Tears of Selene

by Bill Patterson

  He descended the tower then slipped out of the tunnels via an overlooked, weed-covered entry under a deck. He listened carefully for movement, then stood up, brushed himself off, and walked away as if he belonged exactly where he was. The loading area for the Mess Hall was deserted at this time of the late afternoon. Garth walked over to the area behind the dumpsters, and found a piece of reinforcing steel, about a meter and a half long.

  He fitted the makeshift crowbar into the indentations in the cover and, with a degree of difficulty, levered the slab of cast iron up and over.

  Damn, but those covers are heavy!

  He carefully replaced the piece of rebar behind the dumpster and walked purposefully away.

  After he had gone two blocks, Sir Rodney and a pair of Security guards replaced the massive cover with a lightweight version, leaving it just as open, but now able to be moved by someone like Subby.

  Sir Rodney looked up to a corner of the roof, touched two fingers to his cap, and led the detail away, back to their area.

  Lisa sat in the Control Room, watching the whole affair. She was the bait, just like John and Celine were bait, in this elaborate trap that Sir Rodney was creating. She had to wonder, though, exactly who was the hunted here?

  ###

  “Jeff, are you sure you've got everything out of here?” asked McCrary, looking out of the sixty meter long airlock into the cavernous aft chamber that led directly to the stars.

  “Yes, sir. Everything left is resistant to water—that phosphate spray when we inflated the chamber. We're going to be fine.”

  “All right, start it up when you wish.”

  Jeff changed channels, and within seconds, a coarse mist emerged from the ungainly contraption centered in the airlock. It was quite slow when it started—the drops emerged, boiled furiously for a few seconds, then froze solid into a foamy mass. There was enough liquid water around so that when the icy drops collided, they froze together. As the mass of frothy ice grew larger, astronauts in maneuvering units grabbed the frothberg and pulled it out towards the exit.

  Ten deep meters of froth was created, and astronauts spun the disk to expand it to the sides until a two-hundred-meter-wide disk formed. The flow changed. Computer-controlled dispensers added wetting agents to the stream, allowing a disc of sorts to combine across the frozen, frothy pellets. After the disc reached a meter of solid ice, the wetting agents stopped, the water went back to forming beads, and the froth sequence began again. Each cycle of the machine created a wider disk, so that eventually, the disk filled the chamber to within two meters of the sides. By then, the ziggurat was half a kilometer high and one kilometer wide. Two hours had elapsed.

  Jeff queried observers and asked Ragesh up in the control room for some estimates from the surveillance cameras scattered around the aft chamber.

  “I've got two tanks to go, how is it looking?” he asked.

  “You're about a quarter of the way along. Didn't you want a three-quarters fill?” asked Ragesh.

  “Yeah,” said Jeff. “I'm not sure, though. I don't want to leave the Perseus without liquid water. Ask McCrary to get on the line, would ya?”

  McCrary joined, and between the two men, they agreed to foam up one more tank of water, this time using the ice to anchor the whole frozen shock absorber to the septum wall of the chamber.

  When it was finished, Jeff ordered the Cup and plate combination to be swung shut, closing off the stern of the Perseus.

  “I don't want to lose any more water than I have to,” Jeff explained. “I also timed the closing. If we can begin the closing sequence just after the Tank passes the stern on its way in, depending on the speed, we have a good chance of keeping a high percentage of the ice inside.”

  Commander Smithson looked at the aft chamber via camera. “This had better work,” he said. “Otherwise, we're going to have a lot of people learning how to breathe vacuum.”

  ###

  Alex was sweating, but it wasn't helping him any. The sweat beaded up on his skin instead of spreading around as the result of gravity. Given that he was mostly stationary, the beads weren't disturbed by muscle movements, either. He looked more and more like a freshly waxed car hood in a drizzle.

  “How do you stand this?” he asked Scott. “Can't we turn up the air or something?”

  “Nope,” said Scott. “My evaluator used to give me valuable advice whenever I said something similar.”

  “Oh, yeah? What did he advise you to do?” asked Alex.

