Helium3 - 1 Crater

by Hickam, Homer

  Crater went down to the entry hatch and positioned himself to watch the process of new passengers coming aboard and the disembarkation of the passengers returning from the moon. CP Strickland floated up, then righted himself by pressing the soles of his sticky boots on the deck. His duty was to release and open the hatch.

  When the ferry docked, the Cycler shuddered as the big craft hugged it close. Since it took awhile to make certain of the mooring, the chief purser waited patiently beside the hatch while Betty and Tommy, the two tour guides who worked for Lunar Expeditions—Lunex as it was called—shepherded their tourists into the area. Crater had spent some time with B&T, as they liked to call themselves, and listened to their stories of their various adventures on the moon with their clients. He’d also received a job offer. “We think you’d be perfect for what we do,” they said.

  Tommy came over to Crater and remarked, “I hope none of the noogies are sick. Imagine you’ve spent your entire life in Earth gravity, then you’re slung up here, pulling about three Gs on the scrams, then once the rockets stop firing, you’re down to zero. Oh yeah, there’ll be a few folks who won’t be feeling all that well.”

  After CP Strickland finished checking the seal between the scramferry and the Cycler’s airlocks, he announced, “Look alive, look alive! Passengers coming aboard!”

  After some pulling of levers and twisting of knobs, the Elon Musk crew swung open the airlock, then got out of the way to let the Lunex tour guides do their jobs. The first passenger, a graying man in a suit and tie, pulled through the hatch and drifted out into the arrival area. Tommy floated over. “Welcome aboard, sir,” he said. “I am Tommy and this is Betty. You can just call us B&T. We are your lunar adventure guides.”

  “I’m no tourist, B&T,” the man said. “I’m a representative of the Unified Countries of the World. There are no other passengers.”

  B&T were astonished by this turn of events and turned to CP Strickland for an explanation. “Captain Fox’s orders. No tourists on this swing-by.”

  “But we have contracts,” Tommy said to Strickland’s shrug.

  Crater was pleased and sorry at the same time, pleased that if there was trouble, there would be no innocent tourists who might get hurt, and sorry for B&T who were going to lose some good money. Crater had no doubt that Captain Fox had used up more than a little of his company clout to cancel the tourists.

  Betty and Tommy shook off their disappointment, not that they had much choice. Tommy crossed over to the inner hatch and swung it open to let their returning tourists go aboard the scramferry. Veteran space flyers now, they greeted B&T with grins, nods, handshakes, and cheerful asides, and slipped them envelopes that surely contained tips.

  “Thank you, thank you, had a great time too, won’t be the same up here without you,” B&T said as they took the envelopes and helped their clients with their luggage.

  Crater followed Tommy into the scramferry where he was giving his final speech to his clients. “Folks, you have been the best group Betty and I have ever had the privilege of leading on the moon. I will be bragging about you to my supervisors.

  If you enjoyed yourself, we wouldn’t mind if you mentioned B&T to Lunex. On the puters on the back of each seat, you’ll find all the information you need to write to the president of Lunex to let her know your opinion of your entire experience.”

  “We love you, B&T!” a young woman yelled. Cheering and applauding from the other tourists erupted, and Betty and Tommy made a great show of bowing and looking delighted— although they turned a bit grim as they made their way back into the Musk.

  Crater watched the offloading of a variety of cargo from the scramferry including, he noticed with interest, crates bound for Moontown. Other items were personal in nature with the names of the recipients printed on the sides of the packages. It made him wonder why the Colonel had not sent his package up with those goods. Surely, whatever it was could have been hidden in one of the crates. The answer, after Crater gave it some thought, was obvious. The package was not yet in the hands of anyone within the Medaris empire.

  A thump and a shudder announced the departure of the scramferry, and the Cycler was alone again. That was when Maria tracked Crater down. She was carrying one of the railgun rifles. “How did you get that on board?” he asked.

