by Homer Hickam
“Yes, it’s laughable, really, about the money. Money means nothing to us. Your father thought we brought you here to get the secret family account numbers. The real reason we brought you here was to offer you our loyalty.”
“My father is in the royal line too. Why not make him king?”
“He is unworthy. We have studied you. You are ruthless and you desire power and you are intelligent. Our choice is you.”
Maria thought maybe if she was quick, she could snap Truvia’s neck. She girded herself to try, but before she could move, a crowhopper in full armor arrived. “You are needed on the bridge, Trainer Truvia,” he said, after glancing at Maria.
“I’ll be right along, William,” Truvia replied, then waited until the crowhopper had left before turning to Maria. “Although you said you accepted the crown I offer you, I don’t believe you are fully committed. Give it some proper thought.” She arched an eyebrow, then walked away.
Maria watched through the viewport until the Earth came back into view. She looked at the blue, green, brown, and white planet, the loveliest jewel in the sky, while she absorbed several truths.
• Her grandfather, the Colonel, whom she loved with all of her heart, was responsible for the crowhoppers, the mercenary force that had been sent to the moon and murdered hundreds of innocent people.
• The Medaris family’s secret about the crowhoppers, if exposed, would destroy it.
• Truvia was showing her a way out. It was extreme, desperate, and horrible, but as she said, the “wheels were turning” and nothing could stop it now.
• Either a splendid life or an ignominious death. Those were her choices.
Even though she knew it was wrong, Maria started thinking about what it would feel like and all the things she could do if she was the eternally youthful queen of the moon.
The truth was she rather fancied the idea.
TWENTY-TWO
After Riley touched Amanda Michelle down to a perfect landing, the jumpcar was trundled inside the Moontown hangar, giant airtight doors closing behind. Riley climbed down and greeted Colonel Medaris, the sheriff, and a young man dressed in an old-fashioned pressure suit. The Colonel got right to business. “Have you read Crater’s plan?”
Riley took off her helmet and shook out her long, red hair. “Aye, sir, I did. It’s feasible, though t’would be a close-run thing if we have to maneuver a’tall. I’d have to use the directional jets, and they’re designed for the usual mass. The computer might not be able to adjust.”
“We don’t have time to reprogram the puter,” the Colonel said. “You’ll have to fly it by wire.”
“Aye, sir, I figured that already.”
“You’re willing to take the task?”
“Well, sir, about me wages . . .”
“I’ll pay ten times your usual fee.”
“Then rest assured I’m in. But what about Crater? It would be nice if he was with us, to explain his theories and all.”
“We don’t know where Crater is. He could be dead.”
Riley looked doubtful. “That boy’s hard t’kill, Colonel. You should know that, of all people. I’ll give ye a wager. Crater’s alive. Cut me back to five times my usual fee if I’m wrong, twenty if I’m right.”
“Just get me up to my fuser,” the Colonel growled.
Riley frowned. “Surely, ’tisn’t you that’s going, Colonel! I figured you’d be sending some fine, strapping heel-3 miners turned spaceship troopers!”
“No time to train newbies,” the Colonel replied. “Meet Tiger Tramon. He’s an expert fuser pilot.”
The man in the pressure suit nodded to Riley. Riley instantly liked his intense blue eyes and swagger. “The Colonel tells me you’re a fine pilot,” Tiger said.
“Aye, I can stick a jumpcar around the track, but I never set foot inside a fuser.”
“I’ll train you. Fusers are sweet, fast, and deadly.”
Riley smiled. “First we have to get to it, Mr. Fuser Pilot.” She turned to the Colonel. “Which jumpcar d’ye want me to fly, Colonel? This old lug of mine, or do ye have a better one?”
“A much better one,” the Colonel said. “There she is, right over there, the Doctor Patty Hilliard. She’s just off the line, five percent lighter with titanium composites throughout. Her engines are rated at one hundred and ten percent standard. Cross tanking, of course, which should help on the way up.”
