Come In, Collins (Riddled Space Book 2)

by Bill Patterson

  To Moonbase Collins, and a bond that will never be broken as long as man looks up in the sky and yearns for new frontiers.

  Montgomery Scott McCrary, Chief Engineer.

  “Sounds about right, Chief,” said Horst. McCrary didn't reply, but turned his head aside suddenly when Horst looked at him.

  “We better keep going. Launch is in minus three hours,” McCrary said, his voice thick.

  Operations was mostly powered down, except for the panels that mirrored the control panel on Mighty Thor. Horst triple-checked the Laser panel, ensuring that the radio override link was set and locked in. It wouldn't do to have an OTV return, only to be blasted to atoms by a field of gigawatt lasers.

  The lasers would continue to blast debris long after they were gone—by design. Part of McCrary's dream was the elimination of all debris through laser vaporization. Even the enormous rocks like the impactor that had threatened them a couple of years ago would eventually be reduced to vapor, given enough blasts from a gigawatt laser or hundred.

  “Let's go.”

  Central Cavern was clear. Sick Bay, for once, was empty, the patients long ago bedded down in Tank. Horst and McCrary ensured that the airlocks were positioned correctly and the various compartments depressurized (and the air liquefied and stored) so that reoccupation could occur rapidly.

  Finally, they were in the southwest wing, the one closest to Nifty. They checked, in particular, bunker SW-13, where the dead had been stored in vacuo for these past five years. The vacuum had not been kind to the bodies, mummifying them until they were little more than blackened skin over bones, but they did not decompose in any other way. Some families would be horrified, and certain funeral homes confused, but McCrary knew that their hands were tied—the dead must be returned to Earth. They, too, were stored on Tank before any other crew boarded.

  At the end of the corridor, clean and swept, a far different cry from the one that Bubba and Travis had left right after The Event, was the airlock to the surface. A mound of gray dust had drifted in through the opening from all the traffic over the past month.

  McCrary suddenly laughed. “I'll be damned.”

  “Sir?”

  “Horst, would you believe—this is the same airlock I went through on my way in here from my cave! When I got here, there was Cranston, taking the scientists out to fly home in Sandy. Now, it's the last one I'm going to use, because it's closest to Nifty. All these years, I've been giving grief to everyone for not using the Main Lock and the scrubbers, and I'm doing the same damned thing myself.”

  Horst grinned behind his faceplate. “Your secret is safe with me, sir.”

  “Bull! Well, goodbye, Collins. You've served us well.”

  They climbed out of the Collins, turned, saluted it, and closed the airlock door, spinning the handle exactly once.

  “Any more, and you get vacuum welding,” said McCrary. Over the airlock was a large sign, painted in red paint on white spun-glass cloth. 'Enter Here, and Be Welcome.'

  “Nice touch,” said Horst.

  “Ms. Huertas' idea,” said McCrary.

  “No kidding! I guess you never know.”

  “Yup. Let's go.”

  Horst went first, leaving McCrary the honor of being the last man to actually touch Lunar soil. Peter, conscious of the historic import, was recording the suit link radio and had a camera trained on McCrary.

  “On December 14, 1972, mankind first abandoned the Moon. Decades later, we came back to live and work here, travelling back and forth from Mother Earth. It was almost routine. Now, mankind must leave the Moon once again. But our works will remain, to greet new residents in the years to come.

  “Farewell, Collins! You have served us well, preserving and protecting us, while we gathered our strength for this one last hazardous journey ahead of us.

  “To Selene, the Moon that mankind has yearned for ever since the light of intelligence dawned from our ancestors' eyes, we leave one last memento of our presence here.”

  He opened the pocket on the sleeve of his spacesuit and pulled out a spun-glass cloth of his own. He shook it out and held it up. The colors were bright, the printing neat. McCrary nodded. It was appropriate. He walked over to the sunshade, where anyone who would use Nifty would invariably stand, and pinned the cloth up. He took two steps back, drew a sharp salute, then turned slowly, a full panorama for his suit camera and personal record.

  “Let us return, now, to all of our loved ones. All the ones on the good Earth. Farewell, Selene.”

  McCrary boarded Tank without a backward glance.

