Moonwar gt-7

by Ben Bova

  He took her hand so daintily that Edith thought he was going to kiss it. Instead, Faure led her to one of the plush armchairs and sat in the one facing hers. As she sat down, Edith looked past Faure’s smiling figure to the ceiling-high windows that faced uptown, northward, along the East River. She could see the Fifty-ninth Street bridge and well past it, all the way up to the Triboro and beyond.

  “What a sparkling day,” she said.

  Faure took it as a personal compliment. “You see how the electric automobile has already improved the air quality,” he said, beaming. It made his tiny eyes almost disappear.

  Edith wasn’t willing to let him take all the credit. “I thought the electric cars were mandated by the U.S. government. The Environmental Protection Agency, wasn’t it?”

  “Ah yes,” said Faure quickly. “But only after our own efforts had proven successful in reducing the pollution in Tokyo and Mexico City. Now all the major cities are following our lead.” Again the smile that almost swallowed his eyes.

  Edith wondered silently, Is he using the editorial ‘we’ or the imperial?

  But she smiled back at the secretary-general and said sweetly, “You know that a big chunk of the American public doesn’t agree with what you’re doing to Moonbase.”

  Faure’s expression turned hard for a moment, then he shrugged and put on a sad face. “Yes, I know. It is very unfortunate. But one cannot make an omelet without breaking eggs, can one?”

  Now he’s saying ‘one’ instead of ‘we’, Edith realized.

  “Most of the inhabitants of Moonbase are Americans,” she said.

  “They are violating the treaty that Americans themselves drafted. The very treaty that the American delegation originally proposed to the General Assembly and fought so hard to have passed.”

  “Still,” Edith said, leaning back in the comfortable armchair and crossing her legs at the ankles, “many Americans sympathize with the people in Moonbase.”

  Faure made a what-can-I-do shrug.

  “They would feel better about it,” Edith continued, “if an American reporter went with the Peacekeepers and sent back on-the-spot reports.”

  The secretary-general began to shake his head.

  “The American media would feel much better about it if a reporter were allowed to go along,” Edith added.

  “You mean those who control and direct the news media, no?”

  “Yes. The top brass.”

  Faure sighed heavily. “Frankly, Miss Elgin, the American news media have not always been kind to me.”

  Edith kept herself from grinning. In most countries the government could muzzle the media pretty effectively. But the First Amendment was still in force in the US. So far.

  “You see,” Faure said, leaning closer to her, placing his hands on the knees of his perfectly-creased trousers, “it is not I who resists your request. The Peacekeepers are military men. And women, of course. They do not want a news reporter to travel with them. They fear it might hamper them—”

  “The military never wants reporters around.”

  “Quite so. But in this case I can fully understand their hesitation.”

  Edith said, “If there’s a news blackout, the media will have nothing to work with except rumors.”

  “We will furnish news releases, as a matter of course. Each day a complete summary will be given to the media.”

  “But some reporters will wonder how accurate it is. There’s always the tendency to put your own spin on the actual events, isn’t there.”

  Wearily, Faure replied, “I suppose so. But you must not impugn the integrity of the Peacekeepers. They have accomplished very difficult assignments in many parts of the globe. Take Brazil, for example—”

  “Are you saying,” Edith interrupted, “that it’s up to the Peacekeepers themselves to decide if they take a reporter or not?”

  “No, not at all. Merely—”

  “Because I thought the Peacekeepers reported to you. I thought you made the final decisions.”

  “But I do!”

  “Yet in this case you’re going to let them dictate to you, is that it?”

  Faure’s moustache quivered slightly. “Not at all! I make the decision and they follow.”

  Smiling her prettiest, Edith knew she had him. “In that case, you certainly understand how important it will be to have an unbiased, trusted news reporter on the scene when they land at Moonbase.”

  Faure’s face clearly showed that he did not like being mousetrapped. But slowly his expression changed; he smiled again, showing teeth.