“Aye, she’s a beauty,” Riley agreed. “Seems a shame to destroy her.”
“We can build more.”
“Let me give her a walk-about inspection and have a talk with her puter.”
“I’ll help,” Tiger said.
“Come on, then,” Riley said and walked toward the golden jumpcar with the fuser pilot following.
“Bring a small kit, Sheriff,” the Colonel said. “Fusers don’t have much room for luggage.”
The sheriff’s eyes widened. “Me, Colonel? Do you think that’s a good idea? I’ve had these palpitations in my heart recent-like.”
“You’ve also got a job, and if you want to keep it, you’ll be going on this mission.”
“But I’m kind of an old fellow. You need youth for this mission.”
“I need you, Sheriff. I need a man who will not hesitate to kill anyone I tell him to kill. Let me hear you volunteer.”
“V-volunteering, sir!” the sheriff said, then visibly gulped.
“Go home. Kiss your wife, pat your child on the head, and then pack your kit. We leave in two hours!”
The sheriff hurried off and the Colonel started yelling at some techies, telling them to get some railgun rifles aboard the Patty Hilliard, also some grenades, and the “special” device he’d ordered.
A forklift operator picked up the special device hidden inside a plaston crate and transported it toward the jumpcar. The Colonel waved him down. “Take it slow and easy with that one, my man. Slow and easy.”
“What’s in the box, Colonel?”
“A nightmare for all those who oppose me,” the Colonel said, then waved the forklift on.
TWENTY-THREE
Got her on the scope,” Crater said. “Right where we left her.”
“Crescent, are you ready to extend the probe?” Petro asked.
“Up and running,” Crescent said from the aft astrogator station.
Petro gave the tug retros a little spurt. “Coming in on her portside horizontal axis.”
Petro eased the tug alongside the Linda Terry. Like a great undulating snake spitting steam, the cold gas jets on the drogue carried the fuel line across the void, Crescent maneuvering it into the access port. The tug fuel pump immediately began to hum and tons of liquid hydrogen were pushed across the line into the Linda’s fuel tank. “Offloading under way,” Crescent said. “Some of the liquid has turned to gas. The pump is hiccupping. Just small bubbles, I think.”
“Gas in the fuser can cause an explosion in the pre-turbos,” Crater warned.
“Nothing to be done for now,” Petro interjected. “I’ll activate the tank freezers on the way. They should be able to reliquify.”
“Refueling complete,” Crescent reported. “Now all we have to do is get aboard the fuser.”
“That part’s easy,” Petro said. “Detach the drogue and line. Let me know when it’s all reeled in and stowed.”
“Latched and stowed,” Crescent reported.
Petro maneuvered the tug above the fuser, then settled atop it with the maneuvering jets popping and crackling like wet firewood. Crater maneuvered the airlocks together. “Capture,” he said as the capture mechanisms clamped together. “Let’s get aboard.”
“Let’s first check fuser integrity,” Petro said, then connected the tug’s puter with the fuser puter. After perusing the readout, he said, “All systems operating normally. It should be safe to enter.”
“How about our coveralls and helmets?” Crescent asked. “They’re covered with dust.”
Petro considered that. “The fuser has pressure suit
s but no biolastics. If we want to keep our suits, we’ll need to clean them.”
“I’ll do it,” Crater said.
“And I’ll help,” Crescent said.
Once in the tug dustlock, Crater and Crescent ran the biolastic sheaths and coveralls through the washers, then placed the waste disposal girdles in the cleaners. The girdle contents were sucked away into space and fresh sanitizing liquid injected.
Crater watched Crescent diligently working with the nasty girdles and felt a surge of admiration for her, enough so he decided to say it out loud. “You’re a fine woman, Crescent.”
Startled, Crescent turned toward him. “You’re right,” she said. “But very nice of you to acknowledge it.”
“We are always going to be friends.”