  ***

  McCrary relaxed in his seat, a thin piece of bent aluminum layered in fiberglass padding, while the countdown proceeded. Peter Brinker, Bubba Cranston, and Vito VonShaick had activities well in hand. Even the Commander part was no longer his, with Commander Lee recovered enough to perform this ceremonial task. Like all on board, though, his pulse picked up as the launch deadline loomed. He found himself studying the monitors around his station, and had to restrain himself from taking charge once again.

  McCrary was through with the Moon. He was anxious to see his beloved Lynn again. Seven years they had been apart, ever since he launched for the Chaffee, then did a midnight run out to the Collins to prevent Subby from filling the Chief Engineer slot with someone from a country offering the highest bribe.

  He leaned over to Horst, offering an intercom plug.

  “Imagine how things would have turned out if Subby had stuck some hack engineer in here from Bribe-a-stan.”

  Horst shuddered so suddenly that others turned to look at him.

  “We'd all be dead!”

  “Oh, Horst, I don't think so. Not really. Maybe a lot more casualties, but not everyone would be dead.”

  “You are so wrong,” said Horst. “ShelterCans,” he said, subsiding.

  McCrary left the intercom line in place. Horst was a good man, solid, dependable. Had he ever told him?

  “Ah, Horst.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I just wanted to let you know—you were the best engineer I have ever had working for me. You're a good man. Never forget it.”

  Horst broke into a genuine smile. “Thank you, sir. That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. For me, it's been an honor serving with you.”

  The countdown interrupted them.

  “We are at the preplanned five-minute hold. The vehicle and launch gear are completely nominal. There are no launch faults that the team is working on. We will be at this hold for approximately three minutes.”

  Peter Brinkley's voice sounded in McCrary's headphones. “The Expedition called, sir. Situation nominal. They're ready and waiting for us.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Brinkley. Carry on,” said McCrary.

  “Montgomery, eh?” said Horst. “I never figured you for a Monty.”

  “Say that again, and I'll throw you out the airlock, Horst. I'm McCrary, and that's it.”

  “Um, sure, boss.”

  “We have resumed the countdown at T minus five minutes. Induction motors have begun spinning up the launch plate disks. Levitation magnets for both the rail and plate have activated.”

  An imperceptible change in the feel of the chair beneath him delighted McCrary. He was no longer in contact with the surface of the Moon, save through the mutual repulsion of magnetic fields. He had truly left the Moon at this moment.

  The rest of the countdown proceeded with the implacability of an analog clock sweeping out the seconds.

  “T minus thirty seconds. Please lean back everyone, and hold that position through the end of acceleration,” Peter said.

  At T minus twenty, McCrary suddenly thought of Eddie Zanger, the pilot who had spirited him from the Chaffee to here six years ago.

  “Zanger,” he said over the intercom to Horst.

  “Who?”

  “OTV Betsy pilot. Smuggler, hippy. He's the one who brought me here six years ago.”

  “Right, Eddie. I remember him giving us a blow-by
-blow about what a rotten bastard you were on the trip out.”

  “So I've been told. Still, he was a good pilot. I wonder if I'll ever see him again. Here we go!”

  With the smooth power of pure magnetics, Tank rode down the linear accelerator track, gaining enough velocity that when the Moon curved away under the track, Tank continued in a straight line, soaring up and away from the Moon on a course that would intersect Earth in three days.

  ***

  “Thank you, Brinker. I'll take it from here.” McCrary said as he entered The Tank's control room. Travis looked on with surprise at the sudden interruption. Brinker pointed at a single control, smiled, and left the room, closing the door firmly behind him.

  “You must be Travis,” said McCrary. “I know your buddy, Bubba, a good deal. We're going to have a busy half hour, and before we start, I have to make sure you cannot communicate outside this space.”

  “Wait, what do you mean?” asked Travis, but a soft voice sounded behind McCrary.

  “Please do what he says, son.”

  “Commander Lee!”

  The next half hour was rather busy.

  “You see, if we even get near the atmosphere at this speed, we'll skip off of it like a flat rock off a pond. So, we've got to slow down some. You'd think anyone would realize this, but people are surprisingly blind in some areas.”

  McCrary was attaching an electronic module of some kind to the control panel. New displays popped up on the monitors, integrating the current speed and course with…with…Travis could not make out what.

  “Ten, sir,” said McCrary. “It will fit the track, two and a half gee maximum.

  “Don't forget, that's fifteen times what these people are used to. Spread them out as much as you can.”

  “Roger. First solution states five minutes from now. Will you make the announcement? Or do you want me to?”