  “Yes, you are correct,” he said slowly. “The responsibility is mine. All mine. The weight of the major decisions is upon my shoulders alone.”

  Edith recognized the crafty look in his eyes.

  “This is not an easy decision to make, Miss Elgin,” Faure went on. “Special arrangements require certain… ah, accommodations.”

  “What do you mean?” Edith asked, knowing perfectly well what he meant.

  Leaning forward even more and tapping a pudgy finger on her knee, Faure said, “We have much to discuss about this. Perhaps we could have dinner this evening?”

  The body tax. Edith controlled her inner anger as she told herself, Even after all these years of women’s rights it still comes down to the damned body tax. He’s got the power and he knows it. If I want him to do me a favor he expects me to do one for him in return. And all he sees is a good-looking blonde.

  “Dinner sounds fine,” she said, thinking, It won’t be the first time you’ve opened your legs to get a good assignment. Sometimes you’ve got to give some head to get ahead.

  TOUCHDOWN MINUS 96 HOURS

  The mercenary stared at the message that was waiting for him on his wall screen.

  “The prey runs to the hunter,” he muttered to himself.

  Slowly he peeled off his grimy fatigues and wadded them into a ball that he tossed onto his bunk as he headed for the shower stall. His quarters were one of the old rooms in Moonbase. Most people complained that they were small and cramped, but the mercenary found the space just fine for his needs. Two of the walls were smart screens, recently installed. The shower stall was new, too.

  Making sure the temperature dial was still set for dead cold, the mercenary stepped into the stall and let the reviving water sluice over his body. The prey runs to the hunter, he thought again. Doug Stavenger wants to see me.

  Ever since he had first begun training as a sniper, back during his army days, he had thought of killing as a sort of religious rite. A sacred responsibility. Everybody dies, the only question about it is where and when. And how.

  I give them a clean death. Not like some of those freaks.

  When he was taken out of the army to serve in the covert intelligence agency, he had the time and the need to take up the study of primitive hunters who believed that the animals they killed came to them for death. The prey runs to the hunter.

  If you do everything just right, make all the proper rituals and set things up just the way they should be, then the prey comes to you and asks to be allowed to die. Not in so many words, of course. But they come to me for death.

  Just like Doug Stavenger’s going to do. Hell, he’s already started along the path.

  TOUCHDOWN MINUS 95 HOURS 54 MINUTES

  Zoltan Kadar was a Hungarian who prided himself on being slicker and smarter than ordinary mortals. He also happened to be one of the top astronomers in the world and an extremely clever man.

  But now he felt frustrated and, worse, ignored.

  He strode along the corridor toward the base director’s office, hands balled into fists, arms swinging like a soldier on parade. He was on the small side, quite slim, a fencer’s agile figure. His hair was dark and straight, and came to a pronounced widow’s peak centered above his heavy dark eyebrows. People called him Count Dracula, although once they got to know him they changed his nickname to Slick Willy. Kadar revelled in the characterization.

  “Hey, Slick, wh
ere you going?”

  Kadar barely slowed his determined stride as he recognized Harry Clemens, head of the transportation division. Clemens was one of the older engineers, a true Lunatic who had been working at Moonbase for many years.

  “Hello, Harry.”

  Working hard to stay with Kadar, Clemens—lanky, balding, un-athletic—said, “Jeez, you look like you’re going to lead the charge of the light brigade.”

  “They’ve cancelled my Farside survey flight,” Kadar said through gritted teeth. “I’m going to get it back on schedule.”

  “Oh, yeah, I know about that. Too bad.”

  “Too bad for them. They can’t just stop my work like that.” He snapped the fingers of his left hand.

  “Everything’s ground to a halt. We’re at war, you know.”

  “Pah!”

  “Nothing’s going out, really. There’s a Peacekeeper troopship on its way here.”

  “What has that got to do with building the Farside observatory?”

  Clemens was a practical engineer, and he recognized a stone wall when he saw one. “Well, I’ve got to turn off here. I’m helping the nanotech crew to shut down the bugs building the Clippership.”

  “Goodbye, Harry,” said Kadar.

  “Hope you can get what you want, but I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “Goodbye, Harry.”

  Another minute’s march brought Kadar to the base director’s office. He rapped once on the door and opened it.

  Jinny Anson was sitting behind the desk, talking on the phone to some woman. She glanced up at Kadar and waved him to a chair in front of her desk. From the expression on her face, Kadar realized that she knew she was in for trouble.

  “Where is Stavenger?” Kadar asked as soon as Anson clicked off her phone screen.

  “Doug’s taking charge of the war. I’m the base director pro-tern.” Before Kadar could draw a breath she added, “And all work outside has been suspended, Zoltan, not just yours.”

  “I’m not interested in the rest of them. It’s my work that is important.”

  “Sure,” Anson said good naturedly. “But we can’t hang a surveillance satellite over Farside until this business with the Peacekeepers is cleared up.”

  “I don’t see why. It’s an uncrewed satellite. I will take care of all the monitoring myself. I have the programs all in place.”

  With a patient sigh, Anson explained, “Look, there’s a Clippership full of Peacekeepers on their way here to take over the base. We’re going to try to stop them—don’t ask me how, that’s Doug’s problem.”

  “But what has this to do with my work?” Kadar couldn’t help putting a stress on the word my.

  “The U.N.’s already taken over the L-1 satellite. Maybe they’ve got Peacekeepers there, maybe not, we don’t know.”

  “But again, what has this—”

  “They’re watching us, Zoltan. They’re watching every move we make. With telescopes and radar and every other kind of sensor they’ve got.”

  “So?”

  “So what’s their reaction gonna be if we launch a rocket? They won’t just ignore it. Maybe they’ve already got high-power lasers at L-1 and they’ll zap your rocket before they can figure out where it’s heading.”

  “Nonsense! We’ll simply tell them what the rocket’s mission is.”

  “And they’ll believe you?” Anson’s earnest expression eased into a sly smile. “They’ll believe a Hungarian?”

  Kadar grinned back at her. “That might be a problem,” he conceded.

  “We don’t want to do anything that’ll give the UN a reason to start bombarding us. Your rocket stays in the shed until this crisis is over.”

  “Bombard us? That’s idiotic. We’re buried deep enough so that even nuclear bombs won’t harm us.”

  “Really?” Anson snapped. “You really want to test that theory? And what about the solar farms and the mass driver and all your astronomical equipment out on the crater floor? What happens to them?”

  Kadar slouched back in his chair like a petulant child. “I want to talk to Stavenger,” he said.

  “He’s too damned busy for picobits like this, Zoltan. I’m the acting director and I say your rocket sits.”

  With a slight hike of his heavy brows, Kadar got slowly out of his chair and walked to the door.

  “Thank you for your time,” he said to Anson.

  “Nothing to it.”

  Kadar stepped through the door and closed it softly, saying to himself, Now where in hell can I find Stavenger?

  TOUCHDOWN MINUS 95 HOURS 20 MINUTES

  “When do they land?” asked Toshiru Takai.

  Doug did not have to look at his watch. “In less than four days.”

  Takai nodded and made a sound halfway between a sigh and a groan.

  Doug was walking with him slowly across the vast floor of the crater Copernicus, where the Nippon One base was situated, more than a thousand kilometers from Moonbase. Since they were communicating through a virtual reality program, they could walk on the lunar surface without space suits. Doug wore his usual unadorned sky-blue coveralls; Takai a similar jumpsuit of pearl gray, decorated with a single white heron over the breast pocket, the symbol of Yamagata Corporation.

  “I tried to reach your corporate headquarters in Tokyo,” Doug said, “but there seemed to be some difficulty with their receiving equipment.”

  “I imagine your transmissions are being jammed by the Peacekeepers,” Takai said, showing no emotion on his lean, bony face. He was in his early thirties; Doug thought of him as his own age, roughly, even though Takai was at least five years older.