“Friends. Yes,” Crescent said, “we’re going to be friends.”
Crater studied her face, which, even though it lacked many of the muscles of a normal human, still displayed disappointment. He was not so thick that he didn’t know why. Stumbling for words, he said, “I’m sorry. I wish . . . things were different.”
Crescent started to reply with all that she felt for Crater, how he was the most important person in her life, how in her remaining days she wanted nothing more than to be with him, how the secret she carried had everything to do with that constant truth. But now, she decided, was not the time. He needed to focus. She would tell him her secret after the rescue. She would have to tell him then. Working her mouth into a brave smile, she said, “I’ll tell you what I wish was different. I wish these girdles smelled better!”
“People,” Petro said, floating into the dustlock, “in one orbit we’ll be in prime position to get out to L5. We need to get going.” He looked from Crater to Crescent and detected that something had passed between the two. “What?”
Crescent smiled. “Crater was just telling me what a good friend I am.”
“And a fine woman in every way!” Petro exclaimed.
“I second that opinion,” Crater said.
“You two stop looking at me with those manly eyes!” Crescent admonished. “I’m still going to marry Absalom.”
“If he makes the mistake of reneging, I’ll be next in line,” Petro swore.
Crescent’s grin was real. “I might hold you to that. Now shall we go rescue Crater’s girl? It seems the thing we need to do.”
TWENTY-FOUR
All right, gents, buckle up and prepare for the ride of yer lives!” Riley announced from the cockpit after going through the prelaunch puter checks. She placed the jumpcar in full manual override mode. Tiger sat beside her in the copilot’s seat. “You ready, Tiger?”
“I’m always ready,” the fuser pilot said. “Let’s go!”
“Colonel, you and your bully boys strapped in?”
The Colonel was in the passenger compartment with the sheriff and two deputies, all dressed in biolastic sheaths, helmets, coveralls, and armored plate. The sheriff was looking more than a little stressed, his face a greenish tinge. “Strapped in,” the Colonel replied. “Let’s go, Riley. Don’t miss our window.”
“Hang on! This is going to be bumpy all the way! On my mark—five-four-three-two-one . . .”
The engines on the Hilliard thundered, but Riley waited until all the instrument lights turned green before pushing the throttles forward. The jumpcar slowly rose from the pad, its nose pointed at the impossibly distant stars.
“You’re going too slow,” Tiger said, his gloved hand moving to the throttles.
“Belay that,” Riley warned. “I know what I’m doing. Jumpcar engines ain’t like your fusers. These new ones need a little coddling until I can get them up to speed.”
Riley kept her eye on the thrust gauges, then pushed the throttles steadily forward until they were pegged to the red.
“Now you’ve pushed them too far!” Tiger shouted over the engine roars.
“Keep quiet, bucko. These babies are designed to go fifteen percent into the red without coming apart!”
The jumpcar rattled and shrieked as if it was about to come apart at the seams. The engines kept screaming. The puter raised an urgent alarm. Engines one, two, three over redline. Initiating throttle back.
“Negative. Override,” Riley said.
Throttle back canceled. Would you like assistance?
“No, thank you.”
Destination has not been specified.
“Low lunar orbit.”
Destination specified is not possible.
“Yes it is. Extrapolate into your artificial intelligence program.”
Extrapolating.
Riley kept her eye on the propellant gauges and the velocity vectors. When she judged it right, she hit the directional jets to lower the nose five degrees.
Nose over, the puter reported. Present course not understood. Recommend vertical recovery.
Riley pushed the nose over another five degrees. “Maintenance program, please.”
Maintenance.
“On my mark, detach engine number two propellant lines and release engine number two clamps.”
Engine number two is actively working. Release not authorized.
“This is a red-level security override. Security code is Goforbroke2023.”
Although she knew it was her imagination, Riley thought the puter seemed resigned. Maintenance procedures initiated. Waiting for mark.
As the fuselage of the jumpcar groaned, Riley kept her eyes glued to the control monitors. “Counting down to mark—five-four-three-two-one-mark!”
Instantly, there was a horrific scraping noise as the engine slid out of the tail, falling and spinning away. The jumpcar began to shake even more violently. “Puter, initiate mass calculations to compensate controls for lost engine.”
Mass calculations accomplished. Controls compensated. Recommend return to Moontown.
“Time to orbit.”
Orbit not possible.
“Maintenance program. Keep security override in place.”
Maintenance. Security override noted.
“On my mark, detach engine number three propellant lines and release engine number three holding clamps.”
Maintenance procedures initiated. Waiting for your mark.
Riley lowered the nose of the jumpcar another five degrees, the surface of the moon swimming across the viewports. Tiger, his eyes wide, gripped the copilot’s seat. Riley remained calm. “Counting down to mark—five-four-three-two-one-mark!”
Again, there was a rattling, scraping sound as the second engine slid along the rails designed to help remove and install engines.
The puter reported. Detachment completed. Engine number three remains partially in engine bay.
“Scrag thing!” Riley growled. With an engine hanging out of the engine compartment, the dynamics of the jumpcar were askew. The nose began to rise, then oscillate. Riley fought the controls. “Tiger, put your hand on the throttle for engine one! Throttle back to ten percent when I tell you. Colonel, hang on back there! This is gonna be wild!”
“The sheriff just threw up,” the Colonel replied.
“I don’t blame him,” Riley muttered, then pushed the nose hard over. “Throttle back, Tiger!”
Tiger pulled the throttle back. “What are you doing?”
“I’m gonna flip this bird to throw out that stuck engine!”
“Flip this bird?”
Riley didn’t have time to explain. With the nose directional jets firing steadily, she watched as her view changed from stars to pocked gray craters and then swept up to stars again. She fought to maintain that heading. “Puter, report status of engine number three!”
Engine number three still on rails.
“Tiger! Throttle up one hundred fifteen percent.”
“Throttling up,” Tiger said in the calm, professional, and resigned tone of a test pilot about to die.
“Puter, initiate engine number one gimbal test!”
Engine number one is presently at full throttle plus fifteen percent. Gi
mbal test not allowed.
“Override per previous authority. Stop when engine number three leaves its rails.”
Overriding. Gimbal test under way.
“The gimbal test includes violent moves of the nozzle,” Riley explained as the jumpcar started another tumble. The directional jets roared to keep it going. A shriek of tortured metal rattled the cockpit.
“We’re coming apart,” Tiger reported.
Riley didn’t reply. Instead, she grimly hung onto the stick between her knees and talked to the jumpcar. “Come on, baby, hold it together. Come on, you can do it!”
Engine number three has left the jumpcar.
“Woo-hoo! Throttle back to thirty, Tiger.”
“Throttle back, thirty.”
“Puter, initiate mass calculations to compensate controls for lost engine.”
Mass calculations accomplished. Controls compensated. Recommend abort to orbit.
“Now you’re talking, puter! Abort to orbit, aye. Sixty miles, inclination two four nine dot five!”
It was probably still her imagination, but the puter suddenly sounded enthusiastic. Abort to orbit six zero miles at two four niner dot five.
Riley looked at Tiger. “Hand off the throttle, Tiger. The puter understands what we’re doing now. It’ll take us from here.”
Tiger lifted his hand. “How will it do that?” he said.
“Jumpcars have artificial intelligence because they’re often flown by pilots without much training. They can guess where the pilot wants to go. The puter finally figured out I was dropping engines to lighten the load on the way up just like any staged rocket. There could only be one reason I would do that, and that was to make orbit.”
“I thought that tumble was going to rip us apart. And then those gimbal oscillations! You’re an amazing pilot, Riley.”
“Why, thank you, sir. You are correct.”
The puter spoke up. Altitude five two dot eight miles at two four dot six. Engine burn looking good. Directional jet propellant at five percent.