  “Suffer, asshole.”

  Alex growled a profanity under his breath as he wiped his hand over his forehead and dried it on his leg.

  “We're in the groove, scheduled to pass over the Graveyard on schedule. Prepare for atomic retro in three minutes. Calculations are for eight shots.”

  Bubba chuckled, and Duane frowned. “Atomic retro?”

  “Yup,” said Bubba. “Remember those teeny nukes we got loaded from Perseus? We fire them off as we dive deep into Low Earth Orbit. We lose a boatload of momentum, spin around the backside of the Earth, and climb uphill towards the Perseus. Unlike when we snagged the Tank the first time, the Tank is going to maneuver into the Perseus.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I remember. The phrase, though. Atomic retro. Funny.”

  “This time's gonna be a little different. Earth's gonna know what's going on. We're still going in over the Graveyard, though. Save some folks’ vision.”

  “This Graveyard. That's a dead spot in the Pacific Ocean, right?”

  “Nothing around for thousands of kilometers. Perfect spot to send reentering satellites. They can break up all they want, and they're gonna hit nothin' but some pengies.”

  “How long until we're home?” asked Duane.

  “Depends on how long it takes McCrary to build those reentry vehicles,” said Bubba.

  “Dick. I mean, how long until we get inside the Perseus? My damned catheter is making me crazy.”

  “Wearing a space suit for three days will do that to ya. When we were cleanin' up the Collins, we had to wear one for weeks at a time.”

  “Here we go again,” moaned Duane, rolling his eyes.

  “Aw, hell, I know everyone, on each crew, busted their ass to survive wherever they were. I ain't playin' Topper on ya.”

  “Heh,” said Duane. “Nothing like floating next to a four kilometer long piece of iron glowing orange-hot. You can feel your face burning through the faceplate, even at half a klick. Don't know how the inflation crew handled it.”

  “I've talked to Ragesh,” said Bubba. “Impressive story. We're all gonna make a mint when we get home, writin' and sellin' our stories.”

  “I know two people who aren't going to be selling any stories,” said Duane. “The mothers. I can see it now—'I got pregnant on the Moon.'“

  “You'd be surprised. Let me ask you, what are you going to do when we get home?”

  “Well, I was going to stay with UNSOC for a bit, then…” he stopped at Bubba's upraised hand.

  “Hold that thought. Lean back and hold it.”

  Two seconds later, the first of eight close-spaced nuclear blasts rocked the Tank and stole enough energy from their momentum that Earth was able to capture them. After the fusillade of sound and fury, the radio came alive.

  “Alex here. Integrating our course now. We're within three percent of our prescribed course. Two point eight. Point seven-six. Seven-six-four. Looking at the delta-vee. We need a correction of X, twelve point three mps, Y, point three-four, and Z, point five five. Y and Z deltas will be applied now.”

  A sideways and upward force gripped the men as the craft slewed to the correct course. The force continued for two minutes, then stopped after a brief shimmy in the opposite direction.

  “We're going to wait until we get a lot closer to Perseus before we apply the X correction,” said Alex. “Another hour. Scott requests everyone to get up and check out the cargo, particularly the lashings. We're going to have one large shock after this, then we're home.”


  Duane had been frantically punching his commpad ever since Alex had given out the initial corrective figures. “Twelve point three meters per second? There's no way the MoonCan rockets can deliver that! On our descent, we only got ten mps delta-vee, and they were going full-blast.”

  “What does a nuke give?” asked Bubba. “I never paid attention to the figures.”

  “Fifty to a hundred,” said Duane. “But that's only for the Tank. The Perseus gets far less—more mass.”

  “Can't they change the timing or something?” asked Bubba. “No need to fire them off so close.”

  “They could, but I think these are fixed timings,” said Duane. “Would you like to fiddle with the circuits on a bomb?”

  “I see yer point,” said Bubba. “Don't worry, McCrary has something up his sleeve.”

  “Come on,” said Duane. “Let's check the cargo.”