  Commander Lee chuckled. “Oh, better let me. They're going to crucify me as it is, I might as well earn it.”

  “Keep quiet, Travis, that's an order. Jeng, you're on in five, four, three,” he held up two fingers, then one, then flipped a switch.

  “Good people formerly of the Collins, this is Commander Lee. We are approaching Earth. Our flight track is nominal, but we must perform a braking maneuver within the next five minutes, or we will bounce off the atmosphere of Earth and might never get back home.

  “You ask what we have to brake with, since the only rockets we have came from MoonCans and are used for small corrections. We have the same propulsion method we used on that impactor four years ago—small, kiloton nuclear weapons.

  “We will use a total of ten, and they will be detonated out here, in space, and during a time when our ground track is crossing open ocean. We have also waited until the last minute, to be as low to Earth as possible while exposing the fewest number to the blinding flash and radiation. Brace yourselves. The braking sequence has already been locked in and cannot be changed.

  “Tank is exceptionally thick and makes an excellent radiation shield. You are perfectly safe in here. Please be calm, this will be over soon.”

  An enormous sound filled the air, and everyone crushed into their seats. A second blast occurred soon after the first, then they came one after another, insistent, pounding, like God was trying to come in and arrest you before you flushed all the weed down the can.

  Most of the people passed out. McCrary was rattled badly. Travis was already scanning the board when McCrary could focus. Commander Lee, wisely, had taken the blasts lying flat on his back. He was breathing normally but he was unconscious for quite some time afterwards.

  ***

  Fifteen minutes passed. Fifteen long minutes for McCrary to fret and worry.

  “Tank, this is War Bringer.”

  McCrary felt like shouting. “This is Tank.”

  “Surrender maneuvering control, channel alpha-delta-seven.

  McCrary flipped switches on the control panel, then pressed the master control.

  “All yours, War Bringer.”

  “Sit back and watch the show.”

  Travis was badly frightened. “What's going on, sir?”

  McCrary slipped a strip of magnetized plastic into a slot in the panel, causing what had resembled aluminum panels to depolarize, revealing themselves to be external monitors. Below lay Earth, almost near enough to touch. Travis felt a yearning in his chest that surprised him. He looked in the upper left of the image and felt like screaming. It didn't take long, about twenty seconds, and when it was over, the Earth was gone.

  McCrary pulled the magnetic strip back out of the panel, reverting the monitors back to their 'brushed aluminum' display.

  “Hang on,” he said. “Don't get up.”

  A sudden surge of acceleration shoved them against their lap and shoulder belts. A distant clang sounded. Then everything was still.

  “Now you can get up. Welcome home.”

  Arrival: Delayed

  Earth, February 18, 2087, 1011 EDT

  “See here? The line just drops off.”

  Jama Fenester looked at Doctor Circe. “Explanation?”

  “None. We traced the object from the Moon all the way down to Near Earth Orbit. Visual spectra indicated that it is made of steel, aluminum, titanium, with traces of silicone.”

  “Spectra? How did you get that? I got the impression the overall temperature of the object was less than fifty Celsius.”

  “Impacts, ma'am,” Doctor Circe said. It just comes blasting in, doesn't seem to be maneuvering to avoid impacts. Almost as if it doesn't matter. The Collins folks call it The Tank. I am inclined to believe them.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “Unknown. From NEO, it just dove at the Earth, over that satellite graveyard, South Pacific Ocean. Nothing but water for thousands of kilometers. Then the tracking beacon just disappeared.”

  Jama got up to pace. “Damn. Did it reenter?”

  “Not likely. If it was purposeful, the object would have started reentry thousands of kilometers earlier, and some folks would have seen it, and we'd know.”

  “Nothing along its track?”

  “No. The only reason we could target Tank in the first place is that it had those radio beacons. The sky is still packed with rocks, which interfere with seeing anything up there.”

  “Collision?”

  “Nothing hot enough up there. No, Tank, and the entire crew of the Collins, seem to have vanished.”

  Jama sighed. “Everyone's leaning on us, thinking we had something to do with this, just because we were the ones that found them alive five years ago.”

  “We'll keep a watch along their track,” said Doctor Circe. “I'll bet you there're just offline up there. Shut down the beacon for some reason. They'll show up again, just you wait, Ms. Fenester. They've been through too much to die this way.”

  Thank you for buying COME IN, COLLINS.

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