  With an understanding smile, Doug said, “Our transmissions are getting through to Savannah and Tarawa and even New York.”

  Takai gave him a sidelong glance. “Do you want me to tell you that my superiors in Tokyo have decided not to speak with you?” His voice was low, but filled with strength.

  “I’d like to know where they stand,” Doug said evenly. “Where you stand.”

  “Why, here I am, in the middle of the most beautiful crater on the Moon!”

  Doug laughed at the joke. Although they had never met physically, he had known Takai for three years now, ever since the young enginner had been chosen to direct the Yamagata lunar base. While their virtual selves could walk in the vacuum without even kicking up a cloud of dust, each of them was safely in his office, deep underground.

  Yet Doug could reach out and clasp Takai’s shoulder. Toshi, I need to know what Yamagata is going to do. It’s important for us. For both of us.”

  “I know,” Takai admitted.

  Nippon One was the only other lunar base still active. Its reason for existence, aside from scientific studies, was to extract helium-three from the Moon’s regolith and ship it to the nuclear fusion power plants that were springing up throughout Japan, China, and the Pacific Rim nations. Fusion power was not welcomed in Europe or North America, where anti-nuclear fears not only persisted, but were actively fanned by the nanoluddites.

  The Europeans had closed down their base at Grimaldi when the nanotech treaty had gone into effect for the Euro-Russian consortium that managed the base. They still sent occasional maintenance crews to repair and refurbish the scientific gear that ran automated at Grimaldi, but even those visitors rode on Masterson LTVs or Yamagata’s.

  “Are you going to shut down Nippon One?” Doug asked, half-dismayed that he had to be so direct with his Japanese friend.

  “That is not in my instructions,” Takai replied.

  Damn! thought Doug. He’s not just being roundabout; he’s being actually evasive.

  “Toshi, I really need to know what Yamagata plans to do.”

  For several moments Takai said nothing. He simply walked along the virtual crater floor and avoided looking at Doug.

  “What do you plan to do?” Takai countered. “Surely you don’t expect to fight the Peacekeepers.”

  “We’ve declared our independence,” Doug said. “Le
gally, the Peacekeepers have no right to bother us.”

  “Only if the UN accepts your independence.”

  Doug nodded.

  “They won’t,” Takai predicted. “You know they won’t.”

  “I’m not so sure. Time is on our side. If we can hold on and prevent the Peacekeepers from taking over the base, we could eventually get world opinion on our side and—”

  “Time is on your side until the Peacekeepers land,” Takai pointed out.

  “But if we can keep them from taking Moonbase,” Doug said earnestly,’then we can get through this. All we have to do is show the world that we can survive, that we can hang in there and take care of ourselves. Sooner or later they’ll recognize the fact that we are independent.”

  Takai shook his head. “You’re dreaming, Doug.”

  “No,” Doug insisted. “It’s like the situation in the American Civil War. All the Confederacy had to do was keep itself intact, not let the Union conquer it. In time, the nations of Europe would recognize it as a separate nation.”

  “But that didn’t happen, did it?” Takai asked gently.

  “We can make it happen here.”

  “No, Doug. That isn’t going to be allowed to happen, believe me.”

  Doug hesitated, digesting not only Takai’s words, but their tone. He knows more than he’s willing to tell me, Doug realized.

  “Don’t you think Japan would recognize our independence if we drove off the Peacekeepers?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Is Yamagata against us? I need to know, Toshi. Lives depend on it.”

  Takai said nothing.

  “Well?” Doug demanded.

  The pained expression on Takai’s face showed the tension he was feeling. “My instructions are to continue as usual. We will operate Nippon One as we normally do, despite your present … difficulties.”

  They both knew that Nippon One carefully refrained from using nanotechnology. Instead of using nanomachines to extract helium-three from the ground, they used cumbersome bulldozers and old-fashioned mass spectrometers to separate the isotope from the other lunar ores. It kept the cost of helium-three at least ten times higher than it would have been if nanomachines had been employed to ferret out the helium-three nuclei, individually.