  “We Medarises have our ways,” she said with a smile. “I put your rifle in your cabin. Stop looking at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “You know like what. You’re thinking whatever’s coming up couldn’t be worth endangering the Cycler. Look, I don’t know how else to say it. This is very important. Trust me.”

  “What is in the package?” Crater asked. He supposed it was time for him to know at least that.

  Maria told him, and Crater’s response was immediate.

  “But that’s not worth anything!”

  “It will get the monorail built.”

  “How?”

  Maria told him how. “This is madness,” Crater said.

  “No, Crater, it’s business. Family business.”

  Crater thought over her answer and came to a conclusion.

  “I don’t think I want to be part of your family’s business.”

  “Does that include me?”

  Crater didn’t know. All he knew was he couldn’t stop what was about to happen. He went to his cabin to check on his rifle.

  :::

  THIRTY-TWO

  Up the freighter came a scramjet—small, sleek, with delta wings, and white as the Earthian clouds from which it appeared. It streaked up from somewhere in Asia. Crater saw its twinkling star rise and arc toward the Cycler, going through its turbo, scram, and rocket phases. It was a beautiful machine. Then he saw something, a flash like a rocket pulse, behind the freighter. The gillie stirred in his holster, then said, They are under attack.

  Crater flew up to the bridge and told Captain Fox what the gillie had said. The gentleman rocked on his heels, then studied the gillie. “I’ve been wondering about that thing. Where did you get it?”

  Crater quickly told him the story. “They are fiercely loyal, or so I’ve heard,” the captain replied. “It was one of the reasons they were made illegal, then all were destroyed. They couldn’t be sold, you see, because to remove them from their original owner made them sick. Often, they would just shut themselves down.”

  “The gillie is just a biological machine, Captain,” Crater said.

  Fox’s bushy eyebrows went up. “Why, Crater, they’re much more than that! They were introduced on Earth as a family pet. Over time, they were given more intelligence until . . . well, they had to be banned because they were taking on too many attributes of their owners. Some widows even claimed the ones owned by their deceased husbands were their husbands. Philosophically, morally, socially, scientifically, and every ‘ly’ you could name required their manufacturer to stop making them.”

  “Captain,” Crater said, “this is interesting but . . .”

  “But I should prepare myself for attack?” He shook his head. “I’m as ready as I can be. Something for you to know, Crater. A leader must be able to recognize when all that can be done has been done. If he is outnumbered or outgunned, then what is left is to look for a mistake by his opponent. If we find ourselves in a fight, that’s what I will be doing.”

  The sleek freighter came in fast, braked, matched the Musk’s velocity, and initiated a call to the bridge. “Request permission to dock,” a voice from the scramjet said.

  “Your pass code, if you please,” Captain Fox said, then listened as the same voice rattled back a complex series of numbers and letters.

  “It matches what I have, sir,” the helmsman said.

  “Permission granted,” the captain said. “But be apprised we believe another ship is following you.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” the voice from the freighter said.

  “We will be brief.” Immediately, vernier jets spouted from various points on the freighter and it eased o
ver. There was scarcely a shudder on the bridge as it mated with the Cycler.

  “The people following them are very patient,” Maria said, coming on the bridge. “They likely waited for months to spot and follow that freighter when it rose up.”

  The captain and Crater turned toward Maria. “What kind of craft is after them?” Captain Fox asked.

  “Likely a warpod, Captain.”

  A warpod! Crater had read about them. They were the most fearsome space machines any country had ever constructed. Such craft were first a development of the ISA, but the Russians and Chinese had built copies too. Warpods were fast, stealthy, and armed with a variety of killing mechanisms used in space warfare, including lasers and kinetic projectiles.

  “And how do you know this, young lady?”

  When she didn’t answer, Crater said, “She’s a Medaris, Captain,” and while Maria fumed at the answer, the captain, with a small, sad smile, nodded that he understood.

  He tipped his hat to her. “Your family is a great one, Miss.

  It took chances, and it built this frontier.”

  “That is correct, Captain,” Maria replied, shooting an angry glance at Crater. “I appreciate your recognition of that fact.