  ###

  Subby got to the top of the hill, sodden with sweat, exhausted, and covered head-to-toe with sewage. Despite many practice runs, he seemed unable to avoid falling into the mire at the bottom of the tunnel.

  It suddenly occurred to him that people were going to smell him coming well before he arrived. He made a mental note to make sure he approached them from downwind.

  He turned right as soon as he got to the T-intersection that signaled the top of hill that housed the kaserne. He stopped for a few minutes to catch his breath. This is it.

  He readjusted the mining light atop his helmet. Garth had managed to liberate the light from somewhere. After a trip in the sewers with just a hand-held flashlight and a chem-light, Subby was quite happy when Garth presented it to him just before he stuffed him in the tunnel for the last time.

  “Don't rely only on this,” he had said. “Make sure that your hand-held is working, too, and use the chemlight on the descent.”

  Subby counted off the side tunnels as he walked towards the end of the main stem. There were seventeen side tunnels, some of them nothing more than fifteen centimeter pipes from some of the smaller buildings that lined the main road in the kaserne. Finally, though, he reached the end.

  The main tunnel, for obvious reasons, didn’t remain a full two meters in height as he progressed. The final height was closer to one meter at the end. Subby reluctantly crawled the final two hundred meters, a thoroughly degrading experience.

  He was quite glad he was wearing a hardhat.

  Finally, his helmet didn't bang into the top of the tunnel. He was at the end—the final manhole vault. A shaft of light blinded him for a moment as he stood and stretched his abused muscles. He turned off his helmet light and waited for his eyes to adjust to the increased brilliance.

  Looking around, he saw the ladder—a series of metal rungs set in concrete—leading up to the manhole cover. Miracle of miracles, Garth had actually come through; he had popped open the cover. Subby carefully slipped the scuba rig off his shoulders, along with the mask and regulator, clipped a carabiner hook onto the lowest practical ladder rung, and hung up all of his equipment, including his helmet, ensuring they were well off the floor.

  He climbed the ladder, pausing at the very top, where he listened carefully for any sounds of people or other activity. There was nothing nearby, although plenty of sounds came from other parts of the kaserne. The cover was heavy, but he was able to wrestle it away from the rim. Grasping the metal rim, he pulled himself to a sitting position and looked around. Nobody. He scooted out of the hole, and slid the cover almost closed behind him. He dashed to a dumpster nearby and got out of the boots and hip-waders, while wiping his gloves on the grass behind it.

  He slipped one glove off and removed the pistol from a cargo pocket on his pants. Slapping a magazine into it, he cycled the action, loading a round in the chamber. Ready to go.

  Subby sighed. Lisa Daniels must die for what she did to him, destroying his career, his marriage, and his reputation. The name of Venderchanergee was ruined; his sons would be reviled, his daughters shunned by suitors. Daniels alone was the cause of his shame. Other people? Not so much. He would avoid killing anyone he didn't have to. He pocketed the pistol, keeping the safety on. Taking a deep breath, Subby got his bearings and started off, walking confidently.

  ###

  Garth walked with his head down, studying his commpad, which displayed a map of the kaserne. He had his finger on the button that would switch the display to a harmless-seeming newsfeed, in case anyone seemed interested in what he was studying. A small red dot crawled across the display, showing him where he was with relation to WarLand.

  Turning up a driveway, Garth traversed a parking lot that backed onto the boundary fence. He waited by a car until a patrol quad-wheeler passed, the guard yakking away on a commpad while he drove slowly down the fenceline.

  “Yeah, then when I got to her place, her lights were out and she didn't answer the door! Yes, I know that's where she lived, I've been there before…” The voice trailed away as the guard rolled along.

  Garth shook his head while he walked the grassy verge between the building and the fence, staying close to the building. Beyond this last structure lay WarLand. There was a rusting, sagging fence around it, and a wide lawn with no hope of a hiding place. Garth snickered.

  Regular folks would be baffled. Smart people do the unexpected.

