explained patiently. “And he tried to stop you every way he knew how. Afterwards, he completely dropped out of all contact and disappeared. There were some reports—there are always reports—of him being seen in almost every place on Earth except for Antarctica.

  “That he is here, in this place, at this time, and helping a sociopath like Garth means only one thing—he means to kill you or die trying. He means it so much, he is willing to crawl through human waste, not once but several times, in order to maximize his chances of reaching you.”

  “That doesn't sound very promising,” Lisa said. “But I still haven't seen him try to get out of the sewers. All of the manholes are welded down, aren't they?”

  “They are,” said Sir Rodney blandly. “Besides, have you seen how scrawny and tired he is? He could never lift one if his life depended on it.”

  The Last Step

  Moonbase Collins, July 13, 2087, 0312 GMT

  Scott appreciated the various ceremonials that McCrary had performed when he left the Collins six months ago. He had no right, he felt, to add to the memorial wall, or to any other memento on the Lunar surface. There was just one thing to do. He pulled a small card from the pocket on his sleeve and read it into the radio and, hence, into history. “Today, I quote Gene Cernan as he prepared to leave the surface of the Moon back in December 1972, updated to match today's circumstances.

  “I'm on the surface and, as I take man's last step from the surface, back home for some time to come, I'd like to just say what I believe history will record. That Collins and Mars Expeditions' challenge of today has forged man's destiny of tomorrow. As we leave the Moon, we leave as we came and, God willing, as we shall return, with peace and hope for all mankind.

  “Goodbye again from Moonbase Collins.”

  Just before he stepped into the Tank for the last time, he made sure to take a picture of his last bootprint, there on the Lunar soil. For all he knew, he might be the last human to set foot on Selene for decades to come.

  He spun the lock wheel on the second door of the airlock and made his way to his seat at the Control Room.

  “All aboard, all crew secure, let's head on back to the Perseus.

  “Roger, Captain.”

  Scott looked around, startled. He was the senior officer of either expedition, but he just never thought of himself as the Captain.

  “That's more like it. Now let's go home, or I'll have you all keel-hauled.”

  “Roger,” said Laverne. “Calling Perseus, this is Tank, calling Perseus. We are preparing to launch.”

  Scott followed the byplay between the controllers. When there was a lull in tasks, and the two controllers were just waiting for the passage of time, Scott keyed his microphone. “Scott Acevedo for McCrary. Encrypted channel D4.”

  “Yeah,” said McCrary a moment later.

  “How are you doing?” asked Scott. “We’re loaded to the gun'lls here.”

  “Right. Well, we've been run ragged, but I think we'll make it with an hour or so to spare. Quite a near-run thing, eh?”

  “You could say that,” said Scott. “I am glad you caught it in time.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Negative. Tank out.”

  He knew McCrary hated hand-holding, and he realized belatedly that was exactly what he was doing, asking him to comfort Scott's jittery nerves.

  “Status,” he called to Laverne.

  “T minus ten minutes and holding. Green board.”

  “Good. How long left in the hold?”

  “Fourteen minutes, ten seconds, mark.”

  “Alert me when one minute to hold release, or when a problem shows.”

  “Wilco, Captain.”

  Scott popped his harness free, and walked briefly around the ship, ensuring everyone was strapped in and ready.

  “Captain, stop jittering,” said Bubba. “We's all fine. You belong in Control. Git!”

  Scott got.

  Twenty-three minutes later, the Tank gathered speed as it raced over the Lunar regolith. As the Tank gained speed, it wanted to fly straight while the regolith beneath it curved away. With scarcely a jar, the Tank soared away from the Lunar surface on a precise trajectory towards Earth.

  ###

  Lisa was conscious of two things: one, the Tank was due to deploy its rather unique way of shedding momentum in the next hour or so, and two, the Bayerische Abwasserbehörde had called to report another break-in by Garth and Subby. This time, they shook hands and Garth clapped the older man on the back.

  ###

  Garth reassured the doomed man that everything was fine.

  “I refilled the tank and put it right where it was the last time. Take your time getting up there. Save your strength for the kill. I'll get there ahead of you and make sure one of the manholes is popped open. They can be a real bear to move, so don't forget your crowbar.”

  Subby looked around the station as if it was the last time he was going to see it.

  “Thank you for doing this for me,” said Subby.

  “Get going. I heard rumors of something happening that will have them all inside the Control Room. You'll know where they are, and all you need to do is go in shooting.” Garth had secured a 3D gun on one side of the man, and two clips of ammunition on the other. None of it could be traced back to him.

  “Good hunting,” he said, clapping Subby on the back.

&
nbsp; ###

  Lisa notified John of the activity, and he hurried to the sleeping chamber where Celine was prepping.

  “They're on the move. I expect that Garth will be here early, leave the tunnels, and somehow get a manhole opened for Subby. Then he's going to come in through the front door. We have to be ready.”

  “Stop worrying, John. You did just fine the last time, you'll do fine now. I love you.”

  “Love you too, sweetie.”

  ###

  Garth looked out of the window frame. It was a narrow slit high up on the thick concrete wall that made up a corner of one of the buildings. Here, the Nazi tunnel also included an air vent, cleverly disguised as a series of slits in the two story tall cylinder. The kaserne seemed to be unchanged from the way it normally was. No armed troops roaming the perimeter, no check points, no extra security checks at the vehicle entry points.

  You don't fool me for a minute.

  The only way Garth had kept out of prison all these years was by assuming the authorities knew exactly where he was, and acting accordingly. Right now, he was off the grid.

  This was his tenth time in the tunnels. He was quite careful where he walked and what he touched. He had seen booby traps, some of them still primed and ready, others corroded into apparent uselessness. Garth treated them all as ticking bombs ready to go off. Even if ninety percent of a stick of dynamite was too old to explode, that remaining one tenth was enough to kill you.

  Garth sighed. He knew he was missing something everyone else seemed to have—a conscience—but he had his own code of living. Subby might be walking to his doom in the sewer tunnels, but Garth had made him a promise, that he would crack open a manhole cover, so Garth had to risk it. Fortunately, the one he had selected, and had informed Subby about, was in a section of the back-kitchen area where few people ever came. If he timed it right, he could have the cover popped and be gone before anyone else noticed him.