  Shoving back the frontier is still our intention. I regret it has impacted your marvelous Cycler and possibly endangered your crew, but I assure you it is necessary.”

  Crater didn’t understand how Maria could be so sure, and he didn’t much like it that the captain had taken up her part.

  It told him at least one thing. Colonel Medaris was probably a shareholder of the Cycler company, or maybe someone in his family owned the entire enterprise, Cyclers and all.

  Maria said, “Crater, it’s time.”

  Crater had gone this far, so he’d go the rest of the way—not that he had any choice. He and Maria reached the airlock just as CP Strickland completed the steps necessary to equalize the pressure in the tunnel between the freighter and the Musk, then swung open the hatch. In floated a bag made of thick, stiff material—a duffel bag as such are called—followed by a man dressed in brown coveralls. Another man, carrying a reader, followed the first inside the Cycler. “Where is the boy named Crater?” he asked. He was thin, intense, and wore oldfashioned wire-rimmed glasses. His accent was Russian.

  Crater presented himself. “Place your thumb on the screen,” the man said, and Crater did. “Look at that spot on the reader,” he said, and Crater did that too, allowing his eyes to be scanned. “Now, give me the secret password.”

  “I don’t know any secret password,” Crater replied.

  “Then you are the one we seek. Twisted Toes, give him the package.”

  Twisted Toes, who Crater saw now was an Umlap, pushed the bag toward Crater. Then the two men, without another word, went back inside the tunnel. CP Strickland closed the airlock hatch behind them, waited until he got a green light on the panel that the hatches were satisfactorily sealed, and released pressure. Within moments, there was a shudder as the freighter detached itself.

  “Crater,” Captain Fox said over the speaker, “please come to the bridge.”

  Crater gave the duffel to Maria. “Would you like to see inside?” she asked.

  “No,” he said and meant it.

  On the bridge, the captain pointed at the radarscope.

  “We’re barely registering a signal, so whatever’s coming at us is stealthy. If we hadn’t been looking for it, we wouldn’t have seen it. Your gillie is a wonder.”

  “Captain,” the helmsman said, “there, over the Indian Ocean.”

  Crater strained his eyes to see what the sharp-eyed helmsman had seen, and then there it was: a black dot against the bright blue ocean and coming fast. The freighter was moving slowly away from the Musk. Whether its crew saw the warpod rising toward them didn’t much matter, since a projectile that seemed to come from nowhere suddenly blasted through the freighter’s port wing, narrowly missing the Cycler. The freighter fired its rockets and began to move away.

  “They’ll never be able to reenter the atmosphere with that hole in their wing,” one of the bridge crew said. That did not turn out to be a problem, mainly because a flurry of projectiles crashed through the freighter’s fuselage, turning it into a cloud of shredded lunasteel, aluminum, and plaston.

  The Cycler shuddered as a wave of debris struck it. “Check for leaks and hull integrity, if you please,” the captain said in a calm voice. “Steady as she goes.”

  “The warpod is within visual, sir,” one of the lookouts said.

  Crater studied the spacecraft as it came closer. He estimated it to be about a hundred feet long with a blended wing and body, two short vertical fins on its outer edge. It was solid black, with a large section forward of the cockpit shaped like a spade that gave the thing a sharklike appearance. Looking closer, Crater saw the warpod’s belly was contoured with channels and ribs.

  When he remarked on this odd feature, the captain said, “The grooves conduct heat away from the surface. An efficient and effective solution for reentry into the atmosphere.”

  The warpod came up alongside and matched the Cycler’s velocity, though it remained menacingly silent. The captain said, “They won’t ride with us all the way to the moon. Pretty soon, they’ll have to talk to us or attack.” He turned to his signal officer. “Give them a shout, Lieutenant.”

  The signal officer lit up the channels, saying, “Warpod, warpod, this is the Cycler Elon Musk. We are a civilian passenger vessel engaged in the peaceful pursuit of enterprise. Please state your business.”

  There was no response, but Crater could sense the evil within its hull. “Gillie,” he said. “Can you communicate with the warpod?”

  Yes, it said. They have received the message from the Cycler.

  “Can you hear them talking inside?”

  No voices. Puter silence. Creatures moving within.

  “Creatures? Crowhoppers?”

  Demons.

  “Demons are biological nightmares,” Captain Fox said with a shudder. “Killers who love to kill. If they’re moving around, I think they’re preparing to board us.”

  Crater made a decision. “Gillie, tell the warpod if they are here for the package that the freighter delivered, they can have it. We will send it across.”

  Message delivered.

  “Thank you,” the captain said. “After all you’ve been through . . . the Colonel will not be pleased.”

  “Neither will his granddaughter,” Crater replied. “Anything, gillie?”

  Negative.

  Then came a crackle of static and a harsh voice. “We are coming aboard. Do not attempt to stop us. We will kill you all if you do.”

  “Does that mean they’ve accepted my offer?” Crater wondered, then recalled that he did not, in fact, have the duffel in his possession. “Captain, I’d best go get that bag and be prepared to hand it over.”

  Captain Fox did not reply. His jaw was set, his eyes gone hard. “I do not believe it will matter,” he said.

  Crater didn’t hear him because he was already pulling himself as fast as he could to the main entry hatch. When he got there, CP Strickland was still on duty. “I’ve sent the others to the rim for safety,” he said.

  Then the Cycler shook violently and the chief purser said, “They’re docking hard.” It was the last thing he ever said because the hatch suddenly blew inward, striking CP Strickland and killing him instantly. The air howled as it streamed out of the receiving room through the open portal into the blackness of space. The warpod pushed a cylindrical tube through the hatch with a clawlike attachment. The claw spread open and clamped itself to the wall around the ruined hatch. Crater threw himself into the main corridor and slammed the hatch behind him, sealing off the entry, then headed to the bridge. As he entered, Captain Fox glanced in Crater’s direction, then spoke into a comm unit. “Crew of the Musk. We are under attack by the warpod. Section chiefs, seal all hatches immediately and keep checking hull integrity.”

&nbs
p; The captain glanced at a map of the interior of the Cycler.

  “I believe the warpod troopers intend to depressurize us by destroying our interior hatches. Based on their entry at the main entry hatch, the likely sequence is hatch numbers 2B,

  3B, 4B, and 5A. After that, they will have other choices. Section chiefs with those hatches, go to sections 6, 7, or 8. Then stand by for further orders.”

  Captain Fox and his crew exchanged glances. “That will buy us a few minutes at best,” the captain said.

  The gillie trembled on Crater’s shoulder. Moontown cargo, it said. Detpaks.

  Crater instantly grasped what the gillie was getting at. He turned to the captain. “Captain, the scramferry. Did it offload any detpaks for Moontown?”

  The bridge supply officer looked up from his monitor. “They did, Captain. Two hundred of them.”

  Crater told the captain what he had in mind. “A long shot at best, but take Ensign Klibanoff,” the captain said. “He’s our hull expert. Get going and good luck.”

  The ensign, who had the easy grace of a natural athlete, introduced himself to Crater. “Jackson Klibanoff,” he said, then led the way to the hold. Klibanoff cranked open a hatch in one of the cargo bays and led the way inside.

  Crater spotted the crates bound for Moontown and found the one with the detpaks. Klibanoff used a pry bar on it, and Crater took two detpaks and handed two more to the ensign. “We need to get on the hull of the warpod to set these,” Crater said.

  “Only one way to do that without being spotted,” Klibanoff said, then led the way to a hatch in the core marked Maintenance Hatch: Not a Passenger Exit. Klibanoff explained that the hatch led to a small airlock used by maintenance workers that opened on the outer skin of the core module. A red light glared on the control panel. “The outer hatch is already open,”

  Klibanoff said.

  “The demons?”

  “No. The hatch is locked from the outside. They’d have to tear it loose, and that would show up on the control panel. It’s been opened from the inside.”