  Garth began jogging, as serious as any recruit at getting in shape. Since WarLand was at the very end of the main drag, they would also be at the end of any course that used the road. Garth bet that soldiers and other fitness buffs ran around this wide grass circle all the time.

  While he ran, he looked at the kaserne's boundary fence and the WarLand interior fence. Neither seemed to have any cameras mounted. They could be small and unobtrusive and he might miss them entirely, but Garth didn't think that was the case. Instead, he imagined that the tales of dangerous booby traps, trained soldiers who never returned, and the other boogie-man stories that kept privates up at night was all the authorities relied on to keep the curious out of these ruins that were just too costly to tear out of the ground.

  When he was exactly opposite the street, Garth darted towards the Warland's fence. He had spied an opening where others had probably forced a way in. It appealed to him. Always enter by the forgotten way, the back door, or the open window.

  Garth slipped through the chain-link fence and past the first few trees and stopped, listening. He smiled slightly, remembering all the times he had slipped into Celine's various apartments over the years. Rarely had he used the front door. The back door, fire escape, or bedroom windows were far too easy to force. Besides, he was certain that she had alerted the neighbors, and picking two or three locks on the front door would have increased the risk of running into one of her beta-male neighbors.

  A noise? Probably. Wait another five. Garth held completely motionless, and thought invisible thoughts.

  ###

  Lisa knew that Subby was on the loose inside the kaserne, and so far, reports of his movements by strategically stationed Security personnel showed that he was on his way to the Control Room. As Subby passed their positions, they unobtrusively slipped behind him, ready to grab him should he change his mind.

  Sir Rodney was stationed at the last console before Lisa's elevated workstation. She rarely used it, allowing the CAPCOMs talking to the Perseus and managing the launches to have the strategic perch. Now, however, CAPCOM was on a floor console, and she was on the 'throne', a perfect target. She wanted no other controllers in danger.

  The Security forces held their positions before Subby entered the Operations building, then a few hand-picked ones followed Subby inside. The way was clear to the Control Room, and the various security checkpoints that normally barred entry were unmanned and the doors blocked open. In many ways, it resembled the UN building in New York, where that Control Room was just as easy to penetrate.

  Subby stopped off at the bathroom, his bladder suddenly full. He took the chance to wash his hands as well, putting the contaminated gloves int
o his back pocket. Entering a stall, he transferred the pistol from his pocket to the waistband of his trousers, dropping a shirttail across it.

  Ready for the final act.

  ###

  The Control Room saw the same images as Commander Smithson. If the combined crews suddenly went silent, Smithson wanted Earth to know what happened.

  “We're ready for you, Tank,” said Peter Brinkley.

  “That's good, 'cuz we're coming in regardless,” said Scott Acevedo.

  “Please give range and rate, we're not picking up your telemetry.”

  “Odd,” said Ragesh. “I'm sending it down. I wonder if they've got the right comms parameters.”

  “Five kilometers,” said Scott. “Twelve mps, thrusting at an acceleration of point zero-three-two meters per second squared.”

  “Roger,” said Peter. “This is Perseus Control. We are now receiving sideband data. Wrong polarization was selected on our end. Our apologies.”

  “I knew I had it right,” muttered Ragesh.

  “Tank, you can discontinue range and rate announcements, we've got it right here. Good luck, Tank.”

  The slow-motion but deadly dance of multiton megavehicles continued for eleven minutes before it became suddenly all too real.

  “Thirty seconds,” called out Alex. “We are centered on the Perseus central axis. We're still coming in at three point six meters per second. We're not going to get to zero—guessing two mps at the threshold. What the hell is that?”

  Peter flicked the mike on. “We figured you wouldn't, so we foamed the runway for you.”

  Bubba took one look at the image on his commpad and started laughing, a real shaking-belly laugh that Duane soon copied.

  Tank, flying in blast plate first, cleared the threshold of the Cup and Plate, which began closing immediately. Lights all around them illuminated the scene. A long grinding shriek penetrated the solid walls. The volume rose inside the Tank. Alex tried cupping his hand around his ears, but the radio